Balade that Chaucier made.

So hath my herte caught in rémembraunce

Your beautè hool, and stedfast governaunce,

Your vertues allè, and your hy noblesse,

That you to serve is set al my plesaunce;

So wel me lykth your womanly contenaunce,

Your fresshe fetures and your comlinesse,

That, whyl I live, my herte to his maistresse,

You hath ful chose, in trew perséveraunce,

Never to chaunge, for no maner distresse.

And sith I [you] shal do this observaunce

Al my lyf, withouten displesaunce,

You for to serve with al my besinesse,

[Taketh me, lady, in your obeisaunce,]

And have me somwhat in your souvenaunce.

My woful herte suffreth greet duresse;

And [loke] how humbl[el]y, with al simplesse,

My wil I cónforme to your ordenaunce,

As you best list, my peynes to redresse.

Considring eek how I hange in balaunce

In your servysè; swich, lo! is my chaunce,

Abyding grace, whan that your gentilnesse

Of my gret wo list doon allegeaunce,

And with your pitè me som wyse avaunce,

In ful rebating of my hevinesse;

And thinkth, by reson, wommanly noblesse

Shuld nat desyre for to doon outrance

Ther-as she findeth noon unbuxumnesse.

Lenvoye.

Auctour of norture, lady of plesaunce,

Soveraine of beautè, flour of wommanhede,

Take ye non hede unto myn ignoraunce,

But this receyveth of your goodlihede,

Thinking that I have caught in remembraunce

Your beautè hool, your stedfast governaunce.

Al hoolly youres, withouten otheres part!

Wherefore? y-wis, that I ne can ne may

My service chaungen; thus of al suche art

The lerninge I desyre for ever and ay.

And evermore, whyl that I live may,

In trouthe I wol your servant stille abyde,

Although my wo encresè day by day,

Til that to me be come the dethes tyde.

Seint Valentyne! to you I rénovele

My woful lyf, as I can, compleyninge;

But, as me thinketh, to you a quarele

Right greet I have, whan I, rememberinge

Bitwene, how kinde, ayeins the yeres springe,

Upon your day, doth ech foul chese his make;

And you list not in swich comfórt me bringe,

That to her grace my lady shulde me take.

Wherfor unto you, Cupide, I beseche,

Furth with Venús, noble lusty goddesse,

Sith ye may best my sorowe lesse and eche;

And I, your man, oppressed with distresse,

Can not crye ‘help!’ but to your gentilnesse:

So voucheth sauf, sith I, your man, wol dye,

My ladies herte in pitè folde and presse,

That of my peyne I finde remedye.

To your conning, my hertes right princesse,

My mortal fo, whiche I best love and serve,

I recommaunde my boistous lewednesse.

And, for I can not altherbest deserve

Your grace, I preye, as he that wol nat swerve,

That I may fare the better for my trouthe;

Sith I am youres, til deth my herte kerve,

On me, your man, now mercy have and routhe.

Of gretter cause may no wight him compleyne

Than I; for love hath set me in swich caas

That lasse Ioye and more encrees of peyne

Ne hath no man; wherfore I crye ‘allas!’

A thousand tyme, whan I have tyme and space.

For she, that is my verray sorowes grounde,

Wol with her grace no wyse my sorowes sounde.

And that, shulde be my sorowes hertes leche,

Is me ageins, and maketh me swich werre,

That shortly, [in] al maner thought and speche,

Whether it be that I be nigh or ferre,

I misse the grace of you, my lode-sterre,

Which causeth me on you thus for to crye;

And al is it for lakke of remedye.

My soverain Ioye thus is my mortal fo;

She that shulde causen al my lustinesse

List in no wyse of my sorowes saye ‘ho!’

But let me thus darraine, in hevinesse,

With woful thoughtes and my grete distresse,

The which she might right wele, [at] every tyde,

If that her liste, out of my herte gyde.

But it is so, that her list, in no wyse,

Have pitè on my woful besinesse;

And I ne can do no maner servyse

That may me torne out of my hevinesse;

So woldè god, that she now wolde impresse

Right in her herte my trouthe and eek good wille;

And let me not, for lakke of mercy, spille.

