The Canterburry Tales - Geoffrey Chaucer E-Book

Geoffrey Chaucer

• Herausgeber: Lebooks Editora
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 712

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

The Canterbury Tales is a seminal work that offers a vivid tapestry of medieval English society through a collection of diverse narratives told by pilgrims journeying to Canterbury. Geoffrey Chaucer masterfully blends satire, social commentary, and human psychology, capturing the voices and perspectives of various social classes. The work explores themes such as morality, hypocrisy, desire, and the complexities of human behavior within a rigidly stratified society. Since its composition in the late 14th century, The Canterbury Tales has stood as a foundational text in English literature. Its pioneering use of vernacular English and its rich characterizations broke from literary norms of the time, offering a democratized view of storytelling. From the chivalric idealism of the Knight to the cunning pragmatism of the Wife of Bath, Chaucer's pilgrims reflect the contradictions and vitality of their age. The work's enduring power lies in its ability to reveal both timeless truths and historical particularities. By presenting a chorus of distinct voices, Chaucer invites readers to confront questions of truth, identity, and social justice. The Canterbury Tales remains a compelling mirror of human nature—celebrating its follies, its wisdom, and its unending search for meaning in a world of shifting values.

Leseprobe

Geoffrey Chaucer

THE CANTERBURY TALES

Contents

INTRODUCTION

THE CANTEBURY TALES

PROLOGUE

THE KNIGHT'S TALE

THE MILLER'S PROLOGUE

THE MILLER'STALE

THE REEVE'S PROLOGUE

THE REEVE'S TALE

THE COOK'S PROLOGUE

THE COOK'S TALE

 INTRODUCTION TO THE LAWYER'S PROLOGUE

THE LAWYER'S PROLOGUE

THE LAWYER'S TALE

THE SAILOR'S PROLOGUE

THE SAILOR'S TALE

THE PRIORESS'S PROLOGUE

THE PRIORESS'S TALE

 PROLOGUETO SIRTHOPAS

 SIR THOPAS

 PROLOGUETO MELIBEUS

THE MONK'S PROLOGUE

THE MONK'STALE

THE PROLOGUE TO THE NUN'S PRIEST'S TALE

THE NUN'S PRIEST'STALE OFTHE COCK AND HEN, CHANTICLEER AND PERTELOTE

 EPILOGUE TO THE NUN'S PRIEST'S TALE

THE PHYSICIAN'S TALE

THE WORDS OF THE HOST TO THE PHYSICIAN AND THE PARDONER

THE PROLOGUETOTHE PARDONER'S TALE

THE PARDONER'S TALE

THE WIFE OF BATH'S PROLOGUE

THE TALE OFTHE WIFE OF BATH

THE FRIAR'S PROLOGUE

THE FRIAR'S TALE

THE SUMMONER'S PROLOGUE

THE SUMMONER'S TALE

THE CLERK'S PROLOGUE

THE CLERK'S TALE

THE MERCHANT'S PROLOGUE

THE MERCHANT'S TALE

 EPILOGUETOTHE MERCHANT'S TALE

THE SQUIRE'S PROLOGUE

THE SQUIRE'S TALE

 HERE FOLLOW THE WORDS OF THE FRANKLIN TO THE SQUIRE, AND THE WORDS OF THE HOST TO THE FRANKLIN

THE FRANKLIN'S PROLOGUE

THE FRANKLIN'S TALE

THE SECOND NUN'S PROLOGUE

THE SECOND NUN'STALE OF THE LIFE OF SAINT CECILIA

THE CANON'S YEOMAN'S PROLOGUE

THE CANON'S YEOMAN'S TALE

THE MANCIPLE'S PROLOGUE

THE MANCIPLE'STALE OF THE CROW

THE PARSON'S PROLOGUE

INTRODUCTION

Geoffrey Chaucer

1343–1400

Geoffrey Chaucer  was an English writer, poet, and public servant, widely regarded as the "father of English literature." Born in London during the Middle Ages, Chaucer is best known for his masterpiece The Canterbury Tales, a collection of stories that offers a vivid and diverse portrayal of English society at the time. His decision to write in Middle English, rather than Latin or French, was groundbreaking and helped elevate the status of English as a legitimate literary language.

Early Life and Education

Geoffrey Chaucer was born into a family of wine merchants in London, which afforded him access to a relatively privileged education. He served as a page in the household of the Countess of Ulster, which introduced him to courtly life and later enabled his involvement in diplomatic missions to France, Italy, and other parts of Europe. These travels broadened his cultural horizons and exposed him to influential literary works by authors such as Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio, whose styles and themes would influence Chaucer’s own writing.

Career and Contributions

In addition to his literary endeavors, Chaucer had a successful career in public service. He held various positions, including Controller of Customs for the Port of London and Member of Parliament. His close observation of people across different social classes—gained through both his official duties and personal experiences—informed the complex character portrayals and social commentary found in The Canterbury Tales. Written in verse, this work brings together a group of pilgrims traveling to the shrine of Saint Thomas Becket in Canterbury, each telling a tale along the way.

The stories span multiple genres—from comedy and satire to romance and moral allegory—and collectively create a vibrant mosaic of medieval life. Tales like The Knight’s Tale, The Wife of Bath’s Tale, and The Miller’s Tale demonstrate Chaucer’s mastery of voice, irony, and social insight.

Impact and Legacy

Chaucer’s work marked a turning point in English literature, showing that English could be a powerful and expressive literary medium. His style blended humor, realism, and deep psychological observation. He was one of the first writers to portray characters from all walks of life with nuance and humanity, paving the way for the development of literary realism in later centuries.

Chaucer influenced countless writers, including William Shakespeare and T.S. Eliot. His ability to merge entertainment with sharp social commentary made his work not only a literary achievement but also a valuable historical document of medieval culture and values.

Geoffrey Chaucer died in 1400 and was buried in Westminster Abbey, becoming the first writer interred in what would later be known as Poets’ Corner. Although The Canterbury Tales was left unfinished, it remains one of the most important works in the English literary canon. Chaucer’s ability to capture the human experience in all its complexity ensures his continued relevance.

His legacy extends far beyond his time, offering a rich window into the medieval world and reminding readers that storytelling is a timeless tool for exploring identity, society, and the shared threads of humanity.

