Geoffrey Chaucer
The
I
Translated by A. S. Kline © 2007 All Rights Reserved
This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose.
Contents
When that April with his showers sweet
The drought of March has pierced root deep,
And bathed each vein with liquor of such power
That engendered from it is the flower,
When Zephyrus too with his gentle strife,
To every field and wood, has brought new life
In tender shoots, and the youthful sun
Half his course through the Ram has run,
And little birds are making melody,
Who all the night with open eye do sleep –
Nature their hearts in every way so pricks –
Then people long to go on pilgrimage,
And palmers who seek out foreign strands,
To far-off shrines, renowned in sundry lands;
And specially, from every shire’s end
Of
The holy blissful martyr there to seek,
Who had aided them when they were sick.
It befell that in that season on a day,
In Southwark at The Tabard as I lay,
Ready to set out on my pilgrimage
To
There came at night to that hostelry
Quite nine and twenty in a company
Of sundry folk who had chanced to fall
Into a fellowship, and pilgrims all,
That towards
The chambers and the stables were full wide,
And we housed at our ease, and of the best;
And shortly, when the sun had gone to rest,
I had such speech with each and everyone,
That of their fellowship I soon made one,
Agreeing I would make an early rise,
To take our way there, as I now advise.
Nonetheless while I have time and space,
Before a step more of my tale I pace,
It seems to me in full accord with reason,
To tell you everything of their condition,
Of each of them, as they appeared to me,
And who they were, and of what degree,
And what apparel they were travelling in;
And with a knight then I will first begin.
There was a KNIGHT and he a worthy man,
That from the day on which he first began,
To ride abroad, had followed chivalry,
Truth, honour, courtesy and charity.
He had fought nobly in his lord’s war,
And ridden to the fray, and no man more,
As much in Christendom as heathen place,
And ever honoured for his worth and grace.
When we took
Often at table held the place of honour,
Above all other nations too in
Campaigned in
No Christian man of his rank more often.
At the siege of
In
He was at Ayash and
When taken, and many times had been
In action on the
Of mortal battles he had seen fifteen,
And fought for the faith at Tramissene
Thrice in the lists and always slain his foe.
This same worthy knight had been also
With the Emir of Balat once, at work
With him against some other heathen Turk;
Won him a reputation highly prized,
And though he was valiant, he was wise,
And in his manner modest as a maid.
And never a discourtesy he said
In all his life to those who met his sight;
He was a very perfect gentle knight.
But to tell of his equipment, his array,
His horses fine, he wore no colours gay
Sported a tunic, padded fustian
On which his coat of mail left many a stain;
For he was scarcely back from his voyage,
And going now to make his pilgrimage.
With him there was his son, a young SQUIRE,
Lover and lively bachelor entire
With locks as crisp as from a curling-press;
Of twenty years of age he was, I guess.
Of his stature, he was of middle height,
Wonderfully agile, powerful in a fight.
And had served a while in the cavalry,
In
And done so well, and in so short a space,
He hoped for favour from his lady’s grace.
Like to a meadow he was embroidered,
One full of fresh flowers white and red.
Singing he was, or playing flute all day;
He was as fresh as is the month of May.
Short was his gown, with sleeves both long
and wide;
He knew how to sit a horse, and could ride.
He could make songs, and compose aright,
Joust and dance, and draw things well and
write.
He loved so hotly night through without fail
He slept no more than does the nightingale.
Courteous he was, humble, attentive, able,
And carved for his father at the table.
A YEOMAN
had he (servants did forgo
Other than this, and chose to travel so),
One who was clad in coat and hood of green.
A sheaf of peacock arrows, bright and keen
Sheathed in his belt he bore right properly –
Well could he dress his gear, yeomanly;
His arrows never drooped with feathers low –
And in his hand he bore a mighty bow.
Cropped hair he had, and a nut-brown visage;
Of woodcraft he well knew all the usage.
On his arm an archer’s brace he wore,
And by his side a buckler and a sword,
And at the other side a jaunty dagger
Ornamented, and sharp as any spear;
On his breast St Christopher did gleam.