Now wele I woot why thus I smerte sore;

For couthe I wele, as othere folkes, feyne,

Than neded me to live in peyne no more,

But, whan I were from you, unteye my reyne,

And, for the tyme, drawe in another cheyne.

But woldè god that alle swich were y-knowe,

And duely punisshed of hye and lowe.

Swich lyf defye I, bothe in thoughte and worde,

For yet me were wel lever for to sterve

Than in my herte for to make an horde

Of any falshood; for, til deth to-kerve

My herte and body, shal I never swerve

From you, that best may be my fynal cure,

But, at your liste, abyde myn aventure;

And preye to you, noble seint Valentyne,

My ladies herte that ye wolde enbrace,

And make her pitè to me more enclyne

That I may stonden in her noble grace

In hasty tyme, whyl I have lyves space:

For yit wiste I never noon, of my lyve,

So litel hony in so fayre hyve.

Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote

The droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote,

And bathed every veyne in swich licour,

Of which vertu engendred is the flour;

Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne

Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,

And smale fowles maken melodye,

That slepen al the night with open yë,

(So priketh hem nature in hir corages):

Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages

(And palmers for to seken straunge strondes)

To ferne halwes, couthe in sondry londes;

And specially, from every shires ende

Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,

The holy blisful martir for to seke,

That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke.

Bifel that, in that seson on a day,

In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay

Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage

To Caunterbury with ful devout corage,

At night was come in-to that hostelrye

Wel nyne and twenty in a companye,

Of sondry folk, by aventure y-falle

In felawshipe, and pilgrims were they alle,

That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde;

The chambres and the stables weren wyde,

And wel we weren esed atte beste.

And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste,

So hadde I spoken with hem everichon,

That I was of hir felawshipe anon,

And made forward erly for to ryse,

To take our wey, ther as I yow devyse.

But natheles, whyl I have tyme and space,

Er that I ferther in this tale pace,

Me thinketh it acordaunt to resoun,

To telle yow al the condicioun

Of ech of hem, so as it semed me,

And whiche they weren, and of what degree;

And eek in what array that they were inne:

And at a knight than wol I first biginne.

A Knight ther was, and that a worthy man,

That fro the tyme that he first bigan

To ryden out, he loved chivalrye,

Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisye.

Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre,

And therto hadde he riden (no man ferre)

As wel in Cristendom as hethenesse,

And ever honoured for his worthinesse.

At Alisaundre he was, whan it was wonne;

Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonne

Aboven alle naciouns in Pruce.

In Lettow hadde he reysed and in Ruce,

No Cristen man so ofte of his degree.

In Gernade at the sege eek hadde he be

Of Algezir, and riden in Belmarye.

At Lyeys was he, and at Satalye,

Whan they were wonne; and in the Grete See

At many a noble aryve hadde he be.

At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene,

And foughten for our feith at Tramissene

In listes thryes, and ay slayn his foo.

This ilke worthy knight had been also

Somtyme with the lord of Palatye,

Ageyn another hethen in Turkye:

And evermore he hadde a sovereyn prys.

And though that he were worthy, he was wys,

And of his port as meke as is a mayde.

He never yet no vileinye ne sayde

In al his lyf, un-to no maner wight.

He was a verray parfit gentil knight.

But for to tellen yow of his array,

His hors were gode, but he was nat gay.

Of fustian he wered a gipoun

Al bismotered with his habergeoun;

For he was late y-come from his viage,

And wente for to doon his pilgrimage.

With him ther was his sone, a yong Squyer,

A lovyere, and a lusty bacheler,

With lokkes crulle, as they were leyd in presse.

Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse.

Of his stature he was of evene lengthe,

And wonderly deliver, and greet of strengthe.

And he had been somtyme in chivachye,

In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Picardye,

And born him wel, as of so litel space,

In hope to stonden in his lady grace.

Embrouded was he, as it were a mede

Al ful of fresshe floures, whyte and rede.

Singinge he was, or floytinge, al the day;

He was as fresh as is the month of May.

Short was his goune, with sleves longe and wyde.

Wel coude he sitte on hors, and faire ryde.

He coude songes make and wel endyte,

Iuste and eek daunce, and wel purtreye and wryte,

So hote he lovede, that by nightertale

He sleep namore than dooth a nightingale.