Sobre la obra

The Canterbury Tales is a seminal work that offers a vivid tapestry of medieval English society through a collection of diverse narratives told by pilgrims journeying to Canterbury. Geoffrey Chaucer masterfully blends satire, social commentary, and human psychology, capturing the voices and perspectives of various social classes. The work explores themes such as morality, hypocrisy, desire, and the complexities of human behavior within a rigidly stratified society.

Since its composition in the late 14th century, The Canterbury Tales has stood as a foundational text in English literature. Its pioneering use of vernacular English and its rich characterizations broke from literary norms of the time, offering a democratized view of storytelling. From the chivalric idealism of the Knight to the cunning pragmatism of the Wife of Bath, Chaucer’s pilgrims reflect the contradictions and vitality of their age.

The work’s enduring power lies in its ability to reveal both timeless truths and historical particularities. By presenting a chorus of distinct voices, Chaucer invites readers to confront questions of truth, identity, and social justice. The Canterbury Tales remains a compelling mirror of human nature—celebrating its follies, its wisdom, and its unending search for meaning in a world of shifting values.

THE CANTEBURY TALES

PROLOGUE

Here begins the Book of the Tales of Canterbury

When April with his showers sweet with fruit

The drought of March has pierced unto the root

And bathed each vein with liquor that has power

To generate therein and sire the flower;

When Zephyr also has, with his sweet breath,

Quickened again, in every holt and heath,

The tender shoots and buds, and the young sun

Into the Ram one half his course has run,

And many little birds make melody

That sleep through all the night with open eye

(So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage)−

Then do folk long to go on pilgrimage,

And palmers to go seeking out strange strands,

To distant shrines well known in sundry lands.

And specially from every shire's end

Of England they to Canterbury wend,

The holy blessed martyr there to seek

Who helped them when they lay so ill and weal

Befell that, in that season, on a day

In Southwark, at the Tabard, as I lay

Ready to start upon my pilgrimage

To Canterbury, full of devout homage,

There came at nightfall to that hostelry

Some nine and twenty in a company

Of sundry persons who had chanced to fall

In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all

That toward Canterbury town would ride.

The rooms and stables spacious were and wide,

And well we there were eased, and of the best.

And briefly, when the sun had gone to rest,

So had I spoken with them, every one,

That I was of their fellowship anon,

And made agreement that we'd early rise

To take the road, as you I will apprise.

But none the less, whilst I have time and space,

Before yet farther in this tale I pace,

It seems to me accordant with reason

To inform you of the state of every one

Of all of these, as it appeared to me,

And who they were, and what was their degree,

And even how arrayed there at the inn;

And with a knight thus will I first begin.

THE KNIGHT

A knight there was, and he a worthy man,

Who, from the moment that he first began

To ride about the world, loved chivalry,

Truth, honour, freedom and all courtesy.

Full worthy was he in his liege−lord's war,

And therein had he ridden (none more far)

As well in Christendom as heathenesse,

And honoured everywhere for worthiness.

At Alexandria, he, when it was won;

Full oft the table's roster he'd begun

Above all nations' knights in Prussia.

In Latvia raided he, and Russia,

No christened man so oft of his degree.

In far Granada at the siege was he

Of Algeciras, and in Belmarie.

At Ayas was he and at Satalye

When they were won; and on the Middle Sea

At many a noble meeting chanced to be.

Of mortal battles he had fought fifteen,

And he'd fought for our faith at Tramissene

Three times in lists, and each time slain his foe.

This self−same worthy knight had been also

At one time with the lord of Palatye

Against another heathen in Turkey:

And always won he sovereign fame for prize.

Though so illustrious, he was very wise

And bore himself as meekly as a maid.

He never yet had any vileness said,

In all his life, to whatsoever wight.

He was a truly perfect, gentle knight.

But now, to tell you all of his array,

His steeds were good, but yet he was not gay.

Of simple fustian wore he a jupon

Sadly discoloured by his habergeon;

For he had lately come from his voyage

And now was going on this pilgrimage.

THE SQUIRE

With him there was his son, a youthful squire,

A lover and a lusty bachelor,

With locks well curled, as if they'd laid in press.

Some twenty years of age he was, I guess.

In stature he was of an average length,

Wondrously active, aye, and great of strength.

He'd ridden sometime with the cavalry

In Flanders, in Artois, and Picardy,

And borne him well within that little space

In hope to win thereby his lady's grace.

Prinked out he was, as if he were a mead,

All full of fresh−cut flowers white and red.

Singing he was, or fluting, all the day;

He was as fresh as is the month of May.

Short was his gown, with sleeves both long and wide.

Well could be sit on horse, and fairly ride.

He could make songs and words thereto indite,

Joust, and dance too, as well as sketch and write.

So hot he loved that, while night told her tale,

He slept no more than does a nightingale.

Courteous he, and humble, willing and able,

And carved before his father at the table.

THE YEOMAN

A yeoman had he, nor more servants, no,

At that time, for he chose to travel so;

And he was clad in coat and hood of green.

A sheaf of peacock arrows bright and keen

Under his belt he bore right carefully

(Well could he keep his tackle yeomanly:

His arrows had no draggled feathers low),

And in his hand he bore a mighty bow.

A cropped head had he and a sun−browned face.

Of woodcraft knew he all the useful ways.

Upon his arm he bore a bracer gay,

And at one side a sword and buckler, yea,

And at the other side a dagger bright,

Well sheathed and sharp as spear point in the light;

On breast a Christopher of silver sheen.

He bore a horn in baldric all of green;

A forester he truly was, I guess.

THE PRIORESS

There was also a nun, a prioress,

Who, in her smiling, modest was and coy;

Her greatest oath was but "By Saint Eloy!"

And she was known as Madam Eglantine.

Full well she sang the services divine,

Intoning through her nose, becomingly;

And fair she spoke her French, and fluently,

After the school of Stratford−at−the−Bow,

For French of Paris was not hers to know.

At table she had been well taught withal,

And never from her lips let morsels fall,

Nor dipped her fingers deep in sauce, but ate

With so much care the food upon her plate

That never driblet fell upon her breast.

In courtesy she had delight and zest.

Her upper lip was always wiped so clean

That in her cup was no iota seen

Of grease, when she had drunk her draught of wine.

Becomingly she reached for meat to dine.

And certainly delighting in good sport,

She was right pleasant, amiable− in short.

