The longe night and eek a day also,

For al the fyr and eek the bathes hete,

She sat al cold, and felede no wo,

It made hir nat a drope for to swete.

But in that bath hir lyf she moste lete;

For he, Almachius, with ful wikke entente

To sleen hir in the bath his sonde sente.

Three strokes in the nekke he smoot hir tho,

The tormentour, but for no maner chaunce

He mighte noght smyte al hir nekke a-two;

And for ther was that tyme an ordinaunce,

That no man sholde doon man swich penaunce

The ferthe strook to smyten, softe or sore,

This tormentour ne dorste do na-more.

But half-deed, with hir nekke y-corven there,

He lefte hir lye, and on his wey is went.

The cristen folk, which that aboute hir were,

With shetes han the blood ful faire y-hent.

Thre dayes lived she in this torment,

And never cessed hem the feith to teche;

That she hadde fostred, hem she gan to preche;

And hem she yaf hir moebles and hir thing,

And to the pope Urban bitook hem tho,

And seyde, ‘I axed this at hevene king,

To han respyt three dayes and na-mo,

To recomende to yow, er that I go,

Thise soules, lo! and that I mighte do werche

Here of myn hous perpetuelly a cherche.’

Seint Urban, with his deknes, prively

The body fette, and buried it by nighte

Among his othere seintes honestly.

Hir hous the chirche of seint Cecilie highte;

Seint Urban halwed it, as he wel mighte;

In which, into this day, in noble wyse,

Men doon to Crist and to his seint servyse.

Here is ended the Seconde Nonnes Tale.

The prologe of the Chanons Yemannes Tale.

Whan ended was the lyf of seint Cecyle,

Er we had riden fully fyve myle,

At Boghton under Blee us gan atake

A man, that clothed was in clothes blake,

And undernethe he hadde a whyt surplys.

His hakeney, that was al pomely grys,

So swatte, that it wonder was to see;

It semed he had priked myles three.

The hors eek that his yeman rood upon

So swatte, that unnethe mighte it gon.

Aboute the peytrel stood the foom ful hye,

He was of fome al flekked as a pye.

A male tweyfold on his croper lay,

It semed that he caried lyte array.

Al light for somer rood this worthy man,

And in myn herte wondren I bigan

What that he was, til that I understood

How that his cloke was sowed to his hood;

For which, when I had longe avysed me,

I demed him som chanon for to be.

His hat heng at his bak doun by a laas,

For he had riden more than trot or paas;

He had ay priked lyk as he were wood.

A clote-leef he hadde under his hood

For swoot, and for to kepe his heed from hete.

But it was Ioye for to seen him swete!

His forheed dropped as a stillatorie,

Were ful of plantain and of paritorie.

And whan that he was come, he gan to crye,

‘God save,’ quod he, ‘this Ioly companye!

Faste have I priked,’ quod he, ‘for your sake,

By-cause that I wolde yow atake,

To ryden in this mery companye.’

His yeman eek was ful of curteisye,

And seyde, ‘sires, now in the morwe-tyde

Out of your hostelrye I saugh you ryde,

And warned heer my lord and my soverayn,

Which that to ryden with yow is ful fayn,

For his desport; he loveth daliaunce.’

‘Freend, for thy warning god yeve thee good chaunce,’

Than seyde our host, ‘for certes, it wolde seme

Thy lord were wys, and so I may wel deme;

He is ful Iocund also, dar I leye.

Can he oght telle a mery tale or tweye,

With which he glade may this companye?’

‘Who, sire? my lord? ye, ye, withouten lye,

He can of murthe, and eek of Iolitee

Nat but ynough; also sir, trusteth me,

And ye him knewe as wel as do I,

Ye wolde wondre how wel and craftily

He coude werke, and that in sondry wyse.

He hath take on him many a greet empryse,

Which were ful hard for any that is here

To bringe aboute, but they of him it lere.

As homely as he rit amonges yow,

If ye him knewe, it wolde be for your prow;

Ye wolde nat forgoon his aqueyntaunce

For mochel good, I dar leye in balaunce

Al that I have in my possessioun.

He is a man of heigh discrecioun,

I warne you wel, he is a passing man.’

‘Wel,’ quod our host, ‘I pray thee, tel me than,

Is he a clerk, or noon? tel what he is.’