Curteys he was, lowly, and servisable,

And carf biforn his fader at the table.

A Yeman hadde he, and servaunts namo

At that tyme, for him liste ryde so;

And he was clad in cote and hood of grene;

A sheef of pecok-arwes brighte and kene

Under his belt he bar ful thriftily;

(Wel coude he dresse his takel yemanly:

His arwes drouped noght with fetheres lowe),

And in his hand he bar a mighty bowe.

A not-heed hadde he, with a broun visage.

Of wode-craft wel coude he al the usage.

Upon his arm he bar a gay bracer,

And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler,

And on that other syde a gay daggere,

Harneised wel, and sharp as point of spere;

A Cristofre on his brest of silver shene.

An horn he bar, the bawdrik was of grene;

A forster was he, soothly, as I gesse.

Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse,

That of hir smyling was ful simple and coy;

Hir gretteste ooth was but by sëynt Loy;

And she was cleped madame Eglentyne.

Ful wel she song the service divyne,

Entuned in hir nose ful semely;

And Frensh she spak ful faire and fetisly,

After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe,

For Frensh of Paris was to hir unknowe.

At mete wel y-taught was she with-alle;

She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle,

Ne wette hir fingres in hir sauce depe.

Wel coude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe,

That no drope ne fille up-on hir brest.

In curteisye was set ful muche hir lest.

Hir over lippe wyped she so clene,

That in hir coppe was no ferthing sene

Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte.

Ful semely after hir mete she raughte,

And sikerly she was of greet disport,

And ful plesaunt, and amiable of port,

And peyned hir to countrefete chere

Of court, and been estatlich of manere,

And to ben holden digne of reverence.

But, for to speken of hir conscience,

She was so charitable and so pitous,

She wolde wepe, if that she sawe a mous

Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde.

Of smale houndes had she, that she fedde

With rosted flesh, or milk and wastel-breed.

But sore weep she if oon of hem were deed,

Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte:

And al was conscience and tendre herte.

Ful semely hir wimpel pinched was;

Hir nose tretys; hir eyen greye as glas;

Hir mouth ful smal, and ther-to softe and reed;

But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed;

It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe;

For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe.

Ful fetis was hir cloke, as I was war.

Of smal coral aboute hir arm she bar

A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene;

And ther-on heng a broche of gold ful shene,

On which ther was first write a crowned A,

And after, Amor vincit omnia.

Another Nonne with hir hadde she,

That was hir chapeleyne, and Preestes three.

A Monk ther was, a fair for the maistrye,

An out-rydere, that lovede venerye;

A manly man, to been an abbot able.

Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in stable:

And, whan he rood, men mighte his brydel here

Ginglen in a whistling wind as clere,

And eek as loude as dooth the chapel-belle,

Ther as this lord was keper of the celle.

The reule of seint Maure or of seint Beneit,

By-cause that it was old and som-del streit,

This ilke monk leet olde thinges pace,

And held after the newe world the space.

He yaf nat of that text a pulled hen,

That seith, that hunters been nat holy men;

Ne that a monk, whan he is cloisterlees,

Is lykned til a fish that is waterlees;

This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloistre.

But thilke text held he nat worth an oistre;

And I seyde, his opinioun was good.

What sholde he studie, and make him-selven wood,

Upon a book in cloistre alwey to poure,

Or swinken with his handes, and laboure,

As Austin bit? How shal the world be served?

Lat Austin have his swink to him reserved.

Therfore he was a pricasour aright;

Grehoundes he hadde, as swifte as fowel in flight;

Of priking and of hunting for the hare

Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare.

I seigh his sleves purfiled at the hond

With grys, and that the fyneste of a lond;

And, for to festne his hood under his chin,

He hadde of gold y-wroght a curious pin:

A love-knotte in the gretter ende ther was.

His heed was balled, that shoon as any glas,

And eek his face, as he had been anoint.

He was a lord ful fat and in good point;

His eyen stepe, and rollinge in his heed,

That stemed as a forneys of a leed;

His botes souple, his hors in greet estat.

Now certeinly he was a fair prelat;

He was nat pale as a for-pyned goost.

A fat swan loved he best of any roost.