She was at pains to counterfeit the look

Of courtliness, and stately manners took,

And would be held worthy of reverence.

But, to say something of her moral sense,

She was so charitable and piteous

That she would weep if she but saw a mouse

Caught in a trap, though it were dead or bled.

She had some little dogs, too, that she fed

On roasted flesh, or milk and fine white bread.

But sore she'd weep if one of them were dead,

Or if men smote it with a rod to smart:

For pity ruled her, and her tender heart.

Right decorous her pleated wimple was;

Her nose was fine; her eyes were blue as glass;

Her mouth was small and therewith soft and red;

But certainly she had a fair forehead;

It was almost a full span broad, I own,

For, truth to tell, she was not undergrown.

Neat was her cloak, as I was well aware.

Of coral small about her arm she'd bear

A string of beads and gauded all with green;

And therefrom hung a brooch of golden sheen

Whereon there was first written a crowned "A,"

And under, Amor vincit omnia.

THE NUN

Another little nun with her had she,

THE THREE PRIESTS

Who was her chaplain; and of priests she'd three.

THE MONK

A monk there was, one made for mastery,

An outrider, who loved his venery;

A manly man, to be an abbot able.

Full many a blooded horse had he in stable:

And when he rode men might his bridle hear

A−jingling in the whistling wind as clear,

Aye, and as loud as does the chapel bell

Where this brave monk was of the cell.

The rule of Maurus or Saint Benedict,

By reason it was old and somewhat strict,

This said monk let such old things slowly pace

And followed new−world manners in their place.

He cared not for that text a clean−plucked hen

Which holds that hunters are not holy men;

Nor that a monk, when he is cloisterless,

Is like unto a fish that's waterless;

That is to say, a monk out of his cloister.

But this same text he held not worth an oyster;

And I said his opinion was right good.

What? Should he study as a madman would

Upon a book in cloister cell? Or yet

Go labour with his hands and swink and sweat,

As Austin bids? How shall the world be served?

Let Austin have his toil to him reserved.

Therefore he was a rider day and night;

Greyhounds he had, as swift as bird in flight.

Since riding and the hunting of the hare

Were all his love, for no cost would he spare.

I saw his sleeves were purfled at the hand

With fur of grey, the finest in the land;

Also, to fasten hood beneath his chin,

He had of good wrought gold a curious pin:

A love−knot in the larger end there was.

His head was bald and shone like any glass,

And smooth as one anointed was his face.

Fat was this lord, he stood in goodly case.

His bulging eyes he rolled about, and hot

They gleamed and red, like fire beneath a pot;

His boots were soft; his horse of great estate.

Now certainly he was a fine prelate:

He was not pale as some poor wasted ghost.

A fat swan loved he best of any roast.

His palfrey was as brown as is a berry.

THE FRIAR

A friar there was, a wanton and a merry,

A limiter, a very festive man.

In all the Orders Four is none that can

Equal his gossip and his fair language.

He had arranged full many a marriage

Of women young, and this at his own cost.

Unto his order he was a noble post.

Well liked by all and intimate was he

With franklins everywhere in his country,

And with the worthy women of the town:

For at confessing he'd more power in gown

(As he himself said) than it good curate,

For of his order he was licentiate.

He heard confession gently, it was said,

Gently absolved too, leaving naught of dread.

He was an easy man to give penance

When knowing he should gain a good pittance;

For to a begging friar, money given

Is sign that any man has been well shriven.

For if one gave (he dared to boast of this),

He took the man's repentance not amiss.

For many a man there is so hard of heart

He cannot weep however pains may smart.

Therefore, instead of weeping and of prayer,

Men should give silver to poor friars all bare.

His tippet was stuck always full of knives

And pins, to give to young and pleasing wives.

And certainly he kept a merry note:

Well could he sing and play upon the rote.

At balladry he bore the prize away.

His throat was white as lily of the May;

Yet strong he was as ever champion.

In towns he knew the taverns, every one,

And every good host and each barmaid too−

Better than begging lepers, these he knew.

For unto no such solid man as he

Accorded it, as far as he could see,

To have sick lepers for acquaintances.

There is no honest advantageousness

In dealing with such poverty−stricken curs;

It's with the rich and with big victuallers.

And so, wherever profit might arise,

Courteous he was and humble in men's eyes.

There was no other man so virtuous.

He was the finest beggar of his house;

A certain district being farmed to him,

None of his brethren dared approach its rim;

For though a widow had no shoes to show,

So pleasant was his In principio,

He always got a farthing ere he went.

He lived by pickings, it is evident.

And he could romp as well as any whelp.

On love days could he be of mickle help.

For there he was not like a cloisterer,

With threadbare cope as is the poor scholar,

But he was like a lord or like a pope.

Of double worsted was his semi−cope,

That rounded like a bell, as you may guess.

He lisped a little, out of wantonness,

To make his English soft upon his tongue;

And in his harping, after he had sung,

His two eyes twinkled in his head as bright

As do the stars within the frosty night.

This worthy limiter was named Hubert.

THE MERCHANT

There was a merchant with forked beard, and girt

In motley gown, and high on horse he sat,

Upon his head a Flemish beaver hat;

His boots were fastened rather elegantly.

His spoke his notions out right pompously,

Stressing the times when he had won, not lost.

He would the sea were held at any cost

Across from Middleburgh to Orwell town.

At money−changing he could make a crown.

This worthy man kept all his wits well set;

There was no one could say he was in debt,

So well he governed all his trade affairs

With bargains and with borrowings and with shares.

Indeed, he was a worthy man withal,

But, sooth to say, his name I can't recall.

THE CLERK

A clerk from Oxford was with us also,

Who'd turned to getting knowledge, long ago.

As meagre was his horse as is a rake,

Nor he himself too fat, I'll undertake,

But he looked hollow and went soberly.

Right threadbare was his overcoat; for he

Had got him yet no churchly benefice,

Nor was so worldly as to gain office.

For he would rather have at his bed's head

Some twenty books, all bound in black and red,

Of Aristotle and his philosophy

Than rich robes, fiddle, or gay psaltery.

Yet, and for all he was philosopher,

He had but little gold within his coffer;

But all that he might borrow from a friend

On books and learning he would swiftly spend,

And then he'd pray right busily for the souls

Of those who gave him wherewithal for schools.

Of study took he utmost care and heed.

