ENGLISH FROM OLD TO NEW:

CHAUCER

NAME …………………… CLASS ……

1
Table of contents
History of the English Language………………………………………………………………………………page 3

Questions about the History of English……………………………………………………………………page 6

Geoffrey Chaucer, some biographical information………………………………………………….page 7

The Canterbury Tales: summary ……………………………………………………………………………..page 8

The Canterbury Tales: Prologue in Middle English…………………………………………………..page 9

Miller’s Tale, introduction and characterization ……………………………………………………..page 11

Prologue to the Miller’s Tale …………………………………………………………………………………..page 12

Assignment Prologue Miller’s Tale ………………………………………………………………………….page 15

The Miller’s Tale ……………………………………………………………………………………………………..page 17

Assignment Miller’s Tale………………………………………………………………………………………….page 24

The Reeve’s Tale, introduction and Prologue……………………………………………………………page 25

The Reeve’s Tale ……………………………………………………………………………………………………..page 27

The wife of Bath, introduction and prologue……………………………………………………………page 32

The Wife of Bath’s Tale ……………………………………………………………………………………………page 33

Translation Prologue ……………………………………………………………………………………………….page 38

2
History of the English Language
A short history of the origins and development of English

The history of the English language really started with the arrival of three Germanic tribes who
invaded Britain during the 5th century AD. These tribes, the Angles, the Saxons and the Jutes, crossed
the North Sea from what today is Denmark and northern Germany. At that time the inhabitants of
Britain spoke a Celtic language. But most of the Celtic speakers were pushed west and north by the
invaders - mainly into what is now
Wales, Scotland and Ireland. The
Angles came from "Englaland" [sic] and
their language was called "Englisc" -
from which the words "England" and
"English" are derived.

Germanic
invaders entered Britain on the
east and south coasts in the 5th
century.

Old English (450-1100 AD)

The invading Germanic tribes spoke similar languages, which in Britain developed into what we now
call Old English. Old English did not sound or look like English today. Native English speakers now
would have great difficulty understanding Old English. Nevertheless, about half of the most
commonly used words in Modern English have Old English roots. The words be, strong and water, for
example, derive from Old English. Old English was spoken until about 1100.

Part of Beowulf: a poem written in Old English

3
4
Middle English (1100-1500)

In 1066 William the Conqueror, the Duke of Normandy (part of modern France), invaded and
conquered England. The new conquerors (called the Normans) brought with them a kind of French,
which became the language of the Royal Court, and the ruling and business classes. For a period
there was a kind of linguistic class division,
where the lower classes spoke English and the
upper classes spoke French. In the 14th century
English became dominant in Britain again, but
with many French words added. This language
is called Middle English. It was the language of
the great poet Chaucer (c1340-1400), but it
would still be difficult for native English
speakers to understand today.

An example of Middle English by Chaucer

Modern English

Early Modern English (1500-1800)

Towards the end of Middle English, a sudden and distinct change in pronunciation (the Great Vowel
Shift) started, with vowels being pronounced shorter and shorter. From the 16th century the British
had contact with many peoples from around the world.

This, and the Renaissance of Classical learning, meant that many new words and phrases entered the
language. The invention of printing also meant that there was now a common language in print.
Books became cheaper and more people learned to read. Printing also brought standardization to
English. Spelling and grammar became
fixed, and the dialect of London, where
most publishing houses were, became
the standard. In 1604 the first English
dictionary was published.

Hamlet's famous "To be, or not to be"

lines, written in Early Modern English by
Shakespeare

5
Late Modern English (1800-Present)
The main difference between Early Modern English and Late Modern English is vocabulary. Late
Modern English has many more words, arising from two principal factors: firstly, the Industrial
Revolution and technology created a need for new words; secondly, the British Empire at its height
covered one quarter of the earth's surface, and the English language adopted foreign words from
many countries.

Varieties of English

From around 1600, the English colonization of North America resulted in the creation of a distinct
American variety of English. Some English pronunciations and words "froze" when they reached
America. In some ways, American English is more like the English of Shakespeare than modern British
English is. Some expressions that the British call "Americanisms" are in fact original British
expressions that were preserved in the colonies while lost for a time in Britain (for example trash for
rubbish, loan as a verb instead of lend, and fall for autumn; another example, frame-up, was re-
imported into Britain through Hollywood gangster movies). Spanish also had an influence on
American English (and subsequently British English), with words like canyon, ranch, stampede and
vigilante being examples of Spanish words that entered English through the settlement of the
American West. French words (through Louisiana) and West African words (through the slave trade)
also influenced American English (and so, to an extent, British English).
Today, American English is particularly influential, due to the USA's dominance of cinema, television,
popular music, trade and technology (including the Internet). But there are many other varieties of
English around the world, including for example Australian English, New Zealand English, Canadian
English, South African English, Indian English and Caribbean English.

The Germanic Family of Languages

English is a member of the Germanic family of languages.

Germanic is a branch of the Indo-European language family

6
Questions about the History of English
1. Who was William the Conqueror?

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

………………………………………………………………………………………………....

2. What is the origin of the word English?

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

………………………………………………………………………………………………....

3. After 1066 the upper class started to speak French. This influenced the English language in
various ways. One example is the difference between the names of the animals and their
meat. The English underclass cooked, so they used their words for domestic animals. The
French upper class ate the meat, so the words for the dishes/meats have become French.
Can you come up with the right animals for these kinds of meat?

name of meat (French origin) name of animal (English origin)

bacon and pork pig

veal …………………………………………

mutton …………………………………………

venison …………………………………………

4. What dates are conventionally used for Old, Middle and Modern English?

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

………………………………………………………………………………………………....

5. Can you think of some modern influences on the English Language?

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

………………………………………………………………………………………………....

7
Geoffrey Chaucer
"When that April with his showers soote/ The drought of March hath perced to the roote”. With
those lines, the poet and civil servant Geoffrey Chaucer heralded a new era of English literature. For
three centuries, since the 1066 conquest of England by the Norman invaders, English had been
second to French as the language of the elite. Speaking French showed that you were educated,
aristocratic, and upwardly mobile - all things that Chaucer aspired to be. But during Chaucer's
lifetime, Englishmen found a renewed interest in their native tongue. Chaucer was one of the first
poets of his era to write in English - specifically, Middle English, the form the language took in the
Middle Ages. His style was a unique blend of French, Italian, and classical traditions. It marked a new
and uniquely English form of poetics. The language would never be the same. 

Geoffrey Chaucer was born around 1343, probably in London. (Like many details of Chaucer's life, it's
impossible to verify either of these facts.) His parents were John and Agnes Copton Chaucer. John
Chaucer was a successful wine merchant. The Chaucers were not wealthy, but they were well-to-do.
More importantly, they knew the right people. In 1357, when Geoffrey Chaucer was still in his early
teens, his father got him a job as a page in the household of the Countess of Ulster. In 1359, he
joined the English Army and fought in France during the Hundred Years' War (actually a 116-year
war). He was captured during the Seige of Rheims in northeastern France in 1360 and was released
after the payment of sixteen pounds - a ransom paid, rumor had it, by King Edward III himself. 

Chaucer would have gone to French-speaking schools and most likely spoke both English and French
at home to his parents. He was born just near the end of a period of serious French influence on
English life and culture. The successful invasion of England by Norman French conquerors in 1066
had left an odd linguistic divide. For the next 300 years, English was the language of the common
people. The elite spoke French, including the royal court. Chaucer would not have been able to
advance as a civil servant without knowing the language.

Chaucer travelled often to France and Italy to do business for the King (including, in 1370, a second
military tour in France under the command of John of Gaunt). During his travels, he read French and
Italian poetry. The poems impressed him, particularly the works of Boccaccio. Up to that point,
English poetry was largely modelled after poetry of the French. It didn't have its own style or
traditions that could be identified as uniquely English. Chaucer's own early works were either English
translations of French poems, or near copies of the French style. As his day job exposed him to
Europe's literature, however, Chaucer started experimenting with his own literary style. 

Sometime in the late 1380s, Chaucer began his final poetic work. He spent ten years on the project,
finishing only a quarter of what he had originally planned to write. The result was by far his most
famous poem. We're talking, of course, about The Canterbury Tales. The Tales focused on a group of
31 pilgrims making their way to Canterbury Cathedral in order to visit the shrine of Thomas Becket,
the martyred archbishop assassinated by King Henry II's adherents. To pass the time, they have a
contest to see who can tell the best story. The winner gets a free dinner. 

(source: shmoop.com, slightly adapted)

8
The Canterbury Tales: summary
The action begins at a tavern just outside of London, circa 1390, where a group of pilgrims have
gathered in preparation for their journey to visit the shrine of St. Thomas Becket in Canterbury. The
narrator, Chaucer, encounters them there and becomes one of their company. Chaucer describes all
of the pilgrims in delightful, and often grotesque, detail. 

The pilgrims go to dinner, during which the owner of the tavern, or Host, makes a proposal to the
group: on the way to Canterbury, says the Host, each pilgrim will tell two tales, followed by two on
the way back. The Host will accompany the group and serve as a judge of their tales. The pilgrim who
tells the best tale wins a free dinner at the tavern at the journey's end. Should anyone question the
Host's judgment, moreover, he has to foot the bill for the entire pilgrimage. The pilgrims, eager to
have fun on their journey, quickly agree to the Host's proposal and swear oaths to abide by the rules
of the game. After a bit of shut-eye, they ride out of London the next morning and the tale-telling
begins.

Almost immediately, a pilgrim challenges the Host's authority. After the first tale, the Host asks the
Monk to tell a tale, but the drunken Miller interrupts him and announces that he will speak next or
leave the company. It's certainly not the last time the Host's orderly vision for the game is
challenged: drunken pilgrims, mysterious strangers, and, most importantly, the conflicts between
some of the members of the company threaten to derail the game at many points in the course of
the journey.

The pilgrims tell lots of different kinds of tales on their journey: comedies and tragedies, romances
and dirty stories, and sermons and saints' lives, to name a few. Some pilgrims tell stories where a
character with another pilgrim's occupation is humiliated in the course of the tale, which leads to
trouble. The Miller, for example, tells a tale about a carpenter whose wife not only commits adultery
with a clerk, but humiliates him in front of the whole town. The real carpenter among the pilgrims
takes this very personally, and proceeds to tell a tale where a miller suffers humiliation at the hands
of some students. A similar rivalry occurs between the Friar and the Summoner. All the while, the
Host alternates between trying to make peace between the pilgrims and creating more conflict with
his gentle and not-so-gentle teasing of members of the party.