His palfrey was as broun as is a berye.

A Frere ther was, a wantown and a merye,

A limitour, a ful solempne man.

In alle the ordres foure is noon that can

So muche of daliaunce and fair langage.

He hadde maad ful many a mariage

Of yonge wommen, at his owne cost.

Un-to his ordre he was a noble post.

Ful wel biloved and famulier was he

With frankeleyns over-al in his contree,

And eek with worthy wommen of the toun:

For he had power of confessioun,

As seyde him-self, more than a curat,

For of his ordre he was licentiat.

Ful swetely herde he confessioun,

And plesaunt was his absolucioun;

He was an esy man to yeve penaunce

Ther as he wiste to han a good pitaunce;

For unto a povre ordre for to yive

Is signe that a man is wel y-shrive.

For if he yaf, he dorste make avaunt,

He wiste that a man was repentaunt.

For many a man so hard is of his herte,

He may nat wepe al-thogh him sore smerte.

Therfore, in stede of weping and preyeres,

Men moot yeve silver to the povre freres.

His tipet was ay farsed ful of knyves

And pinnes, for to yeven faire wyves.

And certeinly he hadde a mery note;

Wel coude he singe and pleyen on a rote.

Of yeddinges he bar utterly the prys.

His nekke whyt was as the flour-de-lys;

Ther-to he strong was as a champioun.

He knew the tavernes wel in every toun,

And everich hostiler and tappestere

Bet than a lazar or a beggestere;

For un-to swich a worthy man as he

Acorded nat, as by his facultee,

To have with seke lazars aqueyntaunce.

It is nat honest, it may nat avaunce

For to delen with no swich poraille,

But al with riche and sellers of vitaille.

And over-al, ther as profit sholde aryse,

Curteys he was, and lowly of servyse.

Ther nas no man no-wher so vertuous.

He was the beste beggere in his hous;

[And yaf a certeyn ferme for the graunt;

Noon of his bretheren cam ther in his haunt;]

For thogh a widwe hadde noght a sho,

So plesaunt was his “In principio,”

Yet wolde he have a ferthing, er he wente.

His purchas was wel bettre than his rente.

And rage he coude, as it were right a whelpe.

In love-dayes ther coude he muchel helpe.

For there he was nat lyk a cloisterer,

With a thredbar cope, as is a povre scoler,

But he was lyk a maister or a pope.

Of double worsted was his semi-cope,

That rounded as a belle out of the presse.

Somwhat he lipsed, for his wantownesse,

To make his English swete up-on his tonge;

And in his harping, whan that he had songe,

His eyen twinkled in his heed aright,

As doon the sterres in the frosty night.

This worthy limitour was cleped Huberd.

A Marchant was ther with a forked berd,

In mottelee, and hye on horse he sat,

Up-on his heed a Flaundrish bever hat;

His botes clasped faire and fetisly.

His resons he spak ful solempnely,

Souninge alway thencrees of his winning.

He wolde the see were kept for any thing

Bitwixe Middelburgh and Orewelle.

Wel coude he in eschaunge sheeldes selle.

This worthy man ful wel his wit bisette;

Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette,

So estatly was he of his governaunce,

With his bargaynes, and with his chevisaunce.

For sothe he was a worthy man with-alle,

But sooth to seyn, I noot how men him calle.

A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also,

That un-to logik hadde longe y-go.

As lene was his hors as is a rake,

And he nas nat right fat, I undertake;

But loked holwe, and ther-to soberly.

Ful thredbar was his overest courtepy;

For he had geten him yet no benefyce,

Ne was so worldly for to have offyce.

For him was lever have at his beddes heed

Twenty bokes, clad in blak or reed,

Of Aristotle and his philosophye,

Than robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrye.

But al be that he was a philosophre,

Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre;

But al that he mighte of his freendes hente,

On bokes and on lerninge he it spente,

And bisily gan for the soules preye

Of hem that yaf him wher-with to scoleye.

Of studie took he most cure and most hede.

Noght o word spak he more than was nede,

And that was seyd in forme and reverence,

And short and quik, and ful of hy sentence.

Souninge in moral vertu was his speche,

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.

A Sergeant of the Lawe, war and wys,

That often hadde been at the parvys,

Ther was also, ful riche of excellence.