Not one word spoke he more than was his need;

And that was said in fullest reverence

And short and quick and full of high good sense.

Pregnant of moral virtue was his speech;

And gladly would he learn and gladly teach.

THE LAWYER

A sergeant of the law, wary and wise,

Who'd often gone to Paul's walk to advise,

There was also, compact of excellence.

Discreet he was, and of great reverence;

At least he seemed so, his words were so wise.

Often he sat as justice in assize,

By patent or commission from the crown;

Because of learning and his high renown,

He took large fees and many robes could own.

So great a purchaser was never known.

All was fee simple to him, in effect,

Wherefore his claims could never be suspect.

Nowhere a man so busy of his class,

And yet he seemed much busier than he was.

All cases and all judgments could he cite

That from King William's time were apposite.

And he could draw a contract so explicit

Not any man could fault therefrom elicit;

And every statute he'd verbatim quote.

He rode but badly in a medley coat,

Belted in a silken sash, with little bars,

But of his dress no more particulars.

THE FRANKLIN

There was a franklin in his company;

White was his beard as is the white daisy.

Of sanguine temperament by every sign,

He loved right well his morning sop in wine.

Delightful living was the goal he'd won,

For he was Epicurus' very son,

That held opinion that a full delight

Was true felicity, perfect and right.

A householder, and that a great, was he;

Saint Julian he was in his own country.

His bread and ale were always right well done;

A man with better cellars there was none.

Baked meat was never wanting in his house,

Of fish and flesh, and that so plenteous

It seemed to snow therein both food and drink

Of every dainty that a man could think.

According to the season of the year

He changed his diet and his means of cheer.

Full many a fattened partridge did he mew,

And many a bream and pike in fish−pond too.

Woe to his cook, except the sauces were

Poignant and sharp, and ready all his gear.

His table, waiting in his hall alway,

Stood ready covered through the livelong day.

At county sessions was he lord and sire,

And often acted as a knight of shire.

A dagger and a trinket−bag of silk

Hung from his girdle, white as morning milk.

He had been sheriff and been auditor;

And nowhere was a worthier vavasor.

THE HABERDASHER AND THE CARPENTER

A haberdasher and a carpenter,

THE WEAVER, THE DYER, AND THE ARRAS−MAKER

An arras−maker, dyer, and weaver

Were with us, clothed in similar livery,

All of one sober, great fraternity.

Their gear was new and well adorned it was;

Their weapons were not cheaply trimmed with brass,

But all with silver; chastely made and well

Their girdles and their pouches too, I tell.

Each man of them appeared a proper burges

To sit in guildhall on a high dais.

And each of them, for wisdom he could span,

Was fitted to have been an alderman;

For chattels they'd enough, and, too, of rent;

To which their goodwives gave a free assent,

Or else for certain they had been to blame.

It's good to hear "Madam" before one's name,

And go to church when all the world may see,

Having one's mantle borne right royally.

THE COOK

A cook they had with them, just for the nonce,

To boil the chickens with the marrow−bones,

And flavour tartly and with galingale.

Well could he tell a draught of London ale.

And he could roast and seethe and broil and fry,

And make a good thick soup, and bake a pie.

But very ill it was, it seemed to me,

That on his shin a deadly sore had he;

For sweet blanc−mange, he made it with the best.

THE SAILOR

There was a sailor, living far out west;

For aught I know, he was of Dartmouth town.

He sadly rode a hackney, in a gown,

Of thick rough cloth falling to the knee.

A dagger hanging on a cord had he

About his neck, and under arm, and down.

The summer's heat had burned his visage brown;

And certainly he was a good fellow.

Full many a draught of wine he'd drawn, I trow,

Of Bordeaux vintage, while the trader slept.

Nice conscience was a thing he never kept.

If that he fought and got the upper hand,

By water he sent them home to every land.

But as for craft, to reckon well his tides,

His currents and the dangerous watersides,

His harbours, and his moon, his pilotage,

There was none such from Hull to far Carthage.

Hardy. and wise in all things undertaken,

By many a tempest had his beard been shaken.

He knew well all the havens, as they were,

From Gottland to the Cape of Finisterre,

And every creek in Brittany and Spain;

His vessel had been christened Madeleine.

THE PHYSICIAN

With us there was a doctor of physic;

In all this world was none like him to pick

For talk of medicine and surgery;

For he was grounded in astronomy.

He often kept a patient from the pall

By horoscopes and magic natural.

Well could he tell the fortune ascendent

Within the houses for his sick patient.

He knew the cause of every malady,

Were it of hot or cold, of moist or dry,

And where engendered, and of what humour;

He was a very good practitioner.

The cause being known, down to the deepest root,

Anon he gave to the sick man his boot.

Ready he was, with his apothecaries,

To send him drugs and all electuaries;

By mutual aid much gold they'd always won−

Their friendship was a thing not new begun.

Well read was he in Esculapius,

And Deiscorides, and in Rufus,

Hippocrates, and Hali, and Galen,

Serapion, Rhazes, and Avicen,

Averrhoes, Gilbert, and Constantine,

Bernard and Gatisden, and John Damascene.

In diet he was measured as could be,

Including naught of superfluity,

But nourishing and easy. It's no libel

To say he read but little in the Bible.

In blue and scarlet he went clad, withal,

Lined with a taffeta and with sendal;

And yet he was right chary of expense;

He kept the gold he gained from pestilence.

For gold in physic is a fine cordial,

And therefore loved he gold exceeding all.

THE WIFE OF BATH

There was a housewife come from Bath, or near,

Who− sad to say− was deaf in either ear.

At making cloth she had so great a bent

She bettered those of Ypres and even of Ghent.

In all the parish there was no goodwife

Should offering make before her, on my life;

And if one did, indeed, so wroth was she

It put her out of all her charity.

Her kerchiefs were of finest weave and ground;

I dare swear that they weighed a full ten pound

Which, of a Sunday, she wore on her head.

Her hose were of the choicest scarlet red,

Close gartered, and her shoes were soft and new.

Bold was her face, and fair, and red of hue.

She'd been respectable throughout her life,

With five churched husbands bringing joy and strife,

Not counting other company in youth;

But thereof there's no need to speak, in truth.

Three times she'd journeyed to Jerusalem;

And many a foreign stream she'd had to stem;

At Rome she'd been, and she'd been in Boulogne,

In Spain at Santiago, and at Cologne.