‘Nay, he is gretter than a clerk, y-wis,’

Seyde this yeman, ‘and in wordes fewe,

Host, of his craft som-what I wol yow shewe.

I seye, my lord can swich subtilitee—

(But al his craft ye may nat wite at me;

And som-what helpe I yet to his werking)—

That al this ground on which we been ryding,

Til that we come to Caunterbury toun,

He coude al clene turne it up-so-doun,

And pave it al of silver and of gold.’

And whan this yeman hadde thus y-told

Unto our host, he seyde, ‘benedicite!

This thing is wonder merveillous to me,

Sin that thy lord is of so heigh prudence,

By-cause of which men sholde him reverence,

That of his worship rekketh he so lyte;

His oversloppe nis nat worth a myte,

As in effect, to him, so mote I go!

It is al baudy and to-tore also.

Why is thy lord so sluttish, I thee preye,

And is of power better cloth to beye,

If that his dede accorde with thy speche?

Telle me that, and that I thee biseche.’

‘Why?’ quod this yeman, ‘wherto axe ye me?

God help me so, for he shal never thee!

(But I wol nat avowe that I seye,

And therfor kepe it secree, I yow preye).

He is to wys, in feith, as I bileve;

That that is overdoon, it wol nat preve

Aright, as clerkes seyn, it is a vyce.

Wherfor in that I holde him lewed and nyce.

For whan a man hath over-greet a wit,

Ful oft him happeth to misusen it;

So dooth my lord, and that me greveth sore.

God it amende, I can sey yow na-more.’

‘Ther-of no fors, good yeman,’ quod our host;

‘Sin of the conning of thy lord thou wost,

Tel how he dooth, I pray thee hertely,

Sin that he is so crafty and so sly.

Wher dwellen ye, if it to telle be?’

‘In the suburbes of a toun,’ quod he,

‘Lurkinge in hernes and in lanes blinde,

Wher-as thise robbours and thise theves by kinde

Holden hir privee fereful residence,

As they that dar nat shewen hir presence;

So faren we, if I shal seye the sothe.’

‘Now,’ quod our host, ‘yit lat me talke to the;

Why artow so discoloured of thy face?’

‘Peter!’ quod he, ‘god yeve it harde grace,

I am so used in the fyr to blowe,

That it hath chaunged my colour, I trowe.

I am nat wont in no mirour to prye,

But swinke sore and lerne multiplye.

We blondren ever and pouren in the fyr,

And for al that we fayle of our desyr,

For ever we lakken our conclusioun.

To mochel folk we doon illusioun,

And borwe gold, be it a pound or two,

Or ten, or twelve, or many sommes mo,

And make hem wenen, at the leeste weye,

That of a pound we coude make tweye!

Yet is it fals, but ay we han good hope

It for to doon, and after it we grope.

But that science is so fer us biforn,

We mowen nat, al-though we hadde it sworn,

It overtake, it slit awey so faste;

It wol us maken beggers atte laste.’

Whyl this yeman was thus in his talking,

This chanoun drough him neer, and herde al thing

Which this yeman spak, for suspecioun

Of mennes speche ever hadde this chanoun.

For Catoun seith, that he that gilty is

Demeth al thing be spoke of him, y-wis.

That was the cause he gan so ny him drawe

To his yeman, to herknen al his sawe.

And thus he seyde un-to his yeman tho,

‘Hold thou thy pees, and spek no wordes mo,

For if thou do, thou shalt it dere abye;

Thou sclaundrest me heer in this companye,

And eek discoverest that thou sholdest hyde.’

‘Ye,’ quod our host, ‘telle on, what so bityde;

Of al his threting rekke nat a myte!’

‘In feith,’ quod he, ‘namore I do but lyte.’

And whan this chanon saugh it wolde nat be,

But his yeman wolde telle his privetee,

He fledde awey for verray sorwe and shame.

‘A!’ quod the yeman, ‘heer shal aryse game,

Al that I can anon now wol I telle.

Sin he is goon, the foule feend him quelle!

For never her-after wol I with him mete

For peny ne for pound, I yow bihete!

He that me broghte first unto that game,

Er that he dye, sorwe have he and shame!

For it is ernest to me, by my feith;

That fele I wel, what so any man seith.