He bore a horn, the baldric was of green.
He truly was a forester, I guess.
There
was also a nun, a PRIORESS,
Her smile itself ingenuous and coy.
Her greatest oath was only ‘by Saint Loy’,
And she was called Madame Eglentine.
Full well she sung the service, divine,
Intoning through her nose, all seemly,
And fair French she spoke, all elegantly,
After the school of Stratford-atte-Bowe;
For French of Paris was not hers to know.
At meals she had been taught well withal;
And from her lips she let no morsel fall,
Nor dipped her fingers in the sauce too deep;
Well could she take a morsel and then keep
The slightest drop from falling on her
breast;
Courtesy it was that pleased her best.
Her upper lip she would wipe so clean
That in her cup no trace of grease was seen
When she had drunk her draught; and to eat,
In a most seemly manner took her meat.
And certainly she had a cheerful manner,
Pleasant and amiable in her behaviour,
Took pains to imitate the ways of court,
Display a stately bearing as she ought,
And be considered worthy of reverence.
As for consideration of her conscience,
She was so charitable, tender, anxious,
She would weep if she but saw a mouse
Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled.
Of slender hounds she had, that she fed
With roasted flesh, or milk, and fine white
bread;
But wept sorely when one of them was dead
Or if men struck it with a stick too hard,
And all was sentiment and tender heart.
Her wimple was pleated in a seemly way,
Her nose was elegant, her eyes blue-grey;
Her lips quite fine, and also soft and red,
But certainly she had a fair forehead,
It was almost a span broad, I deem,
For she was not small of build, I mean.
Her cloak was very elegant, I saw;
Fine coral round her arm she wore
A rosary, the larger beads were green,
And from it hung a brooch of golden sheen,
On which there first was writ a crowned A,
And after: ‘Amor vincit omnia’.
Another NUN she had with her, and she
Was her chaplain, and with them priests
three.
A MONK
there was, of the highest degree,
Who loved to hunt, agent of a monastery,
A manly man, for an Abbot’s role quite able.
Full many a fine horse had he in his stable,
His bridle, when he rode, men might hear
Jingling in a whistling wind as clear,
And quite as loud as does the chapel bell.
Now as this lord was prior of his cell,
The rule of Saint Benedict and Saint Mawr,
As old and somewhat strict he would ignore,
This same monk scorned the old world’s pace,
And spurred after the new world, apace.
He gave not for that text a plucked hen
That says that hunters are not holy men,
And that a monk when he grows heedless
Is like a fish that’s all waterless –
That is to say a monk out of his cloister –
But he held that text not worth an oyster.
And I agreed his views were scarcely bad:
What! Should he study, drive himself quite mad,
In his cloister over a book must pore,
Or labour with his hands, and toil the more
As Augustine bids? How would the world run?
Let Augustine keep his labour for his own!
Therefore he was a hunting man outright.
Greyhounds he had, as swift as birds in
flight;
Tracking with dogs and hunting the hare
Was all his pleasure, no cost did he spare.
I saw his sleeves were trimmed at the wrist
With grey fur, and of the country’s finest;
And to fasten his hood beneath his chin,
He had a wrought-gold elaborate pin;
A love-knot in the larger end there was.
His head was bald, and shone like any glass,
And his face, as if he had been anointed;
He was a lord full fat, and well appointed.
His bulging eyeballs, rolling in his head,
Glowing like a cauldron-fire well-fed;
Supple his boots, his horse in perfect state.
Now certainly he was a fair prelate;
He was not pale like some tormented ghost.
A fat swan he loved best of any roast;
His palfrey was as brown as is a berry.
A FRIAR there was, a wanton one and merry,
A
Limiter, a very jovial man.
In all the friars’
four orders none that can
Lead a discussion in
fairer language.
And he had arranged
many a marriage
Of young women, granting
each a dower.
He was a noble
pillar of his Order.