She could tell much of wandering by the way:

Gap−toothed was she, it is no lie to say.

Upon an ambler easily she sat,

Well wimpled, aye, and over all a hat

As broad as is a buckler or a targe;

A rug was tucked around her buttocks large,

And on her feet a pair of sharpened spurs.

In company well could she laugh her slurs.

The remedies of love she knew, perchance,

For of that art she'd learned the old, old dance.

THE PARSON

There was a good man of religion, too,

A country parson, poor, I warrant you;

But rich he was in holy thought and work.

He was a learned man also, a clerk,

Who Christ's own gospel truly sought to preach;

Devoutly his parishioners would he teach.

Benign he was and wondrous diligent,

Patient in adverse times and well content,

As he was ofttimes proven; always blithe,

He was right loath to curse to get a tithe,

But rather would he give, in case of doubt,

Unto those poor parishioners about,

Part of his income, even of his goods.

Enough with little, coloured all his moods.

Wide was his parish, houses far asunder,

But never did he fail, for rain or thunder,

In sickness, or in sin, or any state,

To visit to the farthest, small and great,

Going afoot, and in his hand, a stave.

This fine example to his flock he gave,

That first he wrought and afterwards he taught;

Out of the gospel then that text he caught,

And this figure he added thereunto−

That, if gold rust, what shall poor iron do?

For if the priest be foul, in whom we trust,

What wonder if a layman yield to lust?

And shame it is, if priest take thought for keep,

A shitty shepherd, shepherding clean sheep.

Well ought a priest example good to give,

By his own cleanness, how his flock should live.

He never let his benefice for hire,

Leaving his flock to flounder in the mire,

And ran to London, up to old Saint Paul's

To get himself a chantry there for souls,

Nor in some brotherhood did he withhold;

But dwelt at home and kept so well the fold

That never wolf could make his plans miscarry;

He was a shepherd and not mercenary.

And holy though he was, and virtuous,

To sinners he was not impiteous,

Nor haughty in his speech, nor too divine,

But in all teaching prudent and benign.

To lead folk into Heaven but by stress

Of good example was his busyness.

But if some sinful one proved obstinate,

Be who it might, of high or low estate,

Him he reproved, and sharply, as I know.

There is nowhere a better priest, I trow.

He had no thirst for pomp or reverence,

Nor made himself a special, spiced conscience,

But Christ's own lore, and His apostles' twelve

He taught, but first he followed it himselve.

THE PLOWMAN

With him there was a plowman, was his brother,

That many a load of dung, and many another

Had scattered, for a good true toiler, he,

Living in peace and perfect charity.

He loved God most, and that with his whole heart

At all times, though he played or plied his art,

And next, his neighbour, even as himself.

He'd thresh and dig, with never thought of pelf,

For Christ's own sake, for every poor wight,

All without pay, if it lay in his might.

He paid his taxes, fully, fairly, well,

Both by his own toil and by stuff he'd sell.

In a tabard he rode upon a mare.

There were also a reeve and miller there;

A summoner, manciple and pardoner,

And these, beside myself, made all there were.

THE MILLER

The miller was a stout churl, be it known,

Hardy and big of brawn and big of bone;

Which was well proved, for when he went on lam

At wrestling, never failed he of the ram.

He was a chunky fellow, broad of build;

He'd heave a door from hinges if he willed,

Or break it through, by running, with his head.

His beard, as any sow or fox, was red,

And broad it was as if it were a spade.

Upon the coping of his nose he had

A wart, and thereon stood a tuft of hairs,

Red as the bristles in an old sow's ears;

His nostrils they were black and very wide.

A sword and buckler bore he by his side.

His mouth was like a furnace door for size.

He was a jester and could poetize,

But mostly all of sin and ribaldries.

He could steal corn and full thrice charge his fees;

And yet he had a thumb of gold, begad.

A white coat and blue hood he wore, this lad.

A bagpipe he could blow well, be it known,

And with that same he brought us out of town.

THE MANCIPLE

There was a manciple from an inn of court,

To whom all buyers might quite well resort

To learn the art of buying food and drink;

For whether he paid cash or not, I think

That he so knew the markets, when to buy,

He never found himself left high and dry.

Now is it not of God a full fair grace

That such a vulgar man has wit to pace

The wisdom of a crowd of learned men?

Of masters had he more than three times ten,

Who were in law expert and curious;

Whereof there were a dozen in that house

Fit to be stewards of both rent and land

Of any lord in England who would stand

Upon his own and live in manner good,

In honour, debtless (save his head were wood),

Or live as frugally as he might desire;

These men were able to have helped a shire

In any case that ever might befall;

And yet this manciple outguessed them all.

THE REEVE

The reeve he was a slender, choleric man

Who shaved his beard as close as razor can.

His hair was cut round even with his ears;

His top was tonsured like a pulpiteer's.

Long were his legs, and they were very lean,

And like a staff, with no calf to be seen.

Well could he manage granary and bin;

No auditor could ever on him win.

He could foretell, by drought and by the rain,

The yielding of his seed and of his grain.

His lord's sheep and his oxen and his dairy,

His swine and horses, all his stores, his poultry,

Were wholly in this steward's managing;

And, by agreement, he'd made reckoning

Since his young lord of age was twenty years;

Yet no man ever found him in arrears.

There was no agent, hind, or herd who'd cheat

But he knew well his cunning and deceit;

They were afraid of him as of the death.

His cottage was a good one, on a heath;

By green trees shaded with this dwelling−place.

Much better than his lord could he purchase.

Right rich he was in his own private right,

Seeing he'd pleased his lord, by day or night,

By giving him, or lending, of his goods,

And so got thanked− but yet got coats and hoods.

In youth he'd learned a good trade, and had been

A carpenter, as fine as could be seen.

This steward sat a horse that well could trot,

And was all dapple−grey, and was named Scot.

A long surcoat of blue did he parade,

And at his side he bore a rusty blade.

Of Norfolk was this reeve of whom I tell,

From near a town that men call Badeswell.

Bundled he was like friar from chin to croup,

And ever he rode hindmost of our troop.

THE SUMMONER

A summoner was with us in that place,

Who had a fiery−red, cherubic face,

For eczema he had; his eyes were narrow

As hot he was, and lecherous, as a sparrow;

With black and scabby brows and scanty beard;

He had a face that little children feared.

There was no mercury, sulphur, or litharge,

No borax, ceruse, tartar, could discharge,

Nor ointment that could cleanse enough, or bite,

To free him of his boils and pimples white,

Nor of the bosses resting on his cheeks.

Well loved he garlic, onions, aye and leeks,

And drinking of strong wine as red as blood.

Then would he talk and shout as madman would.

And when a deal of wine he'd poured within,

Then would. he utter no word save Latin.

Some phrases had he learned, say two or three,

Which he had garnered out of some decree;

No wonder, for he'd heard it all the day;

And all you know right well that even a jay

Can call out "Wat" as well as can the pope.

But when, for aught else, into him you'd grope,

'Twas found he'd spent his whole philosophy;

Just "Questio quid juris" would he cry.

He was a noble rascal, and a kind;

A better comrade 'twould be hard to find.

Why, he would suffer, for a quart of wine,

Some good fellow to have his concubine

A twelve−month, and excuse him to the full

(Between ourselves, though, he could pluck a gull).

And if he chanced upon a good fellow,

He would instruct him never to have awe,

In such a case, of the archdeacon's curse,

Except a man's soul lie within his purse;

For in his purse the man should punished be.

"The purse is the archdeacon's Hell," said he.

But well I know he lied in what he said;

A curse ought every guilty man to dread

(For curse can kill, as absolution save),

And 'ware significavit to the grave.

In his own power had he, and at ease,

The boys and girls of all the diocese,

And knew their secrets, and by counsel led.

A garland had he set upon his head,

Large as a tavern's wine−bush on a stake;

A buckler had he made of bread they bake.

THE PARDONER

With him there rode a gentle pardoner

Of Rouncival, his friend and his compeer;

Straight from the court of Rome had journeyed he.

Loudly he sang "Come hither, love, to me,"

The summoner joining with a burden round;

Was never horn of half so great a sound.

This pardoner had hair as yellow as wax,

But lank it hung as does a strike of flax;

In wisps hung down such locks as he'd on head,

And with them he his shoulders overspread;

But thin they dropped, and stringy, one by one.

But as to hood, for sport of it, he'd none,

Though it was packed in wallet all the while.

It seemed to him he went in latest style,

Dishevelled, save for cap, his head all bare.

As shiny eyes he had as has a hare.

He had a fine veronica sewed to cap.

His wallet lay before him in his lap,

Stuffed full of pardons brought from Rome all hot.

A voice he had that bleated like a goat.

No beard had he, nor ever should he have,

For smooth his face as he'd just had a shave;

I think he was a gelding or a mare.

But in his craft, from Berwick unto Ware,

Was no such pardoner in any place.

For in his bag he had a pillowcase

The which, he said, was Our True Lady's veil:

He said he had a piece of the very sail

That good Saint Peter had, what time he went

Upon the sea, till Jesus changed his bent.

He had a latten cross set full of stones,

And in a bottle had he some pig's bones.

But with these relics, when he came upon

Some simple parson, then this paragon

In that one day more money stood to gain

Than the poor dupe in two months could attain.

And thus, with flattery and suchlike japes,

He made the parson and the rest his apes.

But yet, to tell the whole truth at the last,

He was, in church, a fine ecclesiast.

Well could he read a lesson or a story,

But best of all he sang an offertory;

For well he knew that when that song was sung,

Then might he preach, and all with polished tongue.

To win some silver, as he right well could;

Therefore he sang so merrily and so loud.

PROLOGUE

Now have I told you briefly, in a clause,

The state, the array, the number, and the cause

Of the assembling of this company

In Southwark, at this noble hostelry

Known as the Tabard Inn, hard by the Bell.

But now the time is come wherein to tell

How all we bore ourselves that very night

When at the hostelry we did alight.

And afterward the story I engage

To tell you of our common pilgrimage.

But first, I pray you, of your courtesy,

You'll not ascribe it to vulgarity

Though I speak plainly of this matter here,

Retailing you their words and means of cheer;

Nor though I use their very terms, nor lie.

For this thing do you know as well as I:

When one repeats a tale told by a man,

He must report, as nearly as he can,

Every least word, if he remember it,

However rude it be, or how unfit;

Or else he may be telling what's untrue,

Embellishing and fictionizing too.

He may not spare, although it were his brother;

He must as well say one word as another.

Christ spoke right broadly out, in holy writ,

And, you know well, there's nothing low in it.

And Plato says, to those able to read:

"The word should be the cousin to the deed."

Also, I pray that you'll forgive it me

If I have not set folk, in their degree

Here in this tale, by rank as they should stand.

My wits are not the best, you'll understand.

Great cheer our host gave to us, every one,

And to the supper set us all anon;

And served us then with victuals of the best.

Strong was the wine and pleasant to each guest.

A seemly man our good host was, withal,

Fit to have been a marshal in some hall;

He was a large man, with protruding eyes,

As fine a burgher as in Cheapside lies;

Bold in his speech, and wise, and right well taught,

And as to manhood, lacking there in naught.

Also, he was a very merry man,

And after meat, at playing he began,

Speaking of mirth among some other things,

When all of us had paid our reckonings;

And saying thus: "Now masters, verily

You are all welcome here, and heartily:

For by my truth, and telling you no lie,

I have not seen, this year, a company

Here in this inn, fitter for sport than now.

Fain would I make you happy, knew I how.

And of a game have I this moment thought

To give you joy, and it shall cost you naught.

"You go to Canterbury; may God speed

And the blest martyr soon requite your meed.

And well I know, as you go on your way,

You'll tell good tales and shape yourselves to play;

For truly there's no mirth nor comfort, none,

Riding the roads as dumb as is a stone;

And therefore will I furnish you a sport,

As I just said, to give you some comfort.

And if you like it, all, by one assent,

And will be ruled by me, of my judgment,

And will so do as I'll proceed to say,

Tomorrow, when you ride upon your way,

Then, by my father's spirit, who is dead,

If you're not gay, I'll give you up my head.

Hold up your hands, nor more about it speak."

Our full assenting was not far to seek;

We thought there was no reason to think twice,

And granted him his way without advice,

And bade him tell his verdict just and wise,

"Masters," quoth he, "here now is my advice;

But take it not, I pray you, in disdain;

This is the point, to put it short and plain,

That each of you, beguiling the long day,

Shall tell two stories as you wend your way

To Canterbury town; and each of you

On coming home, shall tell another two,

All of adventures he has known befall.