And yet, for al my smert and al my grief,

For al my sorwe, labour, and meschief,

I coude never leve it in no wyse.

Now wolde god my wit mighte suffyse

To tellen al that longeth to that art!

But natheles yow wol I tellen part;

Sin that my lord is gon, I wol nat spare;

Swich thing as that I knowe, I wol declare.—

Here endeth the Prologe of the Chanouns Yemannes Tale.

Here biginneth the Chanouns Yeman his Tale.

[Prima pars.]

With this chanoun I dwelt have seven yeer,

And of his science am I never the neer.

Al that I hadde, I have y-lost ther-by;

And god wot, so hath many mo than I.

Ther I was wont to be right fresh and gay

Of clothing and of other good array,

Now may I were an hose upon myn heed;

And wher my colour was bothe fresh and reed,

Now is it wan and of a leden hewe;

Who-so it useth, sore shal he rewe.

And of my swink yet blered is myn yë,

Lo! which avantage is to multiplye!

That slyding science hath me maad so bare,

That I have no good, wher that ever I fare;

And yet I am endetted so ther-by

Of gold that I have borwed, trewely,

That whyl I live, I shal it quyte never.

Lat every man be war by me for ever!

What maner man that casteth him ther-to,

If he continue, I holde his thrift y-do.

So helpe me god, ther-by shal he nat winne,

But empte his purs, and make his wittes thinne.

And whan he, thurgh his madnes and folye,

Hath lost his owene good thurgh Iupartye,

Thanne he excyteth other folk ther-to,

To lese hir good as he him-self hath do.

For unto shrewes Ioye it is and ese

To have hir felawes in peyne and disese;

Thus was I ones lerned of a clerk.

Of that no charge, I wol speke of our werk.

Whan we been ther as we shul exercyse

Our elvish craft, we semen wonder wyse,

Our termes been so clergial and so queynte.

I blowe the fyr til that myn herte feynte.

What sholde I tellen ech proporcioun

Of thinges whiche that we werche upon,

As on fyve or sixe ounces, may wel be,

Of silver or som other quantite,

And bisie me to telle yow the names

Of orpiment, brent bones, yren squames,

That into poudre grounden been ful smal?

And in an erthen potte how put is al,

And salt y-put in, and also papeer,

Biforn thise poudres that I speke of heer,

And wel y-covered with a lampe of glas,

And mochel other thing which that ther was?

And of the pot and glasses enluting,

That of the eyre mighte passe out no-thing?

And of the esy fyr and smart also,

Which that was maad, and of the care and wo

That we hadde in our matires sublyming,

And in amalgaming and calcening

Of quik-silver, y-clept Mercurie crude?

For alle our sleightes we can nat conclude.

Our orpiment and sublymed Mercurie,

Our grounden litarge eek on the porphurie,

Of ech of thise of ounces a certeyn

Nought helpeth us, our labour is in veyn.

Ne eek our spirites ascencioun,

Ne our materes that lyen al fixe adoun,

Mowe in our werking no-thing us avayle.

For lost is al our labour and travayle,

And al the cost, a twenty devel weye,

Is lost also, which we upon it leye.

Ther is also ful many another thing

That is unto our craft apertening;

Though I by ordre hem nat reherce can,

By-cause that I am a lewed man,

Yet wol I telle hem as they come to minde,

Though I ne can nat sette hem in hir kinde;

As bole armoniak, verdegrees, boras,

And sondry vessels maad of erthe and glas,

Our urinales and our descensories,

Violes, croslets, and sublymatories,

Cucurbites, and alembykes eek,

And othere swiche, dere y-nough a leek.

Nat nedeth it for to reherce hem alle,

Watres rubifying and boles galle,

Arsenik, sal armoniak, and brimstoon;

And herbes coude I telle eek many oon,

As egremoine, valerian, and lunarie,

And othere swiche, if that me liste tarie.

Our lampes brenning bothe night and day,

To bringe aboute our craft, if that we may.

Our fourneys eek of calcinacioun,

And of watres albificacioun,

Unslekked lym, chalk, and gleyre of an ey,

Poudres diverse, asshes, dong, pisse, and cley,

Cered pokets, sal peter, vitriole;

And divers fyres maad of wode and cole;

Sal tartre, alkaly, and sal preparat,

And combust materes and coagulat,

Cley maad with hors or mannes heer, and oile

Of tartre, alum, glas, berm, wort, and argoile,

Resalgar, and our materes enbibing;

And eek of our materes encorporing,

And of our silver citrinacioun,

Our cementing and fermentacioun,

Our ingottes, testes, and many mo.

