Geoffrey Chaucer
The Legend
of Good Women
Translated by A. S. Kline © 2008 All Rights Reserved
This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose.
Contents
The
Legend of Hypsipyle and Medea
A thousand times have I heard men tell
That there is joy in Heaven and pain in Hell,
And I do agree that it is so;
But nonetheless I well know also
That there is none dwelling in this country
That to Heaven or Hell has made journey,
Nor in any other way has knowledge of them,
Except as he’s heard told or found it written,
For by experience none may doubts relieve.
But God forbid that men should believe
No more than man can see with his eye!
Men should not deem everything a lie
They cannot see themselves, or else do;
For, God knows, a thing is no less true,
Though everyone may not that thing see.
Bernard the monk saw not all, indeed!
Then must we to the books that we find,
By which ancient things are kept in mind,
And to the doctrines of the old and wise
Give credence, in every subtle guise,
Which tell us the old well-proven stories
Of holiness, of kingdoms, victories,
Of love, of hate, of other sundry things,
Which I must spend no time rehearsing.
And if the old books were flown away,
Of remembrance would be lost the way.
We should then truly honour and believe
Those books, when all else may deceive.
And as for me, though my learning’s slight,
In books for to read is my delight,
And to them I give faith and full credence,
And in my heart hold them in reverence
So heartily that pleasure is there none
That from my books would see me gone,
Unless quite seldom, on a holiday,
Save, certainly, when the month of May
Is come, and I hear the birds all sing,
And the flowers all begin to spring,
Farewell my book and my devotion!
And then am I in such condition
That, of all the flowers in the mead,
Love I most the white and red I see,
Such as men call daisies in our town.
For them I have so great an affection,
As I have said, at the start of May,
That in my bed there dawns no day
When I’m not up and walking in the mead
To see this flower to the sun freed,
When it rises early on the morrow;
That blissful sight softens all my sorrow,
So glad am I when I am in its presence
To show it all and every reverence,
As she that is the flower of all flowers,
Whom every virtue and honour dowers,
And ever alike fair and fresh of hue,
And I love it, and ever the love renew,
And ever shall until my heart shall die;
Though I swear not, and this I tell’s no lie,
No creature loved hotter in his life.
And when it is eve, I swiftly hie,
As soon as ever sun sinks in the west
To see this flower, how she does sink to rest
For fear of night, she so hates the darkness.
Her face is wholly open to the brightness
Of the sun, for there it does unclose.
Alas, that I lack English rhyme or prose,
Sufficiently to praise this flower aright!
But help me, you of knowledge and of might,
You lovers, who can write of sentiment;
In this cause ought you to be diligent
To further me somewhat in my labour,
Whether your party is the leaf or flower.
For I well know, you oft before have borne
Poetry’s crop away, and stored the corn,
And I come after, gleaning here and here,
And am full glad if I can find an ear
Of any goodly word that you have left.
And though it may be I rehearse, bereft,
What you in your fresh songs did plead,
Be patient with me, and be not displeased,
Since you see I do it all in honour
Of love, and in the service of the flower
Whom I serve with all my wit and might.
She is the brightest and the one true light
That through this dark world my way has lead:
‘The heart within my sad breast owns to dread,
Of you, and loves so sore, that you, I sigh,
Are truly mistress of my wit not I.
My word, my work, so knit you understand
That, as a harp’s obedient to the hand
That makes it sound after its fingering,
Right so do you out of my heart bring
Such voice as you wish, to laugh or plain.
Be you my guide and lady sovereign;
As to my earthly god, to you I call
Both in this work and in my sorrows all.’
But why I spoke was, to give credence
To old stories, and show them reverence,
And say that men must more things believe
Than they may prove, or with their eyes see –
That shall I speak of when I see my time;
I can’t say everything at once in rhyme.
My restless spirit that ever thirsts anew
To see this flower so young, so fresh of hue,
Constrained me with so fiery a desire,
That in my heart I yet do feel the fire,
Which made me rise before it was day –
And this was now the first morn of May –
With fearful heart and glad devotion,
So as to be at the resurrection
Of that flower when it should unclose
Against the sun, that rose as red as rose,
That in the breast was of the Bull that day
Whom Agenor’s daughter led away.