And he who plays his part the best of all,

That is to say, who tells upon the road

Tales of best sense, in most amusing mode,

Shall have a supper at the others' cost

Here in this room and sitting by this post,

When we come back again from Canterbury.

And now, the more to warrant you'll be merry,

I will myself, and gladly, with you ride

At my own cost, and I will be your guide.

But whosoever shall my rule gainsay

Shall pay for all that's bought along the way.

And if you are agreed that it be so,

Tell me at once, or if not, tell me no,

And I will act accordingly. No more."

This thing was granted, and our oaths we swore,

With right glad hearts, and prayed of him, also,

That he would take the office, nor forgo

The place of governor of all of us,

Judging our tales; and by his wisdom thus

Arrange that supper at a certain price,

We to be ruled, each one, by his advice

In things both great and small; by one assent,

We stood committed to his government.

And thereupon, the wine was fetched anon;

We drank, and then to rest went every one,

And that without a longer tarrying.

Next morning, when the day began to spring,

Up rose our host, and acting as our cock,

He gathered us together in a flock,

And forth we rode, a jog−trot being the pace,

Until we reached Saint Thomas' watering−place.

And there our host pulled horse up to a walk,

And said: "Now, masters, listen while I talk.

You know what you agreed at set of sun.

If even−song and morning−song are one,

Let's here decide who first shall tell a tale.

And as I hope to drink more wine and ale,

Whoso proves rebel to my government

Shall pay for all that by the way is spent.

Come now, draw cuts, before we farther win,

And he that draws the shortest shall begin.

Sir knight," said he, "my master and my lord,

You shall draw first as you have pledged your word.

Come near," quoth he, "my lady prioress:

And you, sir clerk, put by your bashfulness,

Nor ponder more; out hands, flow, every man!"

At once to draw a cut each one began,

And, to make short the matter, as it was,

Whether by chance or whatsoever cause,

The truth is, that the cut fell to the knight,

At which right happy then was every wight.

Thus that his story first of all he'd tell,

According to the compact, it befell,

As you have heard. Why argue to and fro?

And when this good man saw that it was so,

Being a wise man and obedient

To plighted word, given by free assent,

He slid: "Since I must then begin the game,

Why, welcome be the cut, and in God's name!

Now let us ride, and hearken what I say."

And at that word we rode forth on our way;

And he began to speak, with right good cheer,

His tale anon, as it is written here.

HERE ENDS THE PROLOGUE OF THIS BOOK

AND HERE BEGINS THE FIRST TALE,

WHICH IS THE KNIGHT'S TALE

THE KNIGHT'S TALE

Once on a time, as old tales tell to us,

There was a duke whose name was Theseus:

Of Athens he was lord and governor,

And in his time was such a conqueror

That greater was there not beneath the sun.

Full many a rich country had he won;

What with his wisdom and his chivalry

He gained the realm of Femininity,

That was of old time known as Scythia.

There wedded he the queen, Hippolyta,

And brought her home with him to his country.

In glory great and with great pageantry,

And, too, her younger sister, Emily.

And thus, in victory and with melody,

Let I this noble duke to Athens ride

With all his armed host marching at his side.

And truly, were it not too long to hear,

I would have told you fully how, that year,

Was gained the realm of Femininity

By Theseus and by his chivalry;

And all of the great battle that was wrought

Where Amazons and the Athenians fought;

And how was wooed and won Hippolyta,

That fair and hardy queen of Scythia;

And of the feast was made at their wedding,

And of the tempest at their home−coming;

But all of that I must for now forbear.

I have, God knows, a large field for my share,

And weak the oxen, and the soil is tough.

The remnant of the tale is long enough.

I will not hinder any, in my turn;

Let each man tell his tale, until we learn

Which of us all the most deserves to win;

So where I stopped, again I'll now begin.

This duke of whom I speak, of great renown,

When he had drawn almost unto the town,

In all well−being and in utmost pride,

He grew aware, casting his eyes aside,

That right upon the road, as suppliants do,

A company of ladies, two by two,

Knelt, all in black, before his cavalcade;

But such a clamorous cry of woe they made

That in the whole world living man had heard

No such a lamentation, on my word;

Nor would they cease lamenting till at last

They'd clutched his bridle reins and held them fast.

"What folk are you that at my home−coming

Disturb my triumph with this dolorous thing?"

Cried Theseus. "Do you so much envy

My honour that you thus complain and cry?

Or who has wronged you now, or who offended?

Come, tell me whether it may be amended;

And tell me, why are you clothed thus, in black?"

The eldest lady of them answered back,

After she'd swooned, with cheek so deathly drear

That it was pitiful to see and hear,

And said: "Lord, to whom Fortune has but given

Victory, and to conquer where you've striven,

Your glory and your honour grieve not us;

But we beseech your aid and pity thus.

Have mercy on our woe and our distress.

Some drop of pity, of your gentleness,

Upon us wretched women, oh, let fall!

For see, lord, there is no one of us all

That has not been a duchess or a queen;

Now we are captives, as may well be seen:

Thanks be to Fortune and her treacherous wheel,

There's none can rest assured of constant weal.

And truly, lord, expecting your return,

In Pity's temple, where the fires yet burn,

We have been waiting through a long fortnight;

Now help us, lord, since it is in your might.

"I, wretched woman, who am weeping thus,

Was once the wife of King Capaneus,

Who died at Thebes, oh, cursed be the day!

And all we that you see in this array,

And make this lamentation to be known,

All we have lost our husbands at that town

During the siege that round about it lay.

And now the old Creon, ah welaway!

The lord and governor of Thebes city,

Full of his wrath and all iniquity,

He, in despite and out of tyranny,

To do the dead a shame and villainy,

Of all our husbands, lying among the slain,

Has piled the bodies in a heap, amain,

And will not suffer them, nor give consent,

To buried be, or burned, nor will relent,

But sets his dogs to eat them, out of spite."

And on that word, at once, without respite,

They all fell prone and cried out piteously:

"Have on us wretched women some mercy,

And let our sorrows sink into your heart!"

This gentle duke down from his horse did start

With heart of pity, when he'd heard them speak.