Discreet he was, and of greet reverence:

He semed swich, his wordes weren so wyse.

Iustyce he was ful often in assyse,

By patente, and by pleyn commissioun;

For his science, and for his heigh renoun

Of fees and robes hadde he many oon.

So greet a purchasour was no-wher noon.

Al was fee simple to him in effect,

His purchasing mighte nat been infect.

No-wher so bisy a man as he ther nas,

And yet he semed bisier than he was.

In termes hadde he caas and domes alle,

That from the tyme of king William were falle.

Therto he coude endyte, and make a thing,

Ther coude no wight pinche at his wryting;

And every statut coude he pleyn by rote.

He rood but hoomly in a medlee cote

Girt with a ceint of silk, with barres smale;

Of his array telle I no lenger tale.

A Frankeleyn was in his companye;

Whyt was his berd, as is the dayesye.

Of his complexioun he was sangwyn.

Wel loved he by the morwe a sop in wyn.

To liven in delyt was ever his wone,

For he was Epicurus owne sone,

That heeld opinioun, that pleyn delyt

Was verraily felicitee parfyt.

An housholdere, and that a greet, was he;

Seint Iulian he was in his contree.

His breed, his ale, was alwey after oon;

A bettre envyned man was no-wher noon.

With-oute bake mete was never his hous,

Of fish and flesh, and that so plentevous,

It snewed in his hous of mete and drinke,

Of alle deyntees that men coude thinke.

After the sondry sesons of the yeer,

So chaunged he his mete and his soper.

Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in mewe,

And many a breem and many a luce in stewe.

Wo was his cook, but-if his sauce were

Poynaunt and sharp, and redy al his gere.

His table dormant in his halle alway

Stood redy covered al the longe day.

At sessiouns ther was he lord and sire;

Ful ofte tyme he was knight of the shire.

An anlas and a gipser al of silk

Heng at his girdel, whyt as morne milk.

A shirreve hadde he been, and a countour;

Was no-wher such a worthy vavasour.

An Haberdassher and a Carpenter,

A Webbe, a Dyere, and a Tapicer,

Were with us eek, clothed in o liveree,

Of a solempne and greet fraternitee.

Ful fresh and newe hir gere apyked was;

Hir knyves were y-chaped noght with bras,

But al with silver, wroght ful clene and weel,

Hir girdles and hir pouches every-deel.

Wel semed ech of hem a fair burgeys,

To sitten in a yeldhalle on a deys.

Everich, for the wisdom that he can,

Was shaply for to been an alderman.

For catel hadde they y-nogh and rente,

And eek hir wyves wolde it wel assente;

And elles certein were they to blame.

It is ful fair to been y-clept “ma dame,”

And goon to vigilyës al bifore,

And have a mantel royalliche y-bore.

A Cook they hadde with hem for the nones,

To boille the chiknes with the mary-bones,

And poudre-marchant tart, and galingale.

Wel coude he knowe a draughte of London ale.

He coude roste, and sethe, and broille, and frye,

Maken mortreux, and wel bake a pye.

But greet harm was it, as it thoughte me,

That on his shine a mormal hadde he;

For blankmanger, that made he with the beste.

A Shipman was ther, woning fer by weste:

For aught I woot, he was of Dertemouthe.

He rood up-on a rouncy, as he couthe,

In a gowne of falding to the knee.

A daggere hanging on a laas hadde he

Aboute his nekke under his arm adoun.

The hote somer had maad his hewe al broun;

And, certeinly, he was a good felawe.

Ful many a draughte of wyn had he y-drawe

From Burdeux-ward, whyl that the chapman sleep.

Of nyce conscience took he no keep.

If that he faught, and hadde the hyer hond,

By water he sente hem hoom to every lond.

But of his craft to rekene wel his tydes,

His stremes and his daungers him bisydes,

His herberwe and his mone, his lodemenage,

Ther nas noon swich from Hulle to Cartage.

Hardy he was, and wys to undertake;

With many a tempest hadde his berd been shake.

He knew wel alle the havenes, as they were,

From Gootlond to the cape of Finistere,

And every cryke in Britayne and in Spayne;

His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne.