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Eek wel I soot he saide that myne housbondeSholde lete fader and moder and take to me,But of no nombre mencion made he—Of bigamye or of octogamye:Why sholde men thanne speke of it vilainye?I and Pangur Bán my cat,'Tis a like task we are at:Hunting mice is his delight,Hunting words I sit all night.Better far than praise of men'Tis to sit with book and pen;Pangur bears me no ill-will,He too plies his simple skill.'Tis a merry task to seeAt our tasks how glad are we,When at home we sit and findEntertainment to our mind.Oftentimes a mouse will strayIn the hero Pangur's way;Oftentimes my keen thought setTakes a meaning in its net.'Gainst the wall he sets his eyeFull and fierce and sharp and sly;'Gainst the wall of knowledge IAll my little wisdom try.When a mouse darts from its den,O how glad is Pangur then!O what gladness do I proveWhen I solve the doubts I love!So in peace our task we ply,Pangur Ban, my cat, and I;In our arts we find our bliss,I have mine and he has his.Practice every day has madePangur perfect in his trade;I get wisdom day and nightTurning darkness into light.The Millere, that for dronken was al pale,So that unnethe upon his hors he sat,He nolde avalen neither hood ne hat,Ne abiden no man for his curteisye,But in Pilates vois he gan to crye,And swoor, "By armes and by blood and bones,I can a noble tale for the nones,With which I wol now quite the Knightes tale."But now to purpose why I tolde theeThat I was beten for a book, pardee:Upon a night Janekin, that was our sire,Redde on his book as he sat by the fireOf Eva first, that for hir wikkednesseWas al mankinde brought to wrecchednesse,For which that Jesu Crist himself was slainThat boughte us with his herte blood again—Lo, heer expres of wommen may ye findeThat womman was the los of al mankinde.Tho redde he me how Sampson loste his heres:Sleeping his lemman kitte it with hir sheres,Thurgh which treson loste he both yis yen...Of Pasipha that was the quenne of Crete—For shrewednesse him thoughte the tale sweete—Fy, speek namore, it is a grisly thingOf hir horrible lust and hir liking.Of Clytermistra for hir lecheryeThat falsly made hir housbounde for to die,He redde it with ful good devocioun.I graunte thee lif if thou canst tellen meWhat thing it is that wommen most desiren.And so bifil it that this King ArthourHadde in his hous a lusty bacheler,That on a day cam riding fro river,And happed that, allone as he was born,He sawgh a maide walking him biforn;Of which maide anoon, maugree hir heed,By verray force he rafte hir maidenheed;For which oppression was swich clamour,And switch pursuite unto the King Arthour,That dampned was this knight for to be deedBy cours of lawe, and sholde han lost his heed—Paraventure swich was the statut tho—But that the queene and othere ladies moSo longe prayeden the king of grace,Til he his lif him graunted in the place,And yaf him to the queene, al at hir wille,To chese wheither she wolde him save or spille...I shal say sooth: tho housbondes that I hadde,As three of hem were goode, and two were badde.The three men were goode, and riche, and olde;Unnethe mighte they the statut holdeIn which they were bounden unto me—Ye woot wel what I mene of this, pardee.As help me God, I laughe whan I thinkeHow pitously anight I made hem swinke;And by my fay, I tolde of it no stoor:They hadde me yiven hir land and hir tresor...I governed hem so wel after my lawThat eech of hem ful blisful was and faweTo bringe me gaye thinges fro the faire;They were ful glade whan I spake hem faire,For God it woot, I chidde hem spitously.Men may divine and glosen up and down,But wel I soot, expres, withouten lie,God bad us for to wexe and multiplye:That gentil text can I wel understonde.Now, sire, and eft, sire, so bifel the casThat on a day this hende NicholasFil with this Yonge wyf to rage and pleye,Whil that hir housbonde was at Oseeneye,As clerkes ben ful subtile and ful queynte;And prively he caughte hire by the queynte,And said, "Ywis, but if ich have my wille,For derne love of thee, lemman, I spille,"And heeld hire harde by the haunche-bones,And saide, "Lemman, love me al atones,Or I wol dien, also God me save."And she sproong as a colt dooth in a trave,And with hir heed she wried faste away;She saide, "I wol nat kisse thee, by my fay.Why, lat be," quod she, "lat be, Nicholas!Or I wol crye 'Out, harrow, and allas!'Do way youre handes, for your curteisye!"A MONK ther was, a fair for the maistrie,An outridere, that lovede venerie,A manly man, to been an abbot able.Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in stable,And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel heereGynglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleereAnd eek as loude as dooth the chapel belleTher as this lord was kepere of the celle.The reule of Seint Maure or of Seint Beneit --By cause that it was old and somdel streitThis ilke Monk leet olde thynges pace,And heeld after the newe world the space.He yaf nat of that text a pulled hen,That seith that hunters ben nat hooly men,Ne that a monk, whan he is recchelees,Is likned til a fissh that is waterlees --This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloystre.But thilke text heeld he nat worth an oystre;And I seyde his opinion was good.What sholde he studie and make hymselven wood,Upon a book in cloystre alwey to poure,Or swynken with his handes, and laboure,As Austyn bit? How shal the world be served?Lat Austyn have his swynk to hym reserved!Therfore he was a