It seemed to him his heart must surely break,

Seeing them there so miserable of state,

Who had been proud and happy but so late.

And in his arms he took them tenderly,

Giving them comfort understandingly:

And swore his oath, that as he was true knight,

He would put forth so thoroughly his might

Against the tyrant Creon as to wreak

Vengeance so great that all of Greece should speak

And say how Creon was by Theseus served,

As one that had his death full well deserved.

This sworn and done, he no more there abode;

His banner he displayed and forth he rode

Toward Thebes, and all his host marched on beside;

Nor nearer Athens would he walk or ride,

Nor take his ease for even half a day,

But onward, and in camp that night he lay;

And thence he sent Hippolyta the queen

And her bright sister Emily, I ween,

Unto the town of Athens, there to dwell

While he went forth. There is no more to tell.

The image of red Mars, with spear and shield,

So shone upon his banner's snow−white field

It made a billowing glitter up and down;

And by the banner borne was his pennon,

On which in beaten gold was worked, complete,

The Minotaur, which he had slain in Crete.

Thus rode this duke, thus rode this conqueror,

And in his host of chivalry the flower,

Until he came to Thebes and did alight

Full in the field where he'd intent to fight.

But to be brief in telling of this thing,

With Creon, who was Thebes' dread lord and king,

He fought and slew him, manfully, like knight,

In open war, and put his host to flight;

And by assault he took the city then,

Levelling wall and rafter with his men;

And to the ladies he restored again

The bones of their poor husbands who were slain,

To do for them the last rites of that day.

But it were far too long a tale to say

The clamour of great grief and sorrowing

Those ladies raised above the bones burning

Upon the pyres, and of the great honour

That Theseus, the noble conqueror,

Paid to the ladies when from him they went;

To make the story short is my intent.

When, then, this worthy duke, this Theseus

Had slain Creon and won Thebes city thus,

Still on the field he took that night his rest,

And dealt with all the land as he thought best.

In searching through the heap of enemy dead,

Stripping them of their gear from heel to head,

The busy pillagers could pick and choose,

After the battle, what they best could use;

And so befell that in a heap they found,

Pierced through with many a grievous, bloody wound,

Two young knights lying together, side by side,

Bearing one crest, wrought richly, of their pride,

And of those two Arcita was the one,

The other knight was known as Palamon.

Not fully quick, nor fully dead they were,

But by their coats of arms and by their gear

The heralds readily could tell, withal,

That they were of the Theban blood royal,

And that they had been of two sisters born.

Out of the heap the spoilers had them torn

And carried gently over to the tent

Of Theseus; who shortly had them sent

To Athens, there in prison cell to lie

For ever, without ransom, till they die.

And when this worthy duke had all this done,

He gathered host and home he rode anon,

With laurel crowned again as conqueror;

There lived he in all joy and all honour

His term of life; what more need words express?

And in a tower, in anguish and distress,

Palamon and Arcita, day and night,

Dwelt whence no gold might help them to take flight.

Thus passed by year by year and day by day,

Till it fell out, upon a morn in May,

That Emily, far fairer to be seen

Than is the lily on its stalk of green,

And fresher than is May with flowers new

(For with the rose's colour strove her hue,

I know not which was fairer of the two),

Before the dawn, as was her wont to do,

She rose and dressed her body for delight;

For May will have no sluggards of the night.

That season rouses every gentle heart

And forces it from winter's sleep to start,

Saying: "Arise and show thy reverence."

So Emily remembered to go thence

In honour of the May, and so she rose.

Clothed, she was sweeter than any flower that blows;

Her yellow hair was braided in one tress

Behind her back, a full yard long, I guess.

And in the garden, as the sun up−rose,

She sauntered back and forth and through each close,

Gathering many a flower, white and red,

To weave a delicate garland for her head;

And like a heavenly angel's was her song.

The tower tall, which was so thick and strong,

And of the castle was the great donjon,

(Wherein the two knights languished in prison,

Of whom I told and shall yet tell, withal),

Was joined, at base, unto the garden wall

Whereunder Emily went dallying.

Bright was the sun and clear that morn in spring,

And Palamon, the woeful prisoner,

As was his wont, by leave of his gaoler,

Was up and pacing round that chamber high,

From which the noble city filled his eye,

And, too, the garden full of branches green,

Wherein bright Emily, fair and serene,

Went walking and went roving up and down.

This sorrowing prisoner, this Palamon,

Being in the chamber, pacing to and fro,

And to himself complaining of his woe,

Cursing his birth, he often cried "Alas!"

And so it was, by chance or other pass,

That through a window, closed by many a bar

Of iron, strong and square as any spar,

He cast his eyes upon Emilia,

And thereupon he blenched and cried out "Ah!"

As if he had been smitten to the heart.

And at that cry Arcita did up−start,

Asking: "My cousin, why what ails you now

That you've so deathly pallor on your brow?

Why did you cry out? Who's offended you?

For God's love, show some patience, as I do,

With prison, for it may not different be;

Fortune has given this adversity.

Some evil disposition or aspect

Of Saturn did our horoscopes affect

To bring us here, though differently 'twere sworn;

But so the stars stood when we two were born;

We must endure it; that, in brief, is plain."

This Palamon replied and said again:

"Cousin, indeed in this opinion now

Your fancy is but vanity, I trow.

It's not our prison that caused me to cry.

But I was wounded lately through the eye

Down to my heart, and that my bane will be.

The beauty of the lady that I see

There in that garden, pacing to and fro,

Is cause of all my crying and my woe.

I know not if she's woman or goddess;

But Venus she is verily, I guess."

And thereupon down on his knees he fell,

And said: "O Venus, if it be thy will

To be transfigured in this garden, thus

Before me, sorrowing wretch, oh now help us

Out of this prison to be soon escaped.

And if it be my destiny is shaped,

By fate, to die in durance, in bondage,

Have pity, then, upon our lineage

That has been brought so low by tyranny."

And on that word Arcita looked to see

This lady who went roving to and fro.

And in that look her beauty struck him so

That, if poor Palamon is wounded sore,

Arcita is as deeply hurt, and more.

And with a sigh he said then, piteously:

"The virgin beauty slays me suddenly

Of her that wanders yonder in that place;

And save I have her pity and her grace,

That I at least may see her day by day,

I am but dead; there is no more to say."

This Palamon, when these words he had heard,