And down on my knees I fell to meet,
And as I might, this fresh flower greet;
Kneeling always till unclosed it was
Upon the small, soft, sweet grass
That with sweet flowers was embroidered all,
Of such sweetness and fragrance overall
That in respect of gum, or herb, or tree,
Comparison shall not be made by me,
For it surpasses plainly all odours,
And in its rich beauty all flowers.
The Earth had forgot its poor condition
Of winter, that left it naked, beaten,
And with its sword of cold so sore grieved;
Now the temperate sun had all relieved
That naked was, and clad it new again.
The small birds, free of wintry pain,
Who did the hunter and the net evade,
Of the fowler, who attack had made
In winter and had destroyed their brood,
Thought, to spite him, it did them good
To sing, and in their song of him despise
The foul churl who had in greedy wise
Betrayed them all with his sophistry.
This was their song – ‘The fowler defy we,
And all his craft!’ And some sang loud and clear
Lays of love, that joy it was to hear,
In worship and praise of their mates there,
And in new blissful summer’s honour,
Upon the branches full of blossom soft,
In their delight, they turned about full oft,
And sang: ‘Blessed be Saint Valentine,
For on his day I choose you to be mine,
Without regret, oh my heart sweet!’
And therewithal their beaks did meet,
Bestowing honour, humble obedience
To love, and all other due observance
That belongs to love and to nature;
Construe that as you wish, I do not care.
And those that had committed unkindness –
As some birds do, from faithlessness –
Besought mercy for their trespass,
And humbly sang repentance at the last,
And swore on the blossom to be true,
So their mates would pity them too,
And in the end make peace and accord.
Though they found Pride for a time their lord,
Yet Pity, through his strong noble might,
Forgave, and made Mercy temper Right,
Through innocence, and so reigned Courtesy.
But I don’t equate innocence to folly,
Nor false pity, for virtue is the mean,
As Ethics says, such the manner I mean.
And thus these birds, free of all malice,
Agreed to love, rejecting the vice
Of hatred, and sang of one accord,
‘Welcome, summer, our governor and lord!’
And Zephyrus and Flora gently
Gave to the flowers, soft and tenderly,
Sweet breath, opening their leaves indeed,
As god and goddess of the flowery mead;
In which I thought I might, day by day,
Ever dwell, in the jolly month of May,
Without sleep, without meat or drink.
Down full softly I began to sink;
And leaning on my elbow and my side,
There the long day planned I to abide,
For no reason else, no lie you see,
Than there to look upon the daisy,
That for good reason men do name
The ‘day’s-eye’ or else the ‘eye of day,’
The Empress, and flower of flowers all.
I pray to God good may her befall,
And all that love flowers, for her sake!
Yet nonetheless think not that I make,
In praising the flower above the leaf,
More than is the corn above the sheaf,
For one’s no worse or better than the other;
I am no partisan now of either.
Nor know I who serves the leaf or flower;
May they enjoy their service and labour,
For this is all drink from another tun,
From an old story, ere such was begun.
When the sun sank towards the west,
And this flower closed and drooped to rest
Through the darkness of night, which is dread,
Home to my house full swiftly I sped,
To take my rest, and early then to rise,
To see this flower open, as I devise.
And in a small garden I have made,
That benched was with turf freshly laid,
I bade men swiftly my couch to make;
For honour and the new summer’s sake,
I bade them strew flowers on my bed.
When I’d closed my eyes, laid down my head,
I fell asleep within an hour or so;
I dreamed how I lay in the meadow,
This flower, I love and dread to see.
And from afar came walking in the mead
The god of Love and on his arm a queen,
And she was clad in royal habit green.
A net of gold she wore upon her hair,
And on that a white crown did she bear
With small flowers, no lies hear from me,
For all the world, just as a daisy
Is crowned with white petals light,
So were the flowers of her crown white;
For of one fine pearl oriental,
Her white crown was fashioned all,
So that the white crown above the green
Made her like a daisy in that scene,
Considering also her gold net above.