prikasour aright:Grehoundes he hadde as swift as fowel in flight;Of prikyng and of huntyng for the hareWas al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare.I seigh his sleves purfiled at thThis Nicholas anon leet fle a fartAs greet as it had been a thonder-dent,That with the strook he was almoost yblent;And he was redy with his iren hoot,And Nicholas amydde the ers he smoot.nd whan I sawgh he wolde nevere fineTo reden on this cursed book al night,Al sodeinly three leves have I plightOut of his book right as he redde, and ekeI with my fist so took him on the cheekeThat in our fir he fil bakward adown.And up he sterte as dooth a wood leoun,And with his fist he smoot me on the heedThat in the floor I lay as I were deed.Of gooth the skyn an hande-brede aboute,The hoote kultour brende so his toute,And for the smert he wende for to dye.Of latter date of wives hath he red That some han slain hir housbondes in hir bedAnd lete hir lechour dighte hire al the night,Whan that the cors lay in the floor upright;And some han driven nailes in hir brainWhil that they sleepe, and thus they han hem slain;Some han hem yiven poison in hir drinke.He spak more harm than herte may bithinke.Whilom ther was dwelling at OxenfordeA riche gnof that gestes heeld to boorde,And of his craft he was a carpenter.With him ther was dwelling a poore scoler,Hadde lerned art, but al his fantasyeWas turned for to lere astrologye,And coude a certain of conclusiouns,To deemen by interrogaciouns,If that men axed him in certain houresWhan that men sholde have droughte or ellesshowres,Or if men axed him what shal bifalleOf every thing--I may nat rekene hem alle.This clerk was cleped hende Nicholas.This carpenter hadde wedded newe a wifWhich that he loved more than his lif.Of eighteene yeer she was of age;Jalous he was, and heeld hir narwe in cage,For she was wilde and yong, and he was old,And deemed himself been lik a cokewold.He knew nat Caton, for his wit was rude,That bad men sholde wedde his similitude;Men shold ewedden after hir estat,For youthe and elde is often at debat.But sith that he was fallen in the snare,He moste endure, as other folk, his care.Fair was this yonge wif, and therwithalAs any wesele hir body gent and smal...Her filet brood of silk and set ful hye;And sikerly she hadde a likerous ye...Therto she coulde skippe and make gameAs any kide or calf folwing his dame.Her mouth was sweet as bragot or the meeth,Or hoord of apples laid in hay or heeth.Winsing she was as is a joly colt,Long as a mast, and upright as a bolt...She was a primerole, a piggesnye,For any lord to leggen in his bedde,Or yit for any good yeman to wedde.Experience, though noon auctoriteeWere in this world, is right ynough for meTo speke of wo that is in mariage:For lordinges, sith I twelf yeer was of age—Thanked be God that is eterne on live—Housbondes at chirche dore I have had five(If I so ofte mighte han wedded be),And alle were worthy men in hir degree.Bifil that in that seson on a day,In Southwerk at the Tabard as I layRedy to wenden on my pilgrymageTo Caunterbury with ful devout corage,At nyght was come into that hostelryeWel nyne and twenty in a compaignye,Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalleIn felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle,That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde. ...But nathelees, whil I have tyme and space,Er that I ferther in this tale pace,Me thynketh it acordaunt to resounTo telle yow al the condiciounOf ech of hem, so as it semed me,And whiche they weren, and of what degree,And eek in what array that they were inne;And at a knyght than wol I first bigynne.Whan that Aprill with his shoures sooteThe droghte of March hath perced to the roote,And bathed every veyne in swich licourOf which vertu engendred is the flour;Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breethInspired hath in every holt and heethThe tendre croppes, and the yonge sonneHath in the Ram his half cours yronne,And smale foweles maken melodye,That slepen al the nyght with open ye(So priketh hem Nature in hir corages),Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;And specially from every shires endeOf Engelond to Caunterbury they wende,The hooly blisful martir for to seke,That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.A knight ther was, and that a worthy man,That fro the tyme that he first biganTo ryden out, he loved chivalrye,Trouthe and honour, fredom, and curteisye.Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre,And therto hadde he riden, no man ferre,As wel in Cristendom as hethenesse,And ever honoured for his worthinesse.At Alisaundre he was, whan it was wonne;Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonneAboven alle naciouns in Pruce.In Lettow hadde he reysed and in Ruce,No Cristen man so ofte of his degree.In Gernade at the sege eek hadde he beOf Algezir, and riden in Belmarye.At Lyeys was he, and at Satalye,Whan they were wonne; and in the Grete SeeAt many a noble aryve hadde he be.At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene,And foughten for our feith at TramisseneIn listes thryes, and ay slayn his foo.This ilke worthy knight had been alsoSomtyme with the lord of Palatye,Ageyn another hethen in Turkye:And evermore he hadde a sovereyn prys.And though that he were worthy, he was wys,And of his port as meke as is a mayde.He never yet no vileinye ne saydeIn al his lyf, unto no maner wight.He was a verray parfit gentil knight.
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