The Canterbury Tales ends after only 24 tales, a far cry short of the planned 120. We never get to see
the pilgrims reach Canterbury, nor do we learn who wins the competition. It's likely that Chaucer ran
out of time or energy. He may have planned to revise the beginning of the frame story so that the 24
tales would seem complete. In any case, The Canterbury Tales as we know them end with the
Parson's sermon on sin and repentance, followed by Chaucer's retraction.

9
The General Prologue
Translate the following fragment, these are the first lines of the Canterbury Tales. When translating,
bear in mind that Middle English still had verbal endings similar to Dutch, for instance: sleepen =
sleep (compare: slapen), longen = long, goon = go.
It often helps to read the text aloud to understand it. If you want to hear what middle English
sounded like, go to http://www.luminarium.org/medlit/gp.htm

1 Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote  shoures: showers, soote: sweet
     
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,  droghte: drought
     
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

And bathed every veyne in swich licour  veyne: vein, swich: such, licour: moisture
     
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Of which vertu engendred is the flour;  of which vertu: as a result of which, flour: flower
    
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

5 Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth  Zephirus: western wind , eek: also
     
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth  Holt: grove (Du: hout), heeth: heath (heide)
     
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne  croppes: shoots, yong: young (early in the year)
     
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Hath in the Ram his halve cours yronne,  Ram: astrological sign, yronne: run
   
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

And smale foweles maken melodye,  foweles: birds

     
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

10 That slepen al the nyght with open ye  ye: eyes

  
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

10
 (so priketh hem nature in hir corages);  priketh: pricks, stirs ; corages: hearts

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, 

  ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,  palmer: Pigrim (esp one that had been
to the holy land and brought back a palm leaf as evidence, or souvenir as we would say today); strondes:
beaches (Du: strand)
   
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;  fer: far; halwe : saints (comp: Halloween),
kowthe: known, sondry: various, different

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

15 And specially from every shires ende  shire: county (comp The Hobbit)

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Of Engelond to Caunterbury they wende, 

  
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The hooly blisful martir for to seke, 

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.  Seeke: sick, ill

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

11
The Miller’s Tale: Introduction
The Miller's Tale is the story within The Canterbury Tales in which the Miller interrupts the Host's
proposed order of tale-telling. Although the Host has asked the Monk to continue the game, the
drunken Miller interrupts to declare that he knows a tale "sumwhat to quyte with the Knightes tale"
(11). By "quyte," the Miller means "answer" or "respond to"; one way of reading "The Miller's Tale" is
as a response the Knight’s Tale which was the first Tale in the contest.
The Knight told a highbrow romance about a love triangle between two knights and their ladylove, an
impossibly beautiful and unobtainable woman named Emily.The Miller's Tale is also about a love
triangle, but it's far from highbrow. Instead,The Miller's Tale comes from the genre
called fabliau. Fabliaux were bawdy stories, usually dealing with adulterous liaisons. 
In contrast with the type of romance the Knight tells, which is concerned with abstract questions of
order, fraternity, and love, the fabliau is mostly concerned with sex and the body. Using
the fabliau genre transforms the elements of "The Knight's Tale" into more earthy, bodily versions of
themselves.

Characterization:

Most of the description we get of the Miller is intensely physical and kind of, well, disgusting.
He's huge, with a red beard, wide black nostrils, a gaping mouth, and (gross-out alert!) a wart on his
nose with a tuft of hairs growing on it that are as red as the bristles in a sow's ears. Many of the
Miller's activities are physical as well: he can break doors open with his head and always wins the
ram, or top prize, at wrestling matches.

Disgusting physical appearance aside, we also get the feeling this guy's not a great miller: he regularly
steals corn from his customers (probably by mixing filler into their sacks) or charges three times the
proper fee for it.

The Miller's portrait draws heavily upon negative medieval stereotypes about lower-class people.
The idea was that such people were "all brawn, no brains." This intense physicality was associated
with extreme lustfulness, and in the Miller's portrait we get a hidden clue that this is, in fact, the
case: medieval symbolism held that red hair, which the Miller's portrait mentions twice (most
notably in that shudder-worthy description of the wart), was a sign of a lustful nature. The tale the
Miller tells, a bawdy story about how a carpenter's wife cheats on him with a clerk, confirms the
Miller's lustful proclivities. Yet the Miller's tale is also immensely clever, concluding with what literary
types agree is one of the most successful and witty endings of any tale. So, like the Wife of Bath, the
Miller's character questions as many stereotypes as it draws upon.

12
Prologue to the Miller’s Tale

The Host is delighted with the success of his tale-telling suggestion; everyone agrees that
the Knight’s Tale was a good one

5 Whan that the Knyght had thus his tale ytoold,

                    When the Knight had thus told his tale,
In al the route nas ther yong ne oold
                    In all the company there was no one young nor old
That he ne seyde it was a noble storie
                    Who did not say it was a noble story
And worthy for to drawen to memorie,
                    And worthy to draw into memory,
And namely the gentils everichon.
10                     And especially the gentlefolk every one.
Oure Hooste lough and swoor, "So moot I gon,
                    Our Host laughed and swore, "As I may move about (I swear),
This gooth aright; unbokeled is the male.
                    This goes well; the bag is opened.
Lat se now who shal telle another tale;
                    Let's see now who shall tell another tale;
For trewely the game is wel bigonne.
                    For truly the game is well begun.
Now telleth ye, sir Monk, if that ye konne,
                    Now tell you, sir Monk, if you can,
15 Somwhat to quite with the Knyghtes tale."
                    Something to equal the Knight's tale."
The Millere, that for dronken was al pale,
                    The Miller, who for drunkenness was all pale,
So that unnethe upon his hors he sat,
                    So that he hardly sat upon his horse,
He nolde avalen neither hood ne hat,
                    He would not doff neither hood nor hat,
Ne abyde no man for his curteisie,
                    Nor give preference to any man out of courtesy, 
But in Pilates voys he gan to crie,
20                     But in Pilate's voice he began to cry,
And swoor, "By armes, and by blood and bones,
                    And swore, "By (Christ's) arms, and by blood and bones, 
I kan a noble tale for the nones,
                    I know a noble tale for this occasion,
With which I wol now quite the Knyghtes tale."
                    With which I will now requite the Knight's tale."
Oure Hooste saugh that he was dronke of ale,
                    Our Host saw that he was drunk on ale,
And seyde, "Abyd, Robyn, my leeve brother;
                    And said, "Wait, Robin, my dear brother;
25
Som bettre man shal telle us first another.
                    Some better man shall first tell us another.
Abyd, and lat us werken thriftily."

13
                     Wait, and let us act properly."
 "By Goddes soule," quod he, "that wol nat I;
                    "By God's soul," said he, "that will not I;
For I wol speke or elles go my wey."
                    For I will speak or else go my way."
Oure Hoost answerde, "Tel on, a devel wey!
                    Our Host answered, "Tell on, in the devil's name!
30 Thou art a fool; thy wit is overcome."
                    Thou art a fool; thy wit is overcome."
"Now herkneth," quod the Millere, "alle and some!
                    "Now listen," said the Miller, "everyone!
But first I make a protestacioun
                    But first I make a protestation 
That I am dronke; I knowe it by my soun.
                    That I am drunk; I know it by my sound.
And therfore if that I mysspeke or seye,
                    And therefore if that I misspeak or say (amiss), 
Wyte it the ale of Southwerk, I you preye.
35                     Blame it on ale of Southwerk, I you pray.
For I wol telle a legende and a lyf
                    For I will tell a legend and a life
Bothe of a carpenter and of his wyf,
                    Both of a carpenter and of his wife,
How that a clerk hath set the wrightes cappe."
                    How a clerk has set the carpenter's cap (fooled him).

40

The Reeve (an official supervising a landowner's estate ) ,who used to be a carpenter,
suspects that the tale is going to be directed at him and interrupts:

The Reve answerde and seyde, "Stynt thy clappe!

                    The Reeve answered and said, "Hold your tongue!
Lat be thy lewed dronken harlotrye.
                    Let be thy ignorant drunken ribaldry.
It is a synne and eek a greet folye
                    It is a sin and also a great folly
To apeyren any man, or hym defame,
                    To slander any man, or defame him,
45 And eek to bryngen wyves in swich fame.
                    And also to bring wives in such ill fame.
Thou mayst ynogh of othere thynges seyn."
                    Thou canst say enough about other things."
This dronke Millere spak ful soone ageyn
                    This drunken Miller spoke very quickly in reply
And seyde, "Leve brother Osewold,
                    And said, "Dear brother Oswald,

14
 Who hath no wyf, he is no cokewold.
                    He who has no wife, he is no cuckold. Cuckold: man betrayed by his wife
50 But I sey nat therfore that thou art oon;
                    But I say not therefore that thou art one;
 Ther been ful goode wyves many oon,
                    There are very good wives, many a one,
 And evere a thousand goode ayeyns oon badde.
                    And ever a thousand good against one bad.
 That knowestow wel thyself, but if thou madde.
                    Thou knowest that well thyself, unless thou art mad.
Why artow angry with my tale now?
                    Why art thou angry with my tale now?
55  I have a wyf, pardee, as wel as thow;
                    I have a wife, by God, as well as thou;
Yet nolde I, for the oxen in my plogh,
                    Yet I would not, for the oxen in my plow,
Take upon me moore than ynogh,
                    Take upon me more than enough (trouble),
 As demen of myself that I were oon;
                    As to believe of myself that I were one (a cuckold);
I wol bileve wel that I am noon.
                    I will believe well that I am not one.
60 An housbonde shal nat been inquisityf
                    A husband must not be inquisitive
Of Goddes pryvetee, nor of his wyf.
                    Of God's secrets, nor of his wife.
So he may fynde Goddes foyson there,
                    So long as he can find God's plenty there,
Of the remenant nedeth nat enquere."
                    Of the rest he needs not enquire."
What sholde I moore seyn, but this Millere
                    What more should I say, but this Miller
65 He nolde his wordes for no man forbere,
                    He would not refrain from speaking for any man,
But tolde his cherles tale in his manere.
                    But told his churl's tale in his manner.
M'athynketh that I shal reherce it heere.
                    I regret that I must repeat it here.