Well-beloved and
intimate was he
With
And also worthy
women of the town;
Had power to confess
coat and gown –
As he said himself –
more than a curate,
Having licence from
his bishop to do it.
Full sweetly he
would hear confessions,
And very pleasant
were his absolutions.
He was an easy man
at granting penance
From which he made
more than a pittance.
When to a poor Order
alms are given
It is a token that a
man’s well-shriven;
Since he dared claim
that from the intent,
Of giving, then the
man was penitent.
For many a man is so
hard of heart
He cannot weep,
though he feels the smart.
Therefore instead of
weeping and prayer,
Better to give the
poor friars silverware.
His sleeve’s end was
stuffed with pocket-knives
And
gilded pins, to give to pretty wives.
He could hold a note
for sure; could sing
And play quite
sweetly on the tuneful string.
Such competitions he
won easily.
His neck was white
as the fleur-de-lis;
And he was as strong
as any champion.
He knew the taverns
well in every town,
And all the barmaids
and innkeepers,
Rather than the
lepers and the beggars
Since such a worthy
man as he
It suited not his
calling or degree,
With
such lepers to maintain acquaintance.
It is not seemly –
helps no man advance –
To have dealings with
such poor people,
Only
with the rich, sellers of victuals.
An everywhere a
profit might arise,
He wore a courteous
and humble guise;
There was no man
half so virtuous.
He was the finest
beggar of his house
– and
paid a fixed fee for the right;
None of his brethren
poached in his sight.
For though a widow
lacked a shoe
So pleasant was his
‘In principio’,
He yet would gain a
farthing as he went.
His income was far
greater than his rent,
And he romped
around, like any whelp.
In settling disputes
he could help,
Not like a friar
from a cloister,
With threadbare
cloak, like needy scholar,
But he was like a
doctor or a pope;
Of double worsted
was his demi-cloak,
A bell shaped from
the mould, its fashion.
He lisped a little
out of affectation,
To sound his English
sweet upon the tongue;
And in his harping,
whenever he had sung,
His eyes would
twinkle in his head aright
As do the stars on
high in frosty night.
Hubert
his name, this worthy Limiter.
A MERCHANT was there, with a forked beard,
Dressed in motley,
high on horse he sat.
Upon his head a
Flemish beaver hat,
Buckled his boots
were, fair and neatly.
He made his comments
solemnly, fully,
Boasting of
profits ever increasing,
Wishing
sea-trade secure, more than anything,
Twixt
Middleburgh and the River Orwell.
He could exchange
monies, buy and sell.
This worthy man made
such use of his wits;
No one knew he was
beset by debts,
So stately his
manner of behaving,
In
his bargaining, and money-lending.
Truly a worthy man
then, all in all,
But truth to tell, I
know not what he’s called.
A CLERK there was of
Who had set himself
to logic long ago.
Thinner was his
horse than many a rake,
And he was none too
fat, I’ll undertake,
But
gazed quite hollowly, and soberly.
His jacket
threadbare, where the eye could see;
For he had not yet
found a benefice,
Far
too unworldly ever to seek office.
He would rather have
at his bed-head
Twenty books, clad
in black or red,
Of Aristotle and his
philosophy,
Than rich robes, fiddle, and sweet psaltery.
But though he was a true philosopher
No stone for making
gold lay in his coffer!
But every single
penny his friends lent,
On books and on
learning it was spent,
And for the souls he
offered up a prayer,
Of those who funded
him to be a scholar.
Of study he took
most care, and most heed.
He spoke not one
word more than he need,
And that was formal,
said with reverence,
Short,
and quick, and in a noble sentence.
Agreeing with moral
virtue all his speech,
And gladly would he
learn, and gladly teach.
A SERGEANT
AT LAW, wise and cautious,
Often consulted at
Was
also there, rich in excellence.
Discreet he was, a
man for reverence –
Or so he seemed, his
words being so wise.
He had often been a
Justice at assize,
By
letters patent and by full commission.
By his science and
his high renown
Of fees and robes he
garnered many a one.
So great a buyer of
land was never known;
All was his in
fee-simple, in effect.