And clothed was the mighty god of Love
In silk, embroidered full of green sheaves,
Twined with a design of red rose-leaves,
The freshest since the world was first begun.
His golden hair was crowned with a sun,
Instead of gold, to make the burden light;
And his face therewith shone so bright
That scarcely could I the god behold,
And in his hands I thought he did hold
Two fiery darts glowing like embers red,
And angel-like his wings I saw spread.
And although men say that blind is he,
Nonetheless I thought that he could see,
For sternly his gaze on me he did hold
So that his look made my heart turn cold.
And by the hand he took this noble queen,
Crowned with white and clothed all in green,
So womanly, so gracious, and so meek,
That through this world, though men might seek
Half her beauty, it should no man find
In any creature formed after our kind.
And therefore I write, as it comes to me,
This song in praise of the noble lady.
Ballade
Hide, Absolom, your gold tresses clear,
Esther, lay you your meekness all a-down;
Hide, Jonathan, all your friendly manner;
Penelope, Cato’s Marcia, be one,
Make of your wifehood no comparison;
Hide you Iseult, Helen, your beauty’s bane,
My lady comes, that all these may disdain.
Your fair body; let it not appear,
Lavinia; nor Lucretia the Roman,
Polyxena, who paid for love so dear,
Nor Cleopatra, with all your passion,
Hide you your truth in love, your reputation;
And you Thisbe, who had of love such pain;
My lady comes, that all these may disdain.
Hero, Dido, Laodamia here,
And Phyllis, hanging for your Demophon,
And Canace, whose face alone brings cheer,
Hypsipyle betrayed so by Jason,
Make of your truth no boast nor oration;
Nor Hypermnestra, nor Ariadne, twain;
My lady comes, that all these may disdain.
This ballade may well be sung, you see,
As I have said before, to my lady free,
For certainly all those would not suffice
To equal my lady in any wise.
For as the sun will the fire make thin,
So surpasses all my lady sovereign,
Who is so good, so fair, so debonair;
I pray God all that befalls her is fair!
Had I known not the comfort of her presence,
I’d have been dead, without defence,
Of Love’s words and look, from very fear;
As, in time, hereafter you shall hear.
Behind this god of Love, upon the green,
I saw advancing ladies nineteen
In royal habit, at full easy pace;
And after them of women such a race,
That since God made Adam out of earth,
A third of them, from mankind, or a fourth,
I thought it beyond possibility,
In this wide world could created be,
And true in love the women were each one.
Now was this a wonder or was it none,
That right anon as soon as they did espy
This flower that I call the day’s eye,
Suddenly they halted all as one,
And knelt, as it were upon occasion,
And sang with one voice, ‘Hail and honour
To truth of womanhood and this flower
That symbolizes all our honour thus!
Her white crown bears witness to us!’
And at that word, in a circle round,
They seated themselves full softly down.
First sat the god of Love, and then the queen
With the white crown, clad all in green;
And then all the rest, by their degree,
According to their rank, full courteously;
And not a word was spoken in the place
For the time it takes a furlong to pace.
I, kneeling by this flower, with good intent
Waited to know what all this meant,
As still as any stone, till at the last,
The god of Love on me his eye did cast
And said, ‘Who kneels here?’ and I answered
As he did request, when I him heard
And said: ‘Sire, it is I,’ and came near,
Saluting him. Quoth he, ‘Why are you here
So near my own flower, and so boldly?
It would be more fitting, truly,
For a worm to approach my flower than you.’
‘And why so, Sire,’ quoth I, ‘so please you?’
‘Because,’ quoth he, ‘you are unsuitable.
She’s precious to me, worthy and delightful,
And you’re my foe, and my folk make war on,
And slander my old servants every one
And harm them with your translation
And hinder folk in their devotion
To me, and you claim that it is folly
To serve Love. You cannot deny it,
For in plain text, without the need of notes,
You translated the Romance of the Rose,
Which is a heresy against my law
And makes wise folk from me withdraw.