The poet (Chaucer) makes a mock apology for the tale he is going to tell: he has to tell the
story as he heard it from the rather vulgar fellow. Those who do not like bawdy tales are
given fair warning

And therfore every gentil wight I preye,

                    And therefore every respectable person I pray,
For Goddes love, demeth nat that I seye
                    For God's love, think not that I speak
70 Of yvel entente, but for I moot reherce

15
                     Out of evil intention, but because I must repeat
Hir tales alle, be they bettre or werse,
                    All their tales, be they better or worse,
Or elles falsen som of my mateere.
                    Or else (I must) falsify some of my material.
And therfore, whoso list it nat yheere,
                    And therefore, whoever does not want to hear it,
Turne over the leef and chese another tale;
                    Turn over the leaf and choose another tale; 
For he shal fynde ynowe, grete and smale,
75                     For he shall find enough, of every sort,
Of storial thyng that toucheth gentillesse,
                    Of historical matter that concerns nobility,
And eek moralitee and hoolynesse.
                    And also morality and holiness.
Blameth nat me if that ye chese amys.
                    Blame not me if you choose amiss.
The Millere is a cherl; ye knowe wel this.
                    The Miller is a churl; you know this well.
So was the Reve eek and othere mo,
80                     So was the Reeve also and many others,
And harlotrie they tolden bothe two.
                    And ribaldry they told, both of the two.
Avyseth yow, and put me out of blame;
                    Think about this, and don't blame me;
And eek men shal nat maken ernest of game.
                    And also people should not take a joke too seriously.

Assignment about the Prologue to the Miller’s Tale

1. How do all the pilgrims react to the Knight’s Tale? Which group especially thinks it’s worth
remembering ?

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

2. Who does the Host ask to tell the next tale ? (Hint: it’s not the Miller)

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

3. Who interrupts the Host’s request?

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

4. Why is the Miller all pale and why is he having trouble keeping in the saddle as the pilgrims
ride?
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

16
5. What does the Miller say his Tale will do to the Knight’s Tale?

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
6. How does the Miller respond when the Host tries to talk him out of interrupting?

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

7. What “protestacioun” does the Miller make about storytelling and his own condition?

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

8. If the Milller misspeaks or says anything wrong, what does he ask the audience to blame?

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

9. What does the Reeve mean when he tells the Miller “Stint thy clappe”?

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

10. When the Miller goes on at length about God’s “privitee”(and a wife’s “privitee”), what is the
double entendre?

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

11. If anybody doesn’t want to hear a dirty story, according to the narrator, what does he advise
the reader to do? How is the advice a bit strange – given that we are supposedly sitting on
horseback and listening to another pilgrim telling a story?
How does the break the conventions of verisimilitude (the appearance of being true or real)
between the ‘real world’ of the readers and the fictional world of the Canterbury pilgrims?

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The Miller’s Tale starts on the next page

17
18

THE MILLER'S TALE
Here the Miller begins his Tale
AT Oxford town there dwelt upon a day,
An artisan that took in guests for pay —
A wealthy wretch, a carpenter by trade.
And in his house a poor young student stayed —
One that had learned the arts, but busily
Was now devoted to astrology.
They called this student gentle Nicholas;
Skilled both in mirth and secret love he was;
And he was sly and subtle as could be,
And seemed a very maid for modesty.
There in that house he had a room alone —
None shared it with him, it was all his own —
His Astrolabe, essential to his art,
His augrim-counters —all were set apart
Neatly on shelves that ran beside his bed.
He had a clothes press decked with cloth of red;
And over this there hung a psaltery
On which at night he made a melody
This carpenter had newly wed a wife,
And her he loved more than he loved his life;
And she was only eighteen years of age.
Jealous he was, and kept her close in cage;
For he was old, and wild and young was she,
And much he feared a cuckold* he might be.
Fair to behold was this young wife of his,
And small and slender as a weasel is.
She wore a girdle made of striped silk;
And a trim apron, white as morning milk,
Embroidered at the collar all about
With coal-black silk, alike within and out.
On her white hood were tapes of the same hue,
And these were also silk. Her fillet, too,
Was silk, and it was broad, and worn full high.
And certainly she had a wanton* eye.
Her brows were narrow—she had plucked them so
And they were arched, and black as any sloe.
She was as gay and fair a sight to see
As any fresh young blossoming pear tree,
And soft to touch as wool of any wether.
And by her girdle hung a purse of leather,
Inlaid with bits of latten ornament,
With tassels wrought of silk. Although ye went
Through all the world, ye could not hope to meet
A darling half so gay, a wench so sweet;
She shone as clear, and had as bright a glint,
As any gold piece freshly from the mint.
And ye could hear her song as clearly ringing
As any swallow on a stable singing.
And she could be as sportive and as gay
As any suckling kid or calf at play.
Her breath was sweet as honeyed ale, or mead,
Or apples laid in hay for winter need.
Skittish she was, and frisky as a colt,
Slim as a mast, straight as a cross-bow's bolt.
Now sirs and gentlemen, it came to pass
That on a day this gentle Nicholas
Began to wanton with this wife, and play —
Her husband having gone to Oseney —
In ways these artful students can devise;
And caught her stealthily between the thighs,
And cried : "Unless I slake my hidden thirst
And hunger for thee, sweetheart, I shall burst!"
And gripped her flanks, and pressed them hard,
and said:
"Come, sweetheart, love me now, or I am dead,
God save me!" As a colt, in being broke,
Leaps up and rears against the breaking-yoke,
She jumped at that, and writhed her head aside.
"I will not kiss thee, by my faith!" she cried.
"Stop it, I tell you; stop it, Nicholas!
Or I will cry, and call out, 'Help ! Alas* !'
Take off your hands for decency, I say !"
This Nicholas at once began to pray
For mercy, and he wooed* so well and fast
She granted him the love he asked at last,
And she would do for him, she gave her promise,
All that he craved, and swore it by St. Thomas,
As soon as such a thing could safely be.
"My husband is so full of jealousy,
Unless ye watch and wait your time," she said,
"I know too well I am as good as dead.
In this affair ye must be sly and prudent."
"Nay, never worry over that! A student
Has badly used his time," he said to her,
" I f he cannot deceive a carpenter."
So they agreed, and in this fashion swore
To wait a while, as I have said before.
And Nicholas, when he had done all this,
Began to stroke her thighs, and sweetly kiss
Her lips, and then he took his psaltery*
And played it fast, and made sweet melody.
Then to the parish church, as it befell,
To honor Christ, and do his works as well,
On holidays this wife would take her way.
Her forehead always shone as bright as day,
So would she scrub it when she stopped her work.
Now at that church there was a parish clerk,
A young man by the name of Absalon.
His curly hair, shining like gold new-spun,
Like a great fan spread out to left and right;
The parting line showed even, straight, and white.
His hose were red, and elegant to see.
And he was clad all tight and properly
In kirtle of the lightest watchel blue,
With laces set all fair, and thickly too;
And over this he wore a surplice gay,
As white as any bough that blooms in May.
A merry lad he was, so God me save!
And he could bleed a man*, and clip and shave,
And make a deed, a charter, or a w i l l.
19
And he could dance and trip with subtle skill
In twenty ways, all of the Oxford fashion,
And fling his legs out with a jolly passion ;
And from the rebeck* he could pluck a song,
And sing a treble as he went along,
And skilfully he played on his guitar.
In all the town was not a tavern bar
But he would give it entertainment fair
Were any lively barmaid serving there.
And yet indeed the man was far from daring
In breaking wind, and in his speech was sparing.
This Absalon, this merry lad and gay,
Went with his censer of a holiday
Among the parish wives, and as he passed,
Full many a loving look about him cast,
And most upon this carpenter's young wife.
To look at her would be a merry life,
He thought, she was so wanton and so sweet!
If she had been a sleek mouse at his feet,
And he a cat, he would have made short work
Of seizing her!
This Absalon, this clerk,
Hath in his heart so great a love-longing
That he would never take an offering
From any wife —he said he wanted none.
The moon at night in all its brightness shone,
And his guitar this Absalon hath taken,
With thought of lovers that his song would waken ;
And forth he goes, with love and joy astir,
And reached the dwelling* of this carpenter,
Just as the cocks had crowed across the land.
And by a casement window took his stand,
That in the moonlight showed against the wall.
He singeth in a gentle voice and small,
"Now lady dear, if it thy pleasure be,
I pray you well that ye will pity me,"
With music to his ditty sweetly ringing.
This carpenter awoke, and heard him singing,
And whispered to his wife, "What, Alison!
Dost thou not hear," he said, "how Absalon
Is chanting underneath our chamber wall?"
"Yes, John. God knows, indeed, I hear it a l l !"
From day to day this jolly Absalon
So wooeth her, that he is woe-begone*.
He neither sleeps by night nor yet by day ;
He combs his spreading locks, and dresseth gay;
He sings with quaverings like a nightingale;
Sends her spiced wine, and mead, and honeyed
ale;
And wafers from the oven, hot and brown,
And proffers money, since she lives in town.
For there are some that gold w i l l win, and some
To boldness or to virtue will succumb*.
But none of these will help him to succeed,
For it is Nicholas she loves, indeed,
Now play it well, thou gentle Nicholas,
And Absalon may wail and sing "Alas!"
And so it happened on a Saturday
This carpenter had gone to Oseney,
And gentle Nicholas and Alison
Agreed at last that thus it should be done:
That Nicholas a subtle plot should weave,
This simple, jealous husband to deceive*,
And if the game should chance to go aright,
Then she would sleep within his arms all night,
For this was his desire and hers as well.
And soon, the story brief and straight to tell,
This Nicholas would neither wait nor tarry*,
But quietly doth to his chamber carry
Both food and drink to last for several days,
And of this young wife Alison he prays
That if her husband asked for Nicholas,
She should reply she knew not where he was —
She had not seen h im all that day, indeed.
She thought he must be sick ; he would not heed
Her maid, though she had often gone to call;
He would not stir or answer her at all.
So Nicholas for all that Saturday
Close and secluded in his chamber lay,
And ate or slept, or did what pleased him best,
T i l l Sunday, when the sun had gone to rest.
This simple carpenter was full of wonder
At what this Nicholas might suffer under.
"St. Thomas! I am much afraid today
That something is not right with Nicholay!
Go up," he told his boy. "Stand there before
His room and shout, or pound upon the door ;
Look in, and tell what thou canst hear or see."
This boy obeyed. He went up sturdily,
And while he stood there, as his master bade,
He beat upon the door and cried like mad:
"What! How! What do ye, Master Nicholas!
What! Will ye sleep and let the whole day pass?"
But all for nothing, there was not a word.
He found a hole, low down upon a board,
Through which the cat went in. There hard and fast
He set his eye and looked, and so at last
He saw the student lying there alone.
This Nicholas was staring, stretched out prone,
As if he gazed upon the crescent moon.
The boy went down, and told his master soon
In what condition he had seen the man.
"Saint Frideswide!" The carpenter began
To cross himself, a shudder running through him.
"A man knows little what may happen to him!
This man hath fallen, with all his astromy,
Into some madness or some agony*.
I always guessed too well how it would be.
Men should know nothing of God's privacy.
An ignorant man is blest*, that knows no more
Than his own faith. Yet I am sad, I say,
That this should come to gentle Nicholay.
"Get me a staff to pry with from the floor,
While thou, good Robin, heavest up the door.
20
I guess he will not study longer there."
Then to the student's door the two repair.
His boy was strong; the chamber door he grasps,
And heaves it upward quickly by the hasps,
And soon upon the floor he sets it prone.
This Nicholas lay still as any stone,
Forever gazing upward into air.
This carpenter was now in great despair
And seized him by the shoulders, firm and strong,
And cried hard, as he shook him well and long,
"What! Nicholas ! Stare not in such a fashion !
Awake, I say, remember Jesus' passion!
I cross thee now from spite of elves or men!"
And said the night-spell on the instant then,
At last stirred gentle Nicholas, and sighed
A long and painful sigh. "Alas!" he cried,
"Shall all the world be lost so quickly now?"
This carpenter exclaimed: "What sayest thou?
What! Think on God, as do we working men."
"Fetch me a drink," this student answered then,
"And later w i l l I speak in privacy
About a matter touching me and thee.
I cannot tell it unto other men."
This carpenter goes down, and comes again
And brings a jug of ale*, a brimming quart;
And when at length each man has drunk his part,
And Nicholas has made his door all fast,
By him he sets this carpenter at last.
He said: "Now John, beloved host and dear,
Upon thy troth I bid* thee swear me here
That what I tell thou wilt betray to none,
For it is Christ's affair and his alone.
This simple man declared. "I do not babble!
Nay, though I say it, I will never gabble.
Say what thou w i l t ; to no one will I tell
A word of it, by H im that harrowed hell!"
"John," he replied, "I w i l l not lie to thee.
I have discovered by astrology
By gazing on the moon when it was bright,
That Monday next, a quarter through the night,
A rain shall fall, so mad and wild a spate
That Noah's flood was never half so great.
This world," he said, "beneath its hideous power,
Shall all be drowned in less time than an hour.
So shall mankind be drowned and lost to life!"
This carpenter replied, "Alas, my wife !
Alas, my Alison! And shall she drown?"
And with the thought he almost tumbled down,
And asked: "Is there no remedy for this?"
Said Nicholas: "Why yes, through God there is,
And if thou wilt* submit from first to last
To good advice, with neither sail nor mast
I will save her along with thee and me.
Hast thou not heard how Noah rode the sea
Because God warned him, and he understood
How all the world should perish in the flood?"
"Yes," said this carpenter, "long, long ago."
"Dost thou," said Nicholas, "not also know
What trouble Noah had, and what discord,
Before he got his wife to come aboard ?
There must be haste, and with a hasty thing
There should be no delay or sermoning.
Go get for each of us a tub of wood
Or kneading trough*, and let them all be good
In workmanship, and large enough to float,
So each of us can swim as in a boat;
And set in each some food and drink —a store
For one day only — we shall need no more;
The water shall subside and go away
About mid morning of the second day.
But Robin thy boy must hear no word of this,
Nor Gill thy maid; nor ask me why it is,
For though thou ask I will not answer thee;
I cannot tell what God has told to me.
Thou shouldst be grateful, if thou art not mad,
To have as great a grace as Noah had.
And I will save thy wife, too, never doubt it.
Now to thy labor, and be quick about i t ;
And having got for her and thee and me
These kneading tubs I spoke of, all the three,
Then thou shalt* hang them near the roof, up high,
Where no man may our preparation spy*.
And also put an axe in every boat,
That each of us may cut his rope, and float,
And made a hole high up within the gable,
Off toward the garden and above the stable,
That we may freely sail forth on that day
After the great rain shall have passed away,
And then shall we be rulers all our life
Of all the world, like Noah and his wife.
"But I give warning to thee of one thing:
Remember this —when on that evening
Each boards his vessel*, then let none of us
Whisper or call out —any one of us —
Nor cry, but each in prayer on every hand
Be diligent, for this is God's command.
"And thou must hang thy boat far from thy wife,
That thou shalt do no sin, upon thy life,
No more in thought or look than in the deed
This is thy full commandment. Go ! God speed !
Tomorrow night, when men are all asleep,
Into our kneading tubs we three will creep,
And sit, and wait God's mercy while we pray.
Now there is no more time, so go thy way.
This simple carpenter now goes his way,
And often cried "Alas!" and "Well-a-day!"
And told his wife of all this secrecy.
She knew it well; and kn,ew far more than he
What all this curious tale betokeneth ;
And yet she seemed afraid, as 'for her death :
"Alas I Go quickly, do thy work," she said,
"And help us to escape, or we are dead.
I am thy true and loyal wedded wife;
21
Go, husband, go, and help to save my life."
Lo I What a power may lie in perturbation !
A man may die of his imagination,
So deep is the impression it may make!
This simple carpenter began to shake.
He thought he saw in actuality
The flood of Noah rolling like the sea
To drown his Alison, his honey dear.
He weepeth, waileth, shuddereth with fear,
And many a heavy sigh the man blows off.
He goes at last and gets a kneading trough,
And after that a tub and kimelin,
And secretly he sent them to his inn,
And hung them in the rafters* secretly ;
His own hand shaped the ladders, all the three,
Which by the rungs and shafts could be ascended
Up to the beams where the tubs hung suspended.
And he provisioned both the tubs and trough
With bread and cheese, and ale to finish off —
He sent his maid and his apprentice down
On errands for him into London town.
And then on Monday, with the falling night,
He shut his door, and l i t no candle light,
And saw that all was as it ought to be.
And soon they climbed the ladders, all the three,
And sat there still, a furlong's length away.
"Now, pater-noster, mum !" said Nicholay ;
And "Mum !" quoth* John, and "Mum !" said
Alison,
This carpenter hath his devotion done,
And lies in quiet now, and says his prayer,
And waits to hear the rain, if it be there.
But dead sleep, after all his busyness,
Fell on this carpenter, as I should guess,
At curfew time, or later, it may be;
Disturbed of heart, he groaneth grievously,
And since his head was laid an awkward way,
He snored. Then down at once stole Nicholay,
And downward Alison as softly sped,
And with no further word they went to bed
There where the carpenter was wont* to be.
Then came the revel and the melody*!
And so lie Nicholas and Alison;
In mirth and pleasure there they play as one
Until the bell of lauds began to ring
And in the chancel monks commenced to sing.
This parish clerk, this amorous Absalon,
That ever is for love so woe begone,
Upon this Monday was at Oseney
With company, for pleasure and for play;
And asked by accident a cloisterer
In private of this John the carpenter.
He drew him from the church, and in his ear
He said, "I have not seen him working here
Since Saturday, and I suppose he went
For timber somewhere, by our abbot sent,
As I may thrive, at crowing of the cock,
I shall in secret at his window knock,
The one low down upon the chamber wall.
Then shall I speak to Alison of all
My longing and my love ; and shall not miss
At very least, that I shall get a kiss.
When the first cock crowed, long before the dawn,
Up rose this jolly lover Absalon,
And by her chamber window stood at rest,
The sill of which was level with his breast,
And coughed, and half aloud his suit begun :
"What do ye, honey-comb, sweet Alison?
Sweet cinnamon, my lovely bride to be,
Sweetheart, awake, I say, and speak to me.
Yea, I am so consumed with longing, love,
That I am sad as any turtle dove;
I cannot eat more than a maid," he sighed.
"Go ! Leave my window, jackass," she replied.
It w i l l not be 'Come kiss me.' by God's name;
I love another, or else I were to blame,
Better than thee, by Jesu, Absalon.
Be off, or I will stone thee. What! Have done !
And let me sleep, in the devil's name, I say!"
"Alas!" cried Absalon. "Alackaday*!
That true love ever had so hard a debtor!
Kiss me at least, if it may be no better,
For Jesu's love and mine, I beg of thee."
"Then wilt thou go thy way?" demanded she.
"Yea, of a truth, my dear; yea, sweetheart," said
he.
"Then I w i l l come at once," she called, "make
ready !"
And whispered low to Nicholas, "Lie still
And make no sound, and thou shalt laugh thy fill!"
This Absalon kneeled down. His heart was gay.
He said: "I am a lord in every way,
Of what shall come this kiss is but the savor;
Sweetheart, thy grace! O lovely bride, thy favor!"
Now hastily the window she undid.
"Have done ! Come up, and speed thee fast," she
bid,
"For fear thou shouldst attract some neighbor's
eye."
This Absalon now wiped his mouth all dry;
Like a black coal, or pitch, the darkness there
Hung dense, and out she thrust her bottom bare,
And Absalon did nothing more nor less
Than with his lips to set a sweet caress*
Upon her arse, before he knew of this.
He started back, for something seemed amiss;
He knew well that a woman has no beard.
He felt a thing all rough and thickly haired,
And "Fie !" he muttered. "What is this I do ?"
"Te-hee!" cried she, and clapped the window t o;
And Absalon goes wretchedly* away.
"A beard, a beard!" cried gentle Nicholay.
"Now by God's corpus, this goes well and fair!"
This simple Absalon, that still was there,
22
Heard all, and bit his lips until they bled.
"I shall repay thee!" to himself he said.
"Fool! Fool I I lacked the sense to turn aside!"
His burning love was quenched and satisfied,
For since he gave her buttocks that caress,
He rated love not worth a piece of cress;
He was clean purged of all his malady.
He cursed all wenches* long and bitterly,
And like a whipped child often sobbed and wept.
Then quietly across the street he crept,
To where Gervase, a blacksmith, had his house,
That in his forge* beat out the parts of plows;
Coulters and shares he sharpened busily.
This Absalon knocked softly. "Hist!" said he,
"Come out, Gervase ; undo thy door at once."
"Who art thou?" "Absalon," was the response.
"What, Absalon ! By Christ upon his tree,
Why rise ye up so early, ben'cite!
What ails you, lad, I say? Some gay girl — what?
Hath brought you out this morning at a trot;
By St. Note, boy, ye know well what I mean."
This Absalon he did not care a bean
For joking, and he would not speak or laugh.
He had more tow to spin on his distaff
Than Gervase knew, and said, "Good friend and
dear,
Lend me this red hot coulter* lying here
For something that I have a mind to do,
And I w i l l shortly bring it back to you."
Gervase replied, "Of course. Why, were it gold.
Or a fat bag of nobles still untold,
It should be thine, or I be no true smith.
Eh! Foe* of Christ! What will ye do therewith?"
"Let that," said Absalon, "be as it may;
I shall inform thee well when it is day,"
And caught the coulter where the steel was cool,
And softly from the smithy door he stole,
And to the carpenter's returned again.
...
Now read the end of the story and answer the
questions

1 He cogheth first, and knokketh therwithal

                    He coughs first, and knocks then
 Upon the wyndowe, right as he dide er.
                    Upon the window, just as he did before.
  This Alison answerde, "Who is ther
                    This Alison answered, "Who is there
 That knokketh so? I warante it a theef."
                    That knocks so? I swear it is a thief."
5   "Why, nay," quod he, "God woot, my sweete leef,
        "Why, nay," said he, "God knows, my sweet beloved,
I am thyn Absolon, my deerelyng.
                    I am thy Absolon, my darling.
 Of gold," quod he, "I have thee broght a ryng.
          Of gold," said he, "I have brought thee a ring.
 My mooder yaf it me, so God me save;
            My mother gave it to me, as God may save me;
  Ful fyn it is, and therto wel ygrave.
              Very fine it is, and also nicely engraved.
10 This wol I yeve thee, if thou me kisse."
                    This will I give thee, if thou kiss me."
This Nicholas was risen for to pisse,
            This Nicholas was risen to piss,
And thoughte he wolde amenden al the jape;
            And thought he would make the joke even better;
He sholde kisse his ers er that he scape.

23
                     He should kiss his ass before he escapes.

And up the wyndowe dide he hastily,

                    And he opened up the window hastily,
15 And out his ers he putteth pryvely
                    And he puts out his ass stealthily
Over the buttok, to the haunche-bon;
                    Over the buttock, to the thigh;
And therwith spak this clerk, this Absolon,
                    And then spoke this clerk, this
Absolon,
"Spek, sweete bryd, I noot nat where thou art."
                    "Speak, sweet bird, I know not
where thou art."
20  This Nicholas anon leet fle a fart
                    This Nicholas immediately let fly a fart
As greet as it had been a thonder-dent,
                    As great as if it had been a thunder-bolt,
That with the strook he was almoost yblent;
            So that with the stroke he was almost blinded;
And he was redy with his iren hoot,
                    And he was ready with his hot iron,
And Nicholas amydde the ers he smoot.
          And he smote Nicholas in the middle of the ass.
25  Of gooth the skyn an hande-brede aboute,
            Off goes the skin a hand's breadth about,
The hoote kultour brende so his toute,
                    The hot plough blade so burned his rump
And for the smert he wende for to dye.
                    And for the pain he thought he would die.
As he were wood, for wo he gan to crye,
               As if he were crazy, for woe he began to cry,
"Help! Water! Water! Help, for Goddes herte!"
              "Help! Water! Water! Help, for God's heart!"

The carpenter re-enters the story with a crash

 This carpenter out of his slomber sterte,

                    This carpenter woke suddenly out of his slumber,
30  And herde oon crien "water!" as he were wood,
                    And heard someone cry "water!" as if he were crazy,
And thoughte, "Allas, now comth Nowelis flood!"
                    And thought, "Alas, now comes Nowell's flood!"
He sit hym up withouten wordes mo,
                    He sits up without more words,
And with his ax he smoot the corde atwo,
                    And with his ax he smote the cord in two,
And doun gooth al; he foond neither to selle,
                    And down goes all; he found nothing to sell (wasted no time),

24
35  Ne breed ne ale, til he cam to the celle
                    Neither bread nor ale, until he came to the pavement
Upon the floor, and ther aswowne he lay.
                    Upon the floor, and there he lay in a swoon.

Alison and Nicholas lie their way out of the predicament

 Up stirte hire Alison and Nicholay,

                    Up started Alison and Nicholay,
 And criden "Out" and "Harrow" in the strete.
                    And cried "Out" and "Help" in the street.
The neighebores, bothe smale and grete,
                    The neighbors, both low-ranking and high
40 In ronnen for to gauren on this man,
                    Run in to gawk at this man,
 That yet aswowne lay, bothe pale and wan,
                    Who yet lay in a swoon, both pale and wan,
For with the fal he brosten hadde his arm.
                    For with the fall he had broken his arm.
 But stonde he moste unto his owene harm;
                    But he had to stand up for himself, though it went badly;
For whan he spak, he was anon bore doun
                    For when he spoke, he was immediately put down
45  With hende Nicholas and Alisoun.
                    By clever Nicholas and Alisoun.
 They tolden every man that he was wood;
                    They told every one that he was crazy;
He was agast so of Nowelis flood
                    He was so afraid of Nowell's flood
Thurgh fantasie that of his vanytee
                    Because of his imagination that in his foolishness
He hadde yboght hym knedyng tubbes thre,
                    He had bought himself three kneading tubs,
50 And hadde hem hanged in the roof above;
                    And had hanged them in the roof above;
And that he preyed hem, for Goddes love,
                    And that he begged them, for God's love,
To sitten in the roof, par compaignye.
                    To sit in the roof, to keep him company.
The folk gan laughen at his fantasye;
                    The folk did laugh at his foolishness;
 Into the roof they kiken and they cape,
                    Into the roof they stare and they gape,
55 And turned al his harm unto a jape.
                    And turned all his harm into a joke.
 For what so that this carpenter answerde,
                    For whatever this carpenter answered,

25
 It was for noght; no man his reson herde.
                    It was for naught; no one listened to his explanation,
With othes grete he was so sworn adoun
                    With oaths great he was so sworn down
That he was holde wood in al the toun;
                    That he was considered crazy in all the town
60 For every clerk anonright heeld with oother.
                    For every clerk immediately agreed with the other.
They seyde, "The man is wood, my leeve brother";
                    They said, "The man is crazy, my dear brother";
 And every wight gan laughen at this stryf.
                    And every person did laugh at this strife.

The “moral” of the story

Thus swyved was this carpenteris wyf,

                    Thus screwed was this carpenter's wife,
 For al his kepyng and his jalousye,
                    In spite of all his guarding and his jealousy,
65 And Absolon hath kist hir nether ye,
                    And Absolon has kissed her lower eye,
And Nicholas is scalded in the towte.
                    And Nicholas is scalded in the rump.
This tale is doon, and God save al the rowte!
                    This tale is done, and God save all this company!
 

Now answer the following questions:

1. Describe Absolom’s revenge:

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

2. How does the story end, what happens to the carpenter?

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

3. What is the moral of the story according to the narrator?

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

26
The Reeve’s Tale
The Canterbury Tales just don't get any more unsettling than "The Reeve's Tale."

What you're about to read is a disturbing story about how two young students take revenge on a
miller who has cheated them of flour by raping his wife and daughter and beating him to a pulp. If it
sounds unsavory, that's because it is: what begins as a seemingly lighthearted story very quickly takes
a sinister turn. At the end of it, we the audience are left feeling sick to our stomachs, wondering how
something that initially seemed so innocent could have become so very dark.

"The Reeve's Tale" is an attempt by the Reeve to "quite," or answer, "The Miller's Tale." The Reeve is
angry because the Miller has just told a story in which a carpenter is humiliated by his wife and her
lover. The Reeve appears to interpret this as an attack on the entire carpentry profession, and
because he was formerly a carpenter, he decides that he must answer this perceived attack with
"bleryng of a proud milleres eye," or the fictional "take-down" of a miller (11). The similarity of the
"punishment" of the miller and carpenter—humiliation by adultery—is one way in which we might
read this tale as "answering" the Miller's.

Like "The Miller's Tale," "The Reeve's Tale" is a fabliau, a medieval genre of bawdy story, usually
concerning adultery. Chaucer may have based this tale on a similar story from
Boccaccio's Decameron in which two clerks have sex with the wife and daughter of the innkeeper
with whom they're staying. The similarity between the two tales may be evidence of a source
relationship between them. On the other hand, it could just be that both tales draw on a motif that
was very common in medieval fabliau, the "cradle-trick," in which someone gets into the wrong bed
because the cradle has been moved.

Finally, "The Reeve's Tale" is notable because it's the first example we have in English of a writer
trying to imitate an accent other than his own. The dialect in which the two clerks speak, using
regional colloquialisms and replacing the o's in many words with the letter a, is very different from
the Southern English or London accent in which Chaucer normally wrote (and probably spoke). The
notion that comedy might be produced by the attempt to imitate regional accents is one we still
appreciate today, for which we can thank Chaucer, and specifically "The Reeve's Tale."

The Prologue to the Reeve’s Tale

Whan folk hadde laughen at this nyce cas

                    When folk had laughed at this foolish business
3856         Of Absolon and hende Nicholas,
                    Of Absolon and clever Nicholas,
3857         Diverse folk diversely they seyde,
                    Different folk said different opinions,
3858         But for the moore part they loughe and pleyde.
                    But for the most part they laughed and enjoyed themselves.
3859         Ne at this tale I saugh no man hym greve,
                    And at this tale I saw no man aggrieved,
3860         But it were oonly Osewold the Reve.
                    Except for only Osewold the Reeve.

27
3861         By cause he was of carpenteris craft,
                    Because he was of the carpenter's craft,
3862         A litel ire is in his herte ylaft;
                    A little anger is left in his heart;
3863         He gan to grucche, and blamed it a lite.
                    He began to grouch, and criticized it a little.

3864         "So theek," quod he, "ful wel koude I thee quite
                    "As I may prosper," said he, "very well could I repay thee
3865         With bleryng of a proud milleres ye,
                    With (a tale of the) blearing of a proud miller's eye (tricking him),
3866         If that me liste speke of ribaudye.
                    If I wanted to speak of ribaldry.
3867         But ik am oold; me list not pley for age;
                    But I am old; because of age I do not want to play;
[…]

3883         "Foure gleedes han we, which I shal devyse --

                    "Four live coals have we, which I shall describe --
3884         Avauntyng, liyng, anger, coveitise;
                    Boasting, lying, anger, greed;
3885         Thise foure sparkles longen unto eelde.
                    These four little sparks belong to old age.
3886         Oure olde lemes mowe wel been unweelde,
                    Our old limbs may well be feeble,
3887         But wyl ne shal nat faillen, that is sooth.
                    But desire shall not be lacking, that is truth.
3888         And yet ik have alwey a coltes tooth,
                    And yet I have always a young man's desires,

3889         As many a yeer as it is passed henne

                    As many years as have passed hence
3890         Syn that my tappe of lif bigan to renne.
                    Since my tap of life began to run.

[…]
3899         Whan that oure Hoost hadde herd this sermonyng,
                    When our Host had heard this sermon making,
3900         He gan to speke as lordly as a kyng.
                    He began to speak as lordly as a king.
3901         He seide, "What amounteth al this wit?
                    He said, "What amounts all this wit?
3902         What shul we speke alday of hooly writ?
                    What! shall we speak all day of holy writ?
3903         The devel made a reve for to preche,
                    The devil made a reeve to preach,
3904         Or of a soutere a shipman or a leche.
                    Or of a cobbler made a shipman or a physician.

28
3905         Sey forth thy tale, and tarie nat the tyme.
                    Say forth thy tale, and do not waste the time. 

The Reeve’s Tale

At a place called Trumpington, not far from Cambridge, there’s a bridge over a brook, with a mill
nearby – and what I’m about to tell you is the truth. A miller lived there for a long time and he was as
proud as any peacock. He could play the pipes and fish, mend nets, use a wood lathe, wrestle and
shoot arrows from a longbow. At his waist he wore a long knife whose edge was as sharp as that of a
sword. He kept a little dagger in his pocket as well, and another knife which he wore in his hose, one
of Sheffield steel. Nobody dared to lay a hand on him. His face was round, he had a turned-up nose
and his forehead sloped back making his head resemble an ape’s. He was a complete bully in the
market. If anyone touched him he would threaten violence and assault. He was a habitual thief of
grain and flour too, and a cunning one at that. His name was Simkin.

This Simkin had a wife, who came from genteel stock; her father was the parson at Trumpington.
He'd given many a bucketful of brass to secure her marriage. She'd been brought up in a nunnery,
which suited Simpkin, to be honest, for he'd declared that he would only marry a well-brought-up
young lady and one who was chaste, for he was very proud of his status as a yeoman.

In all honesty, she was as proud as he was; as upright as a magpie. It was a sight to see them both on
holy days, he in front, wearing a cape with a high collar clasped around his neck and she behind in a
red dress, the same colour as her husband's hose. Nobody dared to address her in any other way but:
‘Madam,’ and nobody was brave enough to start an argument with her, of have a joke even, unless
he wanted to be killed with a knife, a dagger or a long spike by Simkin. Jealous folk are always
dangerous; or at least, that’s what they want their wives to think. But she gave herself such airs
because her father was really a celibate priest and she was illegitimate and as noble as ditch water if
the truth be known. To disguise this fact she imagined that every woman should respect her because
of her parentage and her education in a nunnery.

They had a daughter who was twenty years old, and no other children except for a little baby of six
months old lying in a cradle, a boisterous little boy. The daughter was tall and big-boned with a
turned-up nose like her father's and eyes as grey as glass. She had wide hips and large breasts riding
high on her chest; but her hair was nice, I can’t deny that. The parson, her grandfather, intended to
make her his heir, both of his possessions and his house, since in his eyes, she was quite a comely
lass. He was very fussy about her suitors and intended to find a worthy husband for her, a noble
young man from a family with some ancestry, perhaps. The possessions of Holy Church should be
passed on to those who are used to such things already and deserved them, he thought. He wished
to honour his Church ancestry despite his intention to usurp its goods.

This miller supplied much of the surrounding district with wheat and barley, flour and malt, and in
particular, a Cambridge college known as King’s Hall. At this time, the manciple of that college lay sick
and many people feared that he would die and for this reason, the miller was cheating the college a
hundred times more than he had ever done before. He was stealing their grain and their flour, and
where previously he had defrauded them by quiet subtleties and courteous ruses, now he just
blatantly thieved from them. The college warden had warned him and made a fuss, but the miller
had taken no notice. He just puffed himself up and denied everything.

29
There were two young clerics, young students living in this hall. Both were high-spirited and eager to
have fun and, for no other reason than to have some sport, they asked the warden one day if they
could go to see their wheat being milled. Bravely, they declared that the miller would not be able to
steal half a peck from them, neither by deception nor by force, they would lay their heads on it. After
a little persuading, the warden allowed them to go.

One of the students was named John and the other Alan. They were both from up north somewhere,
a town called Strother or something like it, I don’t know where that is. Alan got all his things ready
and threw the sack of grain onto his horse. Then off went Alan the cleric, with John alongside, with a
good sword and a small shield. John knew the way, they needed no guide, and soon they threw the
sack down beside the mill.

‘Gud morning to yer, man,’ Alan cried. ‘Are yer there, Simmond? How’s yer doorta an’ how’s yer
wife?’

‘Alan,’ cried the miller, ‘how nice to see you. And John! What’s up? How can I help you?’

‘Needs must, like,’ said John. 'The man who has nooah servant must help hisself, or else heez a fool,
as learned men say. Our manciple’s gonna pop 'is clogs very soon, his rotten teeth are eat’n up his
head. Therefore I’ve come along with Alan to grind our wheat and take it back again. So do it as
quickly as you can and we’ll be howay.’

‘Certainly,’ cried Simpkin. ‘I shall do it for you at once. What are you going to do while I’m busy at it?’

‘I’ll stand heer by the hoppa, ‘n see it all gan in,’ said John, ‘I never sawer ‘til now how the thing
goowas back and forth like it does.’

'Then I’ll howay down to the bottom ‘n see the meal fall into the trough,' replied Alan. 'I’ll enjoy that,
for I have to see-a, I’m as ignorant as you aboot the way the hooel thing works.’

The miller smiled at their naivety. ‘This is all a ruse,’ he thought to himself. ‘They think they can stop
themselves from being cheated. But by God, I shall pull the wool over their educated eyes, for all
their erudition and learning. The more tricks they can think up, the more I’ll steal from them in the
end. I’ll give them bran in place of flour. “The most learned clerics are not the wisest men,” as the
mare once said to the wolf. I don’t give a straw for their arts and philosophies.’

When the miller saw that Alan and John were busy watching the machinery, he quietly slipped
through a door and went outside into the open air, where he saw the students’ horse tied up behind
the mill, in some shade. He went over to the animal and untied its bridle. When the horse found that
it was free, it galloped off whinnying in delight towards the fen where the wild mares were roaming.
The miller went back into the mill and set to work, saying nothing about the horse but chatting
amicably to the two students until all their wheat had been milled properly.

When the flour was all bagged up, John went out and saw that their horse had disappeared. ‘Help!’
he cried. ‘Come quickly, help! Our horse is gone. Alan, for God’s boo-ans! The warden’s palfrey's not
heer!’

Alan forgot about the flour and went rushing out, quality control and all commercial integrity
suddenly the furthest thing from his mind. ‘Which hweer did he goo-er?’ he shouted.

The miller’s wife suddenly appeared and said: ‘Alas! Your horse is galloping off towards the open fen
where all the wild mares are grazing. Some idiot couldn’t have tied him up properly.’

30
‘Alas!’ cried Alan. ‘John, lay down yer sword, cos we canna' run after him with'em roond us. I reckon
we’re boo-eth agile enough to catch him if we set off at once. H-why did yer not fasten the reins
properly, yer wolly?’

These foolish clerics, Alan and John, ran as fast as they could towards the fen. When the miller saw
that they were gone, he took half a bushel of their flour and told his wife to go and make a big cake
with it. ‘I imagine those students were afraid that I was cheating them,’ he said. ‘But they’re not
clever enough to get one over on a miller. Let them go and play with the children. I don’t imagine
they’ll be able to recapture their horse very easily.’

Alan and John ran here and there crying: ‘Hey! Whooah there! Stand still yer beest! You whistle, I’ll
cut off his retreat!’ But even when it was getting dark, they still hadn’t been able to catch him, try as
they might. He always managed to run off. But at last, they cornered him in a ditch. Tired out, and as
soaking wet with fen water as beasts left out in the rain all day, Alan and John returned at last to the
mill.

‘Alas! Why was I ever born!' complained John as they walked back towards the mill, leading Bayard
by the reins. 'Now we’ll be a laughing stock. Our flour has all been stoo-len and we’ll be taken for
fools – by the warden, by all oower mee-ats and by the miller, damn it!’

When they arrived back they found the miller sitting comfortably beside his fire, for it was now dark.
They couldn’t set off for Cambridge now so they begged him, for the love of God, to let them stay the
night and offered him a penny for some food and shelter.

‘If I have anywhere I can put you up you’re welcome to it, such as it is,’ replied the miller. ‘Although
my house is small, being scholars I should imagine you can make a room a mile wide out of twenty
feet of space, so let’s see if it's big enough or whether by arguments and logic you can make it bigger
still.’

‘By Saint Cuthbert, Symmond,’ replied John. ‘You have a merry wit man. I’ve heard it said, thoo-er,
that a man has two choices – to tee-ak what he finds or tee-ak what he brings ‘n we’ve brought
nowt. So bring us some food and drink, dee-er host‘n we’ll pay a full price for it. You can’t entice a
hawk with an empty hand, look, heers hoor silver, all ready-ter spend.’

The miller sent his daughter into Trumpington to buy ale and bread, roasted them a goose and made
sure that their horse was well-secured. Then he made up a bed for them in his own chamber, with
sheets and blankets, only ten or twelve feet away from his own bed. His daughter had a bed to
herself in the same room. Here they had to lie, because there was nowhere else for them in the
house. They ate and they chatted, made conversation, drank a lot of strong ale and at about
midnight, they were ready for bed.

The miller looked as though his head had been varnished; he was past sanguine and was now pale
with drink. He hiccupped and slurred his words as though he had a sore throat and a cold. He went to
bed, and with him his wife, who was as jolly and talkative as a jay, such a thorough job she had made
of wetting her whistle. She set the cradle next to her bed, so that she could rock it and put the baby
to her breast, and when the jug of ale was all gone, the daughter retired as well, as did Alan and
John.

The miller had drunk so much ale that he soon began to snore like a horse, and to fart like one as
well. His wife began to snore just as loudly – you could have heard them from two furlongs away –
and then the daughter started to make her own contribution to this wind ensemble.

31
Alan the cleric, listening to this performance, poked John in the ribs and asked: ‘Are you howee-ak
man? Have y’ever heard such a melody? Which holy service d’yer think it belongs to? I wish a wildfire
would burn ‘em all up! Whoever heard anything like it before? I’m not goo-in t-get any sleep tonight,
that’s for shoower. But never mind. All might be for the best, John. So help me God, if I can, I’m
gonna give yon wench over there a jolly good seeing to. The law gives us the right to some
compensation, after all, for it seeaz that if a man is aggrieved in one way he may seek satisfaction in
another. Our corn is stoolen and we’ve been given the run-around all dee-er. Since I noo-ah I woont
get prop-a compensation, I shall te-ak eezment in its plee-ass. By God, me mind is me-ad up.’

‘Yer canna'do that,’ whispered John. ‘The miller’s a bloody psychopath! If he wee-aks up he’ll kill us
boo-eth!’

‘Don’t worry y’sell, John, there’s nowt in him to fear.’ Alan rose from the bed and went over to lie
beside the daughter. She was fast asleep on her back and Alan was so close to her when she woke up
that she didn’t have time to scream. Very quickly they were as one. Now enjoy this game, Alan, while
I speak of John.

John lay still for a few minutes, tormenting himself with fears of ineptitude. ‘Alas,’ he thought. ‘This is
a wicked joke. I must look a right fool, lying here by myself. My mate has got something back for the
wrong that’s been done to us – he has the miller’s daughter in his arms. He’s taken his chance and
got his reward, while I lie here like a sack of straw. When the story of this escapade goes around the
college, I’ll look a complete idiot and be the butt of all the jokes. I shall get up and chance my own
arm, by God! Fortune favours the brave, as men say.’

John got up and went quietly over to the cradle, picked it up, carried it over and placed it in a similar
position in relation to his own bed. Soon after this, the wife stopped snoring, got up and went out to
have a piss. When she returned, she couldn’t feel the cradle, so she felt around, but still there was no
sign of it.

‘Alas,’ she said to herself. ‘I almost made a dreadful mistake; I nearly got into bed with the two
clerics! Oh, God bless me, but that would have been awful.’

She groped around, found the cradle, groped a little more, found the bed near to it and was very
pleased when she felt the cradle and the bed, for she couldn’t see a thing in the dark. She got in
beside the student, lay still and began to fall asleep. After a little while, John leaped up and started
doings things to her that she hadn’t experienced for a very long time. He thrust firmly into her, hard
and deep; she’d never had such a merry time!

These two clerics carried on like this until the third crow of the cock. Alan began to get tired as the
light started to grow, for he’d been at it with the daughter all night. ‘Farewell, Malin luv,’ he said.
‘The day is dawning. I can stee-er no longer. But I shall be yoo-er cleric always, so may I have joy.’

‘Good luck my sweetheart,’ she replied. ‘But before you go, I’ll tell you something. When you set off
for home, as you pass the mill, behind the door you’ll find a large cake made from half a bushel of
flour. It’s made from your wheat – I helped my father to steal it from you. And darling, God save you
and protect you!’ With this, she almost began to weep.

Alan got up and thought: ‘Before the room gets any lighter, I’ll go back and lie beside John.’ Then he
found the cradle with his hand: ‘Oh no! I’ve gone wrong. My head’s still in the clouds with all this
lovemaking. I’ve forgotten how the room was laid out. If the cradle’s here, then the miller and his
wife must be here as well.’ So he went round to where the miller lay in his bed, curse it! He thought
he was lying down beside his friend John, but it was the miller he was getting into bed with. He

32
reached out, put his hand around the man’s neck and whispered: John, you pig’s head, wee-ak up
man, for Christ’s soul, and listen to this. By Saint James, I’ve gone all the wee-a with the miller’s
daughter three times tonight, man, while you’ve been snoring in this bed like a coward.‘

‘You bastard!’ cried the miller. ‘Have you done this? You traitor! Dishonest cleric! I’m going to kill
you, prepare yourself for death! How dare you rape my lovely, highborn daughter?’

The miller caught Alan round the throat, but the cleric sprung away and punched the miller so hard in
the face with his fist that a stream of blood ran from the man's broken nose and mouth onto his
chest as they both rolled onto the floor and wrestled like two pigs in a sack. Up they rose and down
they fell until the miller tripped on a stone and fell onto his wife, who was totally oblivious to what
was going on, for she was sleeping soundly in the arms of John. She woke with a start and exclaimed:
‘Help! Holy cross of Broomholme! Save us Lord! Wake us Simmond, the devil’s here! My heart has
stopped, I’m dead! There’s a devil lying on my stomach, and one on my head. Help Simkin. Those
bloody students are fighting.’

John got up as quickly as he could and groped along the wall for a staff. The miller’s wife leapt out of
bed also and, knowing the room much better than he did, found a staff quickly and fixed her eye on
something glistening in the moonlight – for the moon was shining in through a tiny window in one of
the walls. She could see two men wrestling there but couldn’t make out much, except for a shiny
white thing bobbing about. Thinking that it might be the night cap of one of the students, she
advanced towards it and brought the staff firmly down upon the miller’s bald head.

‘Aahhh, you’ve killed me!’ he cried.

Alan and John gave him a good kicking and let him lie still.

The clerics got dressed, readied their horse, picked up their sack of flour and set off for Cambridge,
stopping off at the mill to collect the cake made from half a bushel of their flour.

So the arrogant miller received a good kicking, lost the flour he had stolen and paid for John and
Alan’s supper. His wife was made love to and his daughter lost her precious virginity – see what
happens to a dishonest miller! There’s truth in the old proverb: “Do and get done by.” A cunning
rascal had better watch his back, that's all I can say. God, who sits high in majesty, save everybody
riding here, great and small.

Now I’ve got my own back on the miller.

33
34
The Wife of Bath

The wife of Bath

In the wife of Bath we have one of only three women on the

pilgrimage. Unlike the other two, she is not a nun, but a much-
married woman, a widow yet again. Everything about her is
exaggerated: she has been married five times, has been to
Jerusalem three times and het hat and hips are as large as her
sexual appetite and her love of talk

Prologue to the wife of Bath’s Tale

The Wife of Bath's Prologue begins with the Wife proposing to "speke of wo that is in mariage,"
claiming the authority to do so because she has been married five times. However, her speech
quickly evolves into a defense of the married lifestyle, which she deems necessary because people
have apparently criticized her for being married so many times. It takes the Pardoner's interruption,
in which he regrets his recent decision to take a wife, to put the Wife back on her initial track.

In keeping with her claim to speak from experience, the Wife chooses to illustrate the "wo that is in
mariage" by telling how she ruled over her last five husbands. She launches into an extended
flashback of "how I bar me proprely". By accusing her husbands of unfaithfulness, misogyny, and ill
treatment of her, she says, she managed to get everything she wanted from them.

In the last part of her Prologue, the Wife recounts her last two marriages. Her fourth husband
cheated on her, an injury she repaid by making him think she was cheating on him. Her fifth husband
was the one she loved best. She secured his promise to marry her before her fourth husband was
even dead. After the wedding, they came to blows when the Wife became tired of her husband's
readings from his "book of wikked wyves". When she tore some pages from his book and threw it in
the fire, he hit her, then she smacked him back. The conclusion of this fight, claims the Wife, was that
the two "fille accorded", her husband giving her the power in their relationship.

The Wife's Prologue concludes with the Friar's interruption to laugh at it and call it "a long preamble
of a tale". The Summoner, who seems to dislike the Friar on principle, criticizes him for interrupting.
Both men promise to tell tales insulting of one another's professions when it's their turn to speak,
prompting the Host to cry for peace and give the stage back to the Wife, who agrees at this point to
begin her tale.
Source: shmoop.com

35
The Wife of Bath’s Tale
In the olden days of King Arthur,
Of whom Britons speak with great honour,
All this land was filled full with faerie.
The Elf-Queen with her fair company
Danced full oft in many a green mead.
That was the old opinion, as I read –
I speak of many hundred years ago.
But now no man sees elves I know,
For now the endless charity and prayers
Of limiters and other holy friars,
Who search every field and every stream
As thick as are the motes in a sun-beam,
Blessing halls, chambers, kitchens, bowers,
Cities, boroughs, castles and high towers,
Thorps, barns, cattle-sheds, and dairies –
This is why there are no longer faeries.
For wherever there used to walk an elf,
There walks now the limiter himself
In the noon-time and in the mornings,
And says his matins and his holy things
As he goes round his limitation’s bounds.
Women may go safely up and down;
In every bush or under every tree,
There is no incubus about but he,
And he will only do them dishonour.
And it so befell that this King Arthur
Had in his house a lusty bachelor
Who one day came riding from the river,
And it chanced that, alone as he was born,
He saw a maiden walking there at dawn,
Of which maid, no matter how she pled,
By very force he stole her maidenhead;
Which oppression raised so great a clamour
And such petitions to King Arthur
That this knight was condemned as dead
Bu court of law and set to lose his head –
Peradventure, such was the statute though –
But that the Queen and other ladies so
Prayed the King for so long for his grace
That he his life granted him in its place,
And gave him to the Queen, to do her will,
To choose whether she would save or kill.
The Queen thanked the King with all her
might;
And after thus she spoke to the knight,
When she thought it right, upon a day,
‘You yet stand,’ quoth she, ‘in such array
That of your life you yet shall have no surety.
I grant you life though, if you can tell me
What thing it is that women most desire.
Beware and keep your neck from axe’s ire!
And if you cannot tell me now anon,
Yet I will give you leave to be gone
A twelve-month and a day, and everywhere
Seek answer sufficient to this matter there.
And surety will I have, before you ride a pace,
That you return in person to this place.’
Woe was this knight, and sorrowfully mired,
But then, he might not do as he desired.
And at the last he chose to go and wend,
And come again, right at the year’s end,
With such answer as God would him purvey;
And so took leave and wended on his way.
He sought at every house in every place
Wherever he had hopes of finding grace,
To learn what thing women love the most;
But could not find by inland field or coast
Any one solution to this matter
On which two creatures agreed together.
Some said women had most love of riches;
Some said honour, some said happiness;
Some rich array, some said lust abed,
And oft times to be widowed and to wed.
Some said that our heart is most eased
When we are flattered most and pleased.
(I cannot lie! He’s very near reality;
A man may win us best by flattery;
And with attention, all the business,
Are we best snared, the great and less.)
And some said that we love best
To be free, and do as we’re possessed,
And that no man reprove us of our vice,
But claim we are not fools but somewhat
wise.
For truly there is none at all among us,
If anyone on some sore spot will rub us
That will not kick if he tells the truth.
Try, and you will find it so, in sooth.
For, be we ever so vicious within,
We would be held as wise and free of sin.
And some said that great delight have we
In being thought dependable, discreet,
Steadfastly maintaining our purpose well,
36
And not betraying things that some might tell
– A fouler one than her might none devise.
But value that at less than a rake-handle!
Woman’s discretion isn’t worth a candle;
Witness old Midas – will you hear the tale?
Ovid, amongst his great and small ale,
Says Midas had, under his long hair,
Upon his head two ass’s ears there;
The which deformity he hid from sight
Of every man, as subtly as he might,
That save his wife, none knew it was so.
He loved her best, and trusted her also;
He begged her that to no creature
She would tell of this sad feature.
She swore ‘no’, for all the world to win,
She would not do such villainy and sin,
As to gain her husband so foul a name;
She would not tell she said out of shame.
But nevertheless she almost died
At having this secret so long to hide.
She felt it swell so sore about her heart
That some word was sure from her to start.
And since she dared tell it to no man,
Down the marsh close nearby she ran –
Till she reached it her heart was all afire –
And as a bittern booms in the mire,
She laid her mouth to the water down.
‘Betray me not, water, with your sound!’
Quoth she, ‘I tell it now, but just to you:
My husband has long ass’s ears two!
Now is my heart all whole; now is it out.
I could no longer hide it, have no doubt.’
Here you see, that we can for a time abide,
Yet out it must; we can no secret hide.
The remainder of the tale, if you would hear,
Read Ovid, and you will find it there.
The knight of whom my tale tells specially,
When he saw he could not find out easily –
That is to say, what women love the most –
Within his breast full sorrowful was his ghost.
But home he goes; he could not make sojourn;
The day was come when homeward he must
turn.
And on his way back he happened to ride,
Full of his cares, under a forest side,
Where he saw dancing on woodland floor
Of ladies four and twenty, and yet more.
Towards the which dance he began to turn,
In hope that some wisdom he might learn.
But certainly, before he was fully there,
Vanished was the dance; he knew not where.
No creature saw he that showed sign of life,
Save, sitting on the green, an old wife –
Against the knight this wife began to rise
And said: ‘Sir knight, here there lies no way.
Tell me what you are seeking, by your faith!
Peradventure it might be better thus for thee;
This old woman knows many things,’ quoth
she.
‘My dear mother,’ quoth the knight, ‘for
certain
I am a dead man, unless I can show plain
What thing it is that women most desire.
Should you enlighten me, I’d pay your hire.’
‘Plight me your troth, here by my hand,’ quoth
she,
‘That the next thing I require of thee
You shall do, if it lies within your might,
And I will tell you of it ere it be night.’
‘Here, by my truth!’ quoth the knight,
‘Agreed.’
‘Then,’ quoth she, ‘I dare boast readily
Your life is safe, for I will stand thereby.
Upon my life, the Queen will speak as I.
Let’s see if then the proudest of them all
That wears a head-cloth or a gemmed caul
Dare say nay to that which I shall teach.
Let us go on without longer speech.’
Then she whispered something in his ear,
And bade him to be glad and have no fear.
When they had reached the court, this knight
Declared he had kept his promise, to the
night,
And ready was his answer, as he said.
Full many a noble wife and many a maid
And many a widow – since they are wise –
And the Queen herself, sitting in justice high,
Were assembled his answer there to hear;
And in a while the knight was bade appear.
37
Of everyone demanded was their silence,
And that the knight should tell his audience
What thing that worldly women love the best.
The knight forbore to stand there like a beast,
But to her question swiftly answered her
In manly voice, so all the court could hear.
‘My liege lady, generally,’ quoth he,
Women desire the self-same sovereignty
Over a husband as they do a lover,
And to hold mastery, he not above her.
That is your great desire, though you me kill;
Do as you wish; I am at your will.’
In all the court there was nor wife nor maid
Nor widow who could challenge what he said,
But said that he was worthy to have his life.
And at that word up started the old wife
Whom the knight had found sitting on the
green.
‘Mercy, ‘quoth she, ‘my sovereign lady queen;
Ere that your court depart, see me aright.
I taught this answer to this same knight,
For which he plighted me his troth entire,
That the first thing I should of him require
He would do, if it lay within his might.
Before the court then, pray I you, sir knight,’
Quoth she, ‘that you take me as your wife,
For you know well that I have saved your life.
If I say false, say so, upon your faith.’
The knight answered, ‘Alas and well-away!
I know right well that such was my behest.
For God’s love, now choose a fresh request!
Take all my goods, and let my body go.’
‘Nay, then,’ quoth she, ‘A curse upon us two!
For though that I be foul and old and poor,
I wish not, for all the metal and the ore
That is buried under earth or lies above,
For aught but to be your wife, and your love.’
‘My love!’ quoth he, ‘nay, my damnation!
Alas, that any of my nation
Should ever be disgraced so foully!’
But all for naught; the end is this, that he
Had little choice; he needs must her wed,
And take his old wife, and go to bed.
Now some men would say, peradventure,
That in my negligence I make no feature
Of all the joy there was and the array
That at the feast appeared that very day.
To which thing briefly I answer shall:
I say, there was no joy or feast at all;
There was only heaviness and much sorrow.
For secretly he wedded her that morrow,
And all day after hid him like an owl;
Such woe was on him – with a wife so foul.
Great was the woe the knight had in his
thought
When he was with his wife to bed there
brought;
He thrashed about and twisted to and fro.
His old wife lay smiling broadly though,
And said: ‘O dear husband, benedicitee!
Does every knight do with his wife as thee?
Is this the law about King Arthur’s house?
Is every knight of his so mean a louse?
I am your own love, and then your wife;
I am she who has saved your life,
And, for sure, I have served you right.
Why do you thus with me this first night?
You act as would a man who’d lost his wit!
What is my sin? For God’s love, tell me it,
And it shall be amended, if I may.’
‘Amended,’ quoth the knight, ‘Alas, nay, nay!
It cannot be amended evermore.
You are so ugly, and so old, and more
You come also of such a lowly kin,
That little wonder is I thrash and spin.
God, would the heart but burst in my breast!’
‘Is this,’ quoth she, ‘the cause of your unrest?’
Yes,’ quoth he, what wonder all’s amiss?’
‘Now, sire,’ quoth she, ‘I could amend all this,
If I wished, before we have seen days three,
If you would but bear yourself well towards
me.
If you all think by speaking of nobleness
Such as has descended from old riches,
That therefore it makes you noble men,
Such arrogance is not worth a hen.
Look for the most virtuous man always,
In private and public, who sees his way
To doing the noblest deeds that he can,
38
There will you find the greatest gentleman.
Christ wills we take from him our gentleness,
Not from our ancestors, despite their riches.
For though they leave us all their heritage,
From which we claim noble parentage,
Yet can they still bequeath us nothing
Not one of us, of their virtuous living,
That made them gentlemen in name to be,
Who bade us follow them in that degree.
Well has the wise poet of Florence,
Dante, I mean, spoken in this same sense –
Lo, in such verse Dante’s tale advances:
“Seldom arises by his slender branches
Man’s prowess, for God, of his goodness,
Wills that of him we claim our gentleness.”
For from our elders we can nothing claim
But temporal things, which may hurt and
maim.
And everyone knows this as well as me:
If nobility were implanted naturally
In a certain lineage down the line,
Publicly, privately then the vine
Of noble work would be evergreen;
They would enact no vice or villainy.
Take fire, and bear it to the darkest house
Between here and the distant Caucasus,
And let men shut the doors and return,
Yet will the fire remain there and burn
As if twenty thousand did it behold.
Its natural office it will ever hold,
On peril of my life, until it die.
Thus you may see how the noble eye
Is not wedded to possession,
Since folk do not maintain its function
Forever, as does fire, lo, of its kind.
For, God knows, men will often find
A lord’s son acting shameful villainy.
And he who wants to claim nobility
Because he was born of a noble house,
His ancestors noble and virtuous,
And yet himself has done no noble deeds,
Nor followed his noble ancestors deceased,
He is not noble, be he duke or earl,
For base sinful deeds make the churl.
While mere renown makes gentility,
Your ancestors and their great bounty,
Which is external and not your own;
Your nobility comes from God alone.
Thus comes our own nobility by grace;
Not bequeathed to us by rank and place.
Think how noble, as says Valerius,
Was that Tullius Hostilius,
Who rose from poverty to high status,
Read Seneca and read Boethius,
There is it both expressed and agreed
That he is noble who does noble deeds.
And therefore, dear husband, I conclude
Although my ancestry is rough and rude,
Yet may God on high, I hope, may He
Grant me the grace to live virtuously.
Thus am I noble, when I first begin
To live in virtue, and abandon sin.
And in that you my poverty reprove,
The God whom we believe in and love,
In wilful poverty chose to live his life.
And surely, every man, maid or wife
Understands that Jesus, Heaven’s King,
Could yield of his life no vicious thing.
Honest poverty is fine, that’s certain:
This, Seneca and other clerks maintain.
The man content with poverty, I assert
That man is rich, although he lacks a shirt.
He that covets wealth is all the poorer
For he would have what is not in his power.
But he who has naught, yet does not crave,
Is rich, although you hold him but a knave.
True poverty sings, in reality.
Juvenal says of poverty appositely:
“The poor man, as he goes on his way
Beside the thief, may ever sing and play.”
Poverty though hateful’s good nonetheless
In that it is a great release from business;
A great augmenter too of sapience,
To the man accepting it with patience.
Poverty, though it seems second best,
Is a possession no man can contest.
Poverty, often, when a man is humble
Leads him to God, and to himself as well.
Poverty is a glass, it seems to me,
Through which he may his true friends see.
And thus, sire, since I wish no grief to you,
Of my poverty show no more reproof.
Now, sire, of being old you reprove me;
And certainly, though no authority
Were found in books, yet men of honour
Say that you should show an old man favour,
And call him father, out of courteousness;
And authors too say so, as I would guess.
Now then you say that I am foul and old,
Well then you need not fear to be cuckold.
For poverty and old age, you must agree,
Are great guardians of chastity.
Yet nonetheless, since I know your delight,
I shall fulfil your worldly appetite.
39
Choose now,’ quoth she, ‘which of these to
try:
To see me old and ugly till I die,
And be to you a true and humble wife,
Who never will displease you all my life,
Or else you may have me young and fair,
And take the risk that all those who repair
To our house are there because of me,
And to other places, it well may be.
Now choose, yourself, just as you like.’
The knight thought deeply and with a sigh
At last he replied to her in this manner:
‘My lady and my love, and wife so dear,
I place myself in your wise governance.
Choose yourself which is the most pleasant,
And brings most honour to me and you.
I do not care which it is of the two,
For as you like it, that suffices me.’
‘Then have I won the mastery,’ quoth she,
‘Since I may choose and govern as I wish?’
‘Yes, surely, wife,’ quoth he, ‘I hold that best.’
‘Kiss me,’ quoth she, ‘and no more wrath. His heart was bathed in a bath of bliss;
For, by my troth, I to you will be both – A thousand times in a row they kiss,
That is to say, both fair and good. And she obeyed him in everything
I pray to God I shall die mad, and would, That pleased him and was to his liking.
If I be not to you both good and true And thus they lived to their lives end
As ever wife was, since the world was new. In perfect joy – and Jesus Christ us send
And if I be not tomorrow as fair to see Husbands meek, young, and fresh abed,
As any lady, Empress or Queen may be, And grace to outlive those that we wed.
Who lives between the east and the west, And also I pray Jesus, trim the lives
Do what you wish touching my life and death. Of those who won’t be governed by their
Lift the curtain; see what already is.’ wives,
And when the knight swiftly saw all this, Those old and angry, grudging all expense,
That she was young, and lovely too, God send them soon indeed the pestilence!
For joy he took her in his arms two. The End of the Wife of Bath’s Tale

Answer the following questions:

1. What does this story tell us about the sources Chaucer used for this stories?

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

2. What do you think of the ‘moral’ of this story?

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

40
Prologue in Modern Translation

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 weak.

41