His purchases were
not the least suspect.
More business than
he had, no man has,
And yet he seemed
busier than he was.
He had correctly
cases, judgements, all
From
King William’s time in men’s recall.
Moreover he could
draw up anything,
That no man might
find fault with its drafting;
And every statute he
could cite by rote,
He rode along in a
simple striped coat,
Tied with a silken
belt, its clasps of metal;
Of his array I will
no further tell.
A
White was his beard
as is the daisy.
Of his complexion he
was sanguine;
He loved a sop in
wine each morning.
To live in delight
was ever his wont,
For he was Epicurus’
very son,
Who held the view
that perfect delight
Was the true felicity
outright.
A hospitable householder
was he
Saint Julian he was
to his county.
His bread and ale
always second to none;
And no better wine
than his was known.
His house was never
short of fish and flesh,
Of pastry dishes,
and all so plenteous
It snowed in his
house with meat and drink,
And all the dainties
of which men might think.
In accordance with
the seasons of the year,
So he changed his
dinner and his supper.
Full many a fat
partridge had he in coop,
And many a bream and
pike in the pool.
Woe to his cook
unless his sauces were
Pungent and tasty, and
every dish prepared!
His table fixed in
his hall stood always
Ready set with
covers, every day.
At court-sessions he
was lord and sire;
And oftentimes was
Member for the Shire.
A two-edged dagger
and a purse of silk
Hung
at his girdle, white as morning milk.
A Sheriff had he
been, and a lawyer;
Nowhere
lived so worthy a landowner.
A HABERDASHER, CARPENTER, a WEAVER
A DYER
too, and TAPESTRY-MAKER,
Were there all
clothed in the livery
Of
their imposing guild fraternity.
Full fresh and new
their costume was;
Their knives were
mounted not with brass
But all with silver,
wrought clean and well,
Their girdles and
their pouches as befell.
Each of them seemed
a splendid burgess
Fit to grace a
guildhall on a dais.
Each owning as much
wisdom as man can,
Was suitable to be
an alderman,
For they had
property enough and rent,
And wives too who
would give their assent.
They would be blamed
for sure were it not done;
It is a fine thing
to be called ‘Madame’,
And go to vigil
before the celebration,
With mantle royally
carried, on occasion.
A COOK they had with them I own
To boil the chickens
with the marrow-bones,
And pungent
flavouring, spices without fail.
Well could he
distinguish
He could roast and
seethe and boil and fry,
Make thick soup and
bake a tasty pie.
But a mortal pity,
it seemed to me,
That on his shin an
ulcerous sore had he.
Yet a fricassee, he made it with the best.
A SHIPMAN was there, from out the west;
A
He rode a hired
hack, as best he could,
In a woollen gown
that reached his knee,
A dagger hanging on
a cord had he,
About
his neck, under his arm, and down.
The summer heat had
tanned his visage brown.
And certainly he was
a splendid fellow;
Full many a draught
of wine he made flow
From
The nicer rules of
conscience did not keep:
If he fought, and
gained the upper hand,
He sent men home by
water to every land.
As for his skill in
calculating tides,
Currents, and every
other risk besides,
Harbours and moons,
on every voyage,
There was none such
from
Hardy he was, wise
in his undertakings,
In many a tempest
had his beard been shaken.
He knew all the
havens that there were
From
And every creek in
The barque he owned
was called the Magdalene.
With us there was a DOCTOR OF PHYSIC.
In all this world none ever saw his like
On points of physic
and of surgery,
For
he was grounded in astronomy.
He knew the best
hours for the sick,
By
the power of his natural magic.
And could select the
right ascendant
For
making talismans for his patient.
He knew the cause of
every malady,
Whether of hot or
cold, or moist and dry,
And where
engendered, of what humour;
He was a truly
perfect practitioner.
The cause known, and
of the ill its root,
He gave the sick man
remedy to suit.
To send him
medicines, his apothecaries
And potions too,
they were ever ready,
For each enhanced
the other’s profiting –
There needed no new friendship
there to win.
He was well-versed
in Aesculapius,
And Dioscorides and likewise Rufus,
Old Hippocrates, Hali and Galen,
Serapion, Rhazes and Avicen,
Averroes, Damascenus, Constantinus,
Bernard,
and Gaddesden, and Gilbertus.
In his diet quite
moderate was he,
For it avoided
superfluity,
But nourishing it
was, digestible.
He made little study
of the Bible.
In red and blue, and
colours of that ilk,
Lined with taffeta,
was clad, and silk.
And yet he was most
careful of expense;
He kept the money
won from pestilence.
For gold in physic
is a cordial;
Therefore he loved
gold above all.
A good
WIFE was there from next to
But pity was that
she was somewhat deaf.
In cloth-making she
was excellent,
Surpassing
those of
In all the parish there was no wife, so
Before her to the
Offertory might go –
And if they did,
indeed, so angry she
That she was quite
put out of charity.
Her kerchiefs were
finely wove I found;
I dare to swear
those weighed a good ten pounds,
That on a Sunday she
wore on her head.
Here hose were of a
fine scarlet red,
And tightly tied:
her shoes full soft and new.
Bold was her face,
and fair and red of hue.
Had been a worthy
woman all her life;
Husbands at the
church-door she had five,
Besides other
company in her youth –
No need to speak of
that just now, in truth.
And thrice had she
been to
She had crossed many
a foreign stream.
At
St James of Compostella, and
And she knew much of
wandering by the way,
Gap toothed was she,
truthfully to say.
At ease upon a
saddle-horse she sat,
Well wimpled, and on
her head a hat
As wide as a small
buckler or large shield,
Her large hips an
over-skirt concealed,
And on her feet a
pair of sharp spurs sat.
In fellowship she
loved to laugh and chat;
And remedies for
love she had, by chance,
For in that art she
knew the oldest dance.
A holy man there was of good renown,
Who was a poor PARSON
to a town,
But rich he was in
holy thought and works.
He also was a
learned man, a clerk,
That Christ’s gospel
earnestly would preach;
His parishioners
devoutly he would teach.
Benign he was and
wondrous diligent,
And in adversity
extremely patient,
And
proven to be such as many times.
He was loth to curse men over tithes,
But preferred to
give, without a doubt,
To the poor
parishioners round about,
From his own goods
and the offerings,
He found sufficiency
in little things.
Wide was his parish,
and houses far asunder,
But he neglected
naught, in rain or thunder,
In sickness or
affliction went to all
The farthest in his
parish, great or small,
Upon
his feet, and in his hand a stave.
This fine example to
his flock he gave,
That first he
wrought, and afterward he taught.
Out of the gospel he
those words had caught;
And this maxim he
would add thereto,
That if gold rust,
what should iron do?
For if the priest be
foul in whom we trust,
No wonder if the
layman turn to rust!
And shame it is, and
let priests note, to see
The shepherd doused
in shit, the sheep still clean.
The true example the
priest ought to give
Is by his cleanness
how the sheep should live.
He did not set his
benefice to hire
And leave his sheep
encumbered in the mire,
Running off to
To work a wealthy
chantry for dead souls,
Or in guild
brotherhood remain enrolled
But dwelt at home
and cared well for his fold,
So that no wolf
should make his task miscarry.
He was a shepherd not
a mercenary.
And though he was
holy and virtuous,
He did not scorn the
sinful, nor because
Of it in speech was
proud or over-fine,
But in his teaching
was discreet, benign;
To draw folk towards
heaven by gentleness,
By good example –
such was his business.
But if anyone proved
obstinate,
Whoever he was, of
high or low estate,
He would rebuke him
sharply, him to punish.
A better priest I
think there nowhere none is.
He never looked for
pomp or reverence,
Nor showed a too
fastidious conscience,
But Christ’s lore,
and his Apostles’ twelve,
He taught, but first
he followed it himself.
With him there was a PLOUGHMAN,
was his brother,
Many a load of dung,
one time or other,
He had carted, a
good true worker he,
Living
in peace and perfect charity.
God loved he best
with all his whole heart
At all times,
whether with delight or smart,
Then his neighbour
loved he as himself.
He would thresh the
corn, and dig and delve,
For Christ’s sake, grant
the poor their hour,
Without reward, if
it lay in his power.
His tithes he paid
in full, fair and well,
Both
of his labour and his capital.
In a loose tunic he
rode on a mare.
There was a REEVE also and a MILLER,
A SUMMONER
and a PARDONER as well,
A
college MANCIPLE, and then myself.
The MILLER
was a strong man I own;
A
stout fellow, big in brawn and bone.
It served him well,
for, everywhere, the man,
At
wrestling, always looked to win the ram.
Broad, thick-set,
short in the upper arm,
Off its hinges, he lifted
any door,
Or ran at it and
broke it with his head.
His beard, as any
sow or fox, was red,
And
broad as well, as if it were a spade.
On the tip of his
nose he displayed
A wart, and on it
stood a tuft of hair,
Red
as the bristles in a sow’s ear.
His nostrils were as
black as they were wide;
A sword and buckler
he wore at his side.
His mouth as great
was as a great furnace.
He was a loudmouth
and to his disgrace
Told stories most of
sin and harlotry.
He stole corn, and
made one toll pay three;
Yet had the golden
thumb, a mystery!
A white coat and a
blue hood wore he;
The bagpipes he
could blow well and sound,
And that was how he
piped us out of town.
The MANCIPLE was of the
All purchasers might
follow his example
Of wisdom in the
buying of victuals;
For whether he paid
cash or owed it all
He was so careful
always in his purchase,
That he was all
prepared and acted first.
Now is it not a
wonder of God’s grace
That a man so
illiterate can outpace
The
wisdom of a host of learned men?
Of masters he had more
than thrice ten,
Expert in the law and
meritorious,
Of whom there were a
dozen in that house
Worthy to be
stewards of rent and land
For any lord who
lives in
And show him the
income to be had
Debt-free, from his
estates, less he were mad,
Or be as frugal as he
should desire;
And they were able
to assist a shire
In any case that chanced
to arise –
And yet this Manciple outdid the wise.
The REEVE was a slender, choleric man.
His beard was shaved
as close as any can;
His hair by his ears
was fully shorn;
The top was cropped
like a priest before.
His legs were long,
and very lean,
Like sticks they
were – no calves to be seen.
He kept a tidy
granary and bin;
No auditor could get
the best of him.
Well could he judge
from drought or rain
The
yield of his seed and of his grain.
His lord’s sheep,
beef-cattle, and his dairy,
His swine, his
horses, stock and poultry,
Was wholly in this
Reeve’s governance
And he made
reckoning by covenant,
Since his lord had
only twenty years;
No man could find
him ever in arrears.
No bailiff, cowherd,
servant of any kind
But their deceits
and tricks were in his mind;
They feared him like
the plague, is my belief.
He had a pleasant
dwelling on a heath,
With green trees
shadowed was the sward.
He could purchase
better than his lord;
He had riches of his
own privately.
He could please his
lord subtly,
Giving and lending
of his own goods,
And earn his thank
you and a coat and hood.
In youth he had a
good and learned master;
He was a fine
craftsman, a carpenter.
This Reeve sat on a
farm-horse that was
All dappled grey and
bore the name of Scot.
A long bluish
top-coat he displayed,
And by his side he
bore a rusty blade.
Of
Near a town that men
call Bawdeswell.
His gown was tucked
up like a friar’s about,
And he always rode
the hindmost on the route.
A SUMMONER was with us in that place,
Who had a fiery-red
cherubim’s face,
Carbuncled so, and
his eyes were narrow.
He was hot and lecherous
as a sparrow,
With scabby black
brows and scrubby beard;
Of his visage
children were a-feared.
No quicksilver, lead
salve, or brimstone,
Borax, ceruse, or
oil of tartar known,
No ointment that
would cleanse and bite,
Could cure him of
his pimples white,
Or
of the lumps rising from his cheeks.