And Cressida you wilfully discussed,
Making men in women lose their trust,
Who have been true as ever any steel.
Frame me your answer carefully indeed;
For, though you have renounced my law, I say,
As other wretches have done many a day,
By Saint Venus, who my mother is,
If you live, you shall repent all this
So bitterly, it shall be clearly seen!’
Then spoke the lady clothed all in green
Saying: ‘By God, now, out of courtesy,
You must listen, if answer yet has he
To all this of which you him accuse.
A god should not resentfully abuse,
But of his deity he should be careful
And thereto gracious and merciful.
And were you not a god that knows all,
Then it might be I could tell you more:
He may have been falsely accused,
Such that by rights he should be excused,
For in your court is many a flatterer,
And many a cunning tattling slanderer,
Who many a sound in your ear will drum
Arising solely from imagination
To claim your intimacy, and from envy;
These are the reasons, no lies you’ll see.
Envy is washer of dirty linen always,
For she is never missing night or day
From the house of Caesar, so says Dante,
Whoever is absent it will not be she.
And then perhaps, since this man is foolish,
He may have done the thing without malice,
And, accustomed his written works to make,
He cares not what matter for them he take;
Or he was bade to make those poems two
By some person, and felt bound so to do,
And perhaps he repents utterly of this.
He has not gone so grievously amiss
In translating what old clerk’s have writ,
As if he’d maliciously invented it,
In scorn of Love, and himself it wrought.
This a just lord should have in his thought,
And not be
like the tyrants of
That have their riches all by tyranny.
For king or lord whose right is natural,
Should not play the tyrant or be cruel:
Like a tax collector, do what harm he can.
He must consider this is his liege man
And his own treasure, and his gold in coffer.
This is the judgement of the Philosopher:
A king to rule his liegemen with justice;
Without doubt that his true office.
Though he’ll defend his lords high degree,
As it is right and reasonable they be
Enhanced and honoured and most dear –
For they are demigods in this world here –
Yet he must do right to both poor and rich,
Although their state is not alike as such,
And show to poor folk his compassion,
For see the noble nature of the lion:
If a fly should offend him or bite,
He with his tail away the fly will smite
Quite gently, for being noble, ay,
He will not deign to move against a fly
As does a mongrel dog or other creature.
Noble spirits should restrain their nature,
And weigh everything with equity,
And ever have regard for high degree.
For, sire, it is no triumph for a lord
To condemn a man without a word,
And, for a lord, not the path to use.
And if so be the man has no excuse,
Yet asks for mercy with a fearful spirit,
And offers up himself, just in his shirt,
To submit himself to your sole judgement,
Then a god ought with swift discernment
To think of his own honour, and the crime.
For since it’s no mortal matter, at this time
You ought to be more kind and merciful;
Lay aside your wrath, and be reasonable.
The man has served according to his learning,
And furthered well your law in his writing.
Though he can poorly perhaps indite,
Yet has he made unlearned folk delight
In serving you, by praising your name.
He made the book that’s called the House of Fame,
And the Death too of Blanche the Duchess,
And the Parliament of Fowls as I guess
And all the love of Palamon and Arcites
Of
And many a hymn for your holidays,
Known as ballades, roundels, virelays;
And, to speak of other holiness, he has
Translated into prose Boethius,
And wrote a life too of Saint Cecilia;
And long ago, translated another,
Origen upon Mary Magdalen;
He ought now to suffer less pain;
He has made many a lay, many a thing.
Now as you are a god and a king,
I, your Alceste, once the queen of
I ask for this man now, of your grace,
That throughout his life you harm him not,
And he will swear to you, swift as thought,
And further you as much as he misled there,
In both the Rose and in Cressida.’
The god of Love answered her thus anon,
‘Madame,’ quoth he, ‘lengths of time now gone
Have shown you to be charitable and true,
So that never since the world was new
Has any seemed better than you to me.
If now I’d honour my high degree,
I cannot nor will not scorn your plea;
All lies with you: do with him as you please.
I forgive everything without demur;
For he who gives a gift or does a favour
In timely fashion wins thanks all the more;
So you decide what he must do, therefore.
Go, thank now my lady here,’ quoth he.
I rose, then, down I fell upon my knee,
And said thus: ‘Madame, may the god above
Reward you now, since you the god of Love
Have made his wrath towards me forgive,
And given me, with grace, so long to live
That I may learn truly who you might be
Who gift me this honour, and help me,
But truly I did not think, in this case,
I was wrong and against love did trespass.
Since a true man should not share, indeed,
In the blame attached to a thief’s deed;
Nor should I earn a true lover’s blame
Because I spoke a false lover’s shame.
They ought my cause rather to uphold
In that of Cressida I wrote and told,
And the Rose. Whatever the author meant,
It was, God knows, despite it, my intent
To further truth in love, and such cherish;
And to warn men of falseness and of vice
By such examples, that was all my meaning.
And she answered: ‘Cease your arguing,
For Love will in no way contradicted be
Whether right or wrong, learn that from me!
You have your favour, hold you then thereto.
And I shall say what penance you must do
For your trespass. Understand me here:
As long as you live, throughout the year,
You shall the greater part of your time spend
In composing of tales of glorious legend,
Of those good women, maidens and wives,
Who were true and loving all their lives,
While telling of false men who did betray,
Them, and in their lives did make assay
Of how many women they might shame,
For in your world such is thought a game.
And though no lover you yet choose to be,
Speak well of love; this penance do for me.
And to the god of Love I shall then pray
That he charge all his servants, in every way
To further you and your labour requite.
Go now your ways, the penance is but slight.
And when the book’s done, give it to the queen,
On my behalf, at Eltham or at Sheen.’
The god of Love did smile, and then he said:
‘Know you,’ quoth he, ‘if she be wife or maid,
Queen, or countess, or other degree
She who such slight penance serves on thee,
Who deserved to feel a greater smart?
But pity flows swifter in noble heart;
As you may see. She knows what she is.’
And I said: ‘Nay, sire, as I may have bliss,
No more than that I see she is right good.’
‘That is true indeed, by my own selfhood,’
Quoth Love, ‘you have knowledge, I see,
If that is what you think, but now tell me,
Have you not read in a book, in your chest,
Of the great goodness of queen Alceste,
Who became the daisy, the day’s eye;
She that for her husband chose to die,
And thus to go to Hell rather than he,
She who was rescued then by Hercules,
Who brought her out of Hell again to bliss?’
And I answered again, and said: ‘Yes,
Now I know her! And is this good Alceste,
The day’s-eye, and my own heart’s true rest?
Now I feel the goodness of this fair wife,
Who both after her death and in her life
Doubled by her bounty her reputation.
Well she repays me for the great affection
I show towards her flower, the day’s-eye.
It is no wonder Jove did her stellify,
As Agatho tells us, for her goodness.
Her white crown to that bears witness,
For as many virtues as had she
As many small flowers in her crown be.
In remembrance of her and in honour,
Cybele made the daisy, and the flower
She crowned all with white, as men may see,
And Mars tipped it with red, indeed,
Instead of rubies, set amongst the white.’
At this the queen with modesty blushed bright
With being praised so in her presence.
Then said Love, ‘Great negligence I see
In you, that at the time you created
‘Hide, Absolom, your tresses,’ as a ballade,
You forgot her in your song to set,
Since you are so greatly in her debt,
And well know what a paragon is she
To any woman who will lover be,
For she taught the art of noble loving,
And of wifehood the proper meaning,
And the bounds that we should keep;
Your little wit was at that time asleep.
But now I charge you upon your life,
That in the legend you tell of this wife,
When you have writ of lesser ones before,
And now fare you well, I’ll ask no more.
But ere I go, this much I will you tell,
No true lover shall come unto Hell.
These other ladies sitting in a row
Are in your ballade, as you may know,
And in your books all of them you’ll find.
In your writings, keep them all in mind,
I mean those who are in your knowing.
For here are twenty thousand more sitting
Than you recognise, good women all
And true in love whatever might befall;
Make verses on them all as you think best.
I must away, the sun draws to the west,
To
And evermore serving the fresh daisy.
With Cleopatra, I’d have you begin,
And so forth, and my love shall you so win,
For where’s the man in love, whoever he be,
Who’d suffer as much pain for love as she.
I know you cannot tell it all in rhyme,
All that such lovers did in their time;
It would take too long to read and hear.
It suffices me though if, in this manner,
Their lives you write the greater part of,
Following what the old authors treat of.
For whosoever many a story tells,
Must speak briefly, or too long he dwells.’
And with those words my books I did take
And right thus the legend did I make.
Here begins the Legend of Cleopatra, Martyr,
Queen of
After the death of Ptolemy the king,
Who of all
There reigned his queen, Cleopatra;
Until it occurred, some brief time after,
That out of
To conquer kingdoms and win honour
For the town of
And make all the world obedient to them,
And, truth to tell, Antonius was his name.
So it befell, Fortune brought him shame:
When he fell in with prosperity,
Rebel unto the town of
And with all this the sister of Caesar,
He left her falsely ere she was aware
And would take himself another wife,
So that he made with
Nonetheless in truth this same senator
Was a full worthy noble warrior,
And from his death arose great damage,
Yet love had brought the man to such a rage
And he so tightly bound in the snare
All for the love of Cleopatra there,
That all the world he deemed of no value.
It seemed to him nothing less was due
To Cleopatra than to love and serve.
He cared not if he died in war for her,
In defence of her, and of her right.
The noble queen too so loved this knight,
For his merit and his chivalry.
And unless the books lie, certainly,
He was in person, and in nobleness
And in discretion and in hardiness,
As worthy as any man that lives today.
And she was fair as is the rose in May.
And since to write most briefly is the best,
She wedded him, and had him as she wished.
The wedding and the feast to devise,
For me, who undertake this enterprise,
And who so many stories must now make,
Would be too long indeed, lest I mistake
And fail in things of more weight and charge,
For men may overload a ship or barge;
And therefore to the main point I will skip,
And all the rest of it I shall let slip.
Octavian, enraged by this deed,
A host against
All utterly aimed at his destruction,
Of stout Romans, each cruel as a lion;
To ship they went, and so I’ll let them sail.
Antonius was aware, and would not fail
To meet with these Romans if he may;
He took counsel, and upon a day,
His wife and he and all his host forth went
To ship anon, all swift was their intent;
And on the sea they there chanced to meet –
High sounds the trumpet – and to shout, and beat
To arms, attacking with the sun.
With grisly sound out booms the mighty gun,
And fiercely they hurtle down at once,
And from the tops they fling great stones.
In goes the grapnel, so filled with crooks;
Among the ropes run the shearing-hooks.
In with the poleaxe presses he and he;
Behind the mast one begins to flee,
And out again, is driven overboard;
One with his own spear himself has gored;
One rends the sail with hooks like a scythe;
One brings a cup, and bids them all be blithe;
One pours dry peas, so on the deck all slither;
With pots of quicklime they clash together;
And thus the long day in fight they spend
Till, at the last, as everything has end,
And all his folk flee, as best they might.
The queen flees too, with all her purple sail;
From the blows that fell as thick as hail,
It was no wonder she could not endure.
When
‘Alas,’ quoth he, ‘the day that I was born!
My honour this day is lost and gone.’
And, in despair, from his wits did depart,
And stabbed himself at once through the heart,
Before he sailed further from that place.
His wife, who could from Caesar win no grace,
To
But hearken all you who speak of kindness,
You men, who falsely swear many an oath
That you will die if your love shows wrath,
Here may you see in women such truth.
The woeful Cleopatra felt such ruth
That there is no tongue that may it tell.
But in the morn, she would not be still,
Until her clever craftsmen built a shrine
With all the rubies and the gemstones fine
Out of all
And filled the shrine all full with spice,
And had the body embalmed, and fetched up
The corpse into the shrine, which she shut.
And next the shrine she had dug a grave,
And all the serpents she could, displayed
And put them in that grave, and then she said:
‘Now, love, whom my sorrowful heart obeyed
So utterly that from that blissful hour
In which to be all freely yours I swore –
I mean you, Antonius, my knight –
Never, waking, in the day or night,
Were you out of my heart’s remembrance
For weal or woe, for carol or for dance;
And with myself this covenant I made so,
That, such as you suffered, weal or woe,
Insofar as in my power it lay,
Irreproachable my wifehood, always,
The same would I suffer, life or death.
And that covenant while lasts my breath
I will fulfil, it will be clearly seen,
Was never to her lover a truer queen.’
And with those words, with firm heart, naked,
Among the serpents into the pit she leapt,
And there she chose to make her ending.
Anon the vipers her began to sting,
And she her death received, with good cheer,
For love of
And this is history, it is no fable.
Now, where to find a man as reliable,
Who will for love his death so freely take,
I pray God may never our heads so ache!
Amen.
Here ends the legend of Cleopatra, martyr.
Here begins the Legend of Thisbe of
Once in
That town which queen Semiramis
Had ditched all about, and walls did make
Full high, of bricks they did hard-bake.
There were dwelling in this noble town
Two lords, who were of great renown,
And lived so nigh each other, on a green,
That there was but a stone wall between,
As often in great towns is the custom.
And truth to tell, one man had a son,
In all that land one of the liveliest.
The other had a daughter, she the fairest,
That eastward in the world was then dwelling.
The name of each to the other did bring
Women who were neighbours thereabout.
For in that country still, without a doubt,
Maidens were kept guarded jealously
And narrowly, in case they did some folly.
The young man was named Pyramus,
Thisbe was the maid, Ovid says thus;
And in gossip they went hand in glove,
So that as they grew so did their love;
And truly, by reason of their age,
Might have been joined as one in marriage
Except their fathers would not give assent,
And so alike in love was their intent
That none of all their friends could yet,
Prevent it, but oft secretly they met
By cunning, and spoke of their desire;
For veil the coals yet hotter is the fire,
Forbid a love, and it is ten times greater.
The wall which was between them there
Was split apart, from the top right down,
From the moment it first graced the town,
Yet this cleft so narrow was and slight,
It could not be seen in broad daylight.
But what is there love cannot espy?
These two lovers, for I tell no lie,
First finding this little narrow cleft,
With voices low like one who does confess,
Sent their words through the cleft apace,
And told, as they stood there in that place,
All their tale of love and all their woe
Whenever they both dared to do so.
Upon the one side of the wall stood he,
And on the other side there stood Thisbe,
The sweet voice of each other to receive,
And thus their guardians would they deceive.
And every day this wall they would threaten
And wish to God that it were down-beaten,
Thus would they say: ‘Alas, you wicked wall,
Through envy you hinder us in all!
Why won’t you break or fall all in two?
Or at the least, if you cannot, if you
Would but the once only let us meet,
Or once only exchange kisses sweet,
Then we’d recover from our cares cold.
Yet nonetheless we obligation hold,
Inasmuch as you suffer us to moan
Our words through all your lime and stone.
And so with you we should be pleased.’
And when these words of theirs had ceased
They would kiss the cold wall of stone
And take their leave, and forth would go,
And this was gladly in the eventide,
Or wondrous earl, lest men them espied;
A length of time they spent in this manner
Till on a day when Phoebus rose full clear –
Had dried the dew from the grasses sweet –
Unto this cleft, where they were wont to be,
Came Pyramus, and after him Thisbe
And made a promise, by their faith I say,
That very night they would steal away
Beguiling their guardians every one,
And forth from the city would be gone;
And as the fields were so broad and wide,
To meet at a sure place and time beside,
And they set their meeting place to be
At King Ninus’ grave beneath a tree,
Since pagans who idols’ favours curried,
Were then usually in meadows buried,
And fast by this grave there was a well.
And briefly this tale for to tell,
The covenant was made wondrous swiftly,
And the time the sun spent seemed lengthy
Before beneath the ocean it sank down.
This Thisbe had such great affection
And such desire Pyramus to see
That, when she saw her moment, she
At night stole away full secretly
With her face all veiled subtly;
For all her friends, to keep her vow –
She had forsaken. Alas, what pity now,
That ever a woman should be so true
As trust in a man she thought she knew!
And to the tree swiftly she went apace,
For love made her fearless in this place,
And by the well she sat her down to rest.
Alas, then came a wild lioness
Out of the wood, without delay,
Blood-stained from some beast it did slay,
To drink at the well there as she sat;
And so when Thisbe realised that
She rose up with a full fearful heart,
And to a cave, with frightened foot, did dart,
For by the moon she saw it well withal.
And as she ran her veil she let fall
But took no heed, so terrified was she,
And glad it had been possible to flee;
And thus she sat in darkness wondrous still.
When the lioness had drunk her fill,
Around the well she began to wind,
And suddenly the veil did she find,
And with her blood-stained mouth it rent.
When this was done, away she went
And took to the woods to reach her lair.
And at the last Pyramus came there,
But all too long at home had stayed he.
The moon shone, men could clearly see;
And on the way as he travelled fast
His eyes on the ground a-down he cast,
And in the sand that he was gazing on
He saw the broad footprints of a lion,
And in his heart he shuddered so,
And grew pale, and fearful, his hair rose,
And coming near he found the veil all torn.
‘Alas,’ quoth he, ‘that ever I was born!
This one night two lovers’ deaths will see!
How shall I ask forgiveness of Thisbe
When I am he who has slain her, alas!
My bidding has slain her, here it was.
Alas, to bid a woman go by night
Into a place where peril might alight,
And I so late! Alas, if I had been simply
At this place before her more promptly!
Now whatever lion is in this forest,
My body must he rend, or my breast
Some wild beast, and gnaw at my heart!’
And with those words to the veil did dart,
And kissed it oft and wept on it full sore,
And said, ‘Veil, alas I can do no more,
Than let you feel as well the blood of me,
As you have felt the bleeding of Thisbe!’
And with these words he smote him to the heart.
The blood from the wound did sudden start
As water when the conduit broken is.
Now Thisbe, who knew naught of this,
Sitting alone in terror, she thought thus,
‘If it so befall that my Pyramus
Comes hither and he cannot me find,
He may think me false, and unkind.’
And out she comes, and after him she spies
Both with her heart, and with her eyes,
And thought, ‘I’ll tell my fear indeed,
Of the lioness, and my every deed.’
And at the last her love then she found
Beating his heels against the ground,
All blood-stained, and backwards she did start,
And like the waves began to throb her heart,
And pale as boxwood she, and at a throw
She realised, and did fully see and know,
That is was Pyramus, her heart’s dear.
Who could write how deathly did appear
Thisbe now, and how her hair she rent,
And how began herself to torment
And how she lay and swooned on the ground,
And how she wept tears to drown his wound,
How mingled his blood with her plaint,
And with his blood herself began to paint,
How embraced the corpse so, alas!
How woeful this wretched Thisbe was!
How she kissed his frosty mouth so cold!
‘Who has done this: who has been so bold
To slay my dear? O speak, my Pyramus!
It is your Thisbe, who calls you thus.’
And therewithal she lifted up his head.
The woeful man it seems was not yet dead,
When he heard Thisbe her own name cry,
On her he cast his heavy deathly eye
And sank again, and yielded up the ghost.
Thisbe rose, without a sound almost,
And saw her veil and his empty sheath,
And then his sword, that made his life cease;
Then spoke she thus: ‘My woeful hand,’ quoth she,
‘Is strong enough for such a deed I see,
For love will give me both strength and boldness,
To make a wound large enough, I guess.
I will follow you, and I shall be
Companion yet cause of death,’ quoth she.
‘And though nothing but death only
Could separate you from me truly,
You shall no more part now from me,
Than from death itself, I go with thee.
And now you jealous fathers of ours,
We that once were children of yours,
We pray you, that without more envy,
In one grave together we might be,
Since love has brought us to this piteous end.
And may a just God every lover send,
Who loves truly, more prosperity
Than ever had Pyramus and Thisbe,
And let no gentlewoman venture more