Well loved he
garlic, onions, and leeks,
And to drink strong
wine, as red as blood;
Making him speak,
and cry, as madman would.
And when he had
drunk, and the wine was in,
Then he would speak
no word but Latin.
A few tags he had,
some two or three,
That he had learned
out of some decree –
No wonder, since he
heard them every day.
And you well know
moreover how a jay
Can say ‘Walter’
better than the Pope –
But try any other
matter’s scope,
Then had he spent
all his philosophy;
Ay ‘Questio quid iuris’
was his plea.
He was a noble rogue
and a kind;
A better fellow no
man could find.
He would allow, for
a quart of wine,
A good friend to
keep a concubine
A twelvemonth and
excuse him fully;
And he could pluck a
fool privately.
And if he made a
good friend anywhere,
He would teach him
not to have a care
In such a case of
the Archdeacon’s curse,
Unless a man’s soul
lay in his purse,
For in his purse he
should punished be.
‘The purse is the
Archdeacon’s hell,’ said he.
But well I know he
lied in what he said;
For his curse each
guilty man should dread,
Since absolution
saves, but slays that writ,
And so ware of that
word Significavit.
He had in his power
as he pleased
All the young folk
of the diocese,
Knew their secrets, they
by him were led.
A garland had he set
upon his head,
Big as an inn-sign’s
holly on a stake;
A buckler he had
made him of a cake.
With him there rode a noble PARDONER
Of
Returned
directly from the Court of Rome.
He sang out loud:
‘Come hither, love, to me!’
The Summoner sang a powerful bass around;
Never a trumpet of half so great a sound.
The Pardoner had hair as yellow as wax,
But smooth it hung like a hank of flax.
In clusters hung the locks he possessed,
With which his shoulders he overspread;
But thin they fell, in strands, one by one.
But hood, to adorn them, he wore none,
For it was trussed up in his wallet –
He thought he rode fashionably set;
Dishevelled, save his cap, he rode all bare.
Such bulging eyeballs had he as a hare.
A pilgrim badge had he sewn on his cap;
His wallet lay before him in his lap,
Brimful of pardons, come from
A voice he had as small as has a goat;
No beard had he, nor ever looked to have;
As smooth it were as it were lately shaved –
I judge he was a gelding or a mare.
But of his craft, from Berwick unto Ware,
Never was such another Pardoner.
And in his bag a pillow-case was there,
Which he claimed was Our Lady’s veil;
He said he had a fragment of the sail
That Saint Peter used, when he skimmed
Upon the sea till Jesus summoned him.
He had a cross of
brass set with stones,
And in a glass, he
had pigs’ bones.
And with these
relics, when he had to hand
Some poor parson
living on the land,
In one day he
gathered in more money
Than
the parson in a month of Sundays.
And thus with
feigned flattery, his japes
Made
people and the parson his apes.
But to tell true
from first to last,
He was in church a
noble ecclesiast.
He read a lesson
well or a story,
But best of all he
sang an Offertory.
For well he knew,
when that song was sung,
He must preach and
well tune his tongue
To win silver, as he
well knew how;
Therefore he sang more
sweetly and loud.
Now I have told you in a brief clause,
The array,
condition, number and the cause
Whereby assembled
was this company,
In Southwark at that
noble hostelry
Called
The Tabard, fast by The Bell.
But now the time has
come for me to tell
How we behaved on
that same night,
At that hostelry
where we did alight;
And after will I
tell, at every stage,
All
the remainder of our pilgrimage.
But first I pray you
of your courtesy,
Not to consider me
unmannerly
If I speak plainly
in this matter,
In telling you their
words hereafter,
Though I speak their
words literally;
For this you know as
well as me,
Whoso tells the tale
of another man
Must repeat as
closely as he can
Every word, if it be
in his power,
However coarse or
broad his dower
Of words, or else
his tale will be untrue,
Or feign things,
inventing words anew.
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