I wol yow telle, as was me taught also,

The foure spirites and the bodies sevene,

By ordre, as ofte I herde my lord hem nevene.

The firste spirit quik-silver called is,

The second orpiment, the thridde, y-wis,

Sal armoniak, and the ferthe brimstoon.

The bodies sevene eek, lo! hem heer anoon:

Sol gold is, and Luna silver we threpe,

Mars yren, Mercurie quik-silver we clepe,

Saturnus leed, and Iupiter is tin,

And Venus coper, by my fader kin!

This cursed craft who-so wol exercyse,

He shal no good han that him may suffyse;

For al the good he spendeth ther-aboute,

He lese shal, ther-of have I no doute.

Who-so that listeth outen his folye,

Lat him come forth, and lerne multiplye;

And every man that oght hath in his cofre,

Lat him appere, and wexe a philosofre.

Ascaunce that craft is so light to lere?

Nay, nay, god woot, al be he monk or frere,

Preest or chanoun, or any other wight,

Though he sitte at his book bothe day and night,

In lernyng of this elvish nyce lore,

Al is in veyn, and parde, mochel more!

To lerne a lewed man this subtiltee,

Fy! spek nat ther-of, for it wol nat be;

Al conne he letterure, or conne he noon,

As in effect, he shal finde it al oon.

For bothe two, by my savacioun,

Concluden, in multiplicacioun,

Y-lyke wel, whan they han al y-do;

This is to seyn, they faylen bothe two.

Yet forgat I to maken rehersaille

Of watres corosif and of limaille,

And of bodyes mollificacioun,

And also of hir induracioun,

Oiles, ablucions, and metal fusible,

To tellen al wolde passen any bible

That o-wher is; wherfor, as for the beste,

Of alle thise names now wol I me reste.

For, as I trowe, I have yow told y-nowe

To reyse a feend, al loke he never so rowe.

A! nay! lat be; the philosophres stoon,

Elixir clept, we sechen faste echoon;

For hadde we him, than were we siker y-now.

But, unto god of heven I make avow,

For al our craft, whan we han al y-do,

And al our sleighte, he wol nat come us to.

He hath y-maad us spenden mochel good,

For sorwe of which almost we wexen wood,

But that good hope crepeth in our herte,

Supposinge ever, though we sore smerte,

To be releved by him afterward;

Swich supposing and hope is sharp and hard;

I warne yow wel, it is to seken ever;

That futur temps hath maad men to dissever,

In trust ther-of, from al that ever they hadde.

Yet of that art they can nat wexen sadde,

For unto hem it is a bitter swete;

So semeth it; for nadde they but a shete

Which that they mighte wrappe hem inne a-night,

And a bak to walken inne by day-light,

They wolde hem selle and spenden on this craft;

They can nat stinte til no-thing be laft.

And evermore, wher that ever they goon,

Men may hem knowe by smel of brimstoon;

For al the world, they stinken as a goot;

Her savour is so rammish and so hoot,

That, though a man from hem a myle be,

The savour wol infecte him, trusteth me;

Lo, thus by smelling and threedbare array,

If that men liste, this folk they knowe may.

And if a man wol aske hem prively,

Why they been clothed so unthriftily,

They right anon wol rownen in his ere,

And seyn, that if that they espyed were,

Men wolde hem slee, by-cause of hir science;

Lo, thus this folk bitrayen innocence!

Passe over this; I go my tale un-to.

Er than the pot be on the fyr y-do,

Of metals with a certein quantite,

My lord hem tempreth, and no man but he—

Now he is goon, I dar seyn boldely—

For, as men seyn, he can don craftily;

Algate I wool wel he hath swich a name,

And yet ful ofte he renneth in a blame;

And wite ye how? ful ofte it happeth so,

The pot to-breketh, and farewel! al is go!

Thise metals been of so greet violence,

Our walles mowe nat make hem resistence,

But if they weren wroght of lym and stoon;

They percen so, and thurgh the wal they goon,

And somme of hem sinken in-to the ground—

Thus han we lost by tymes many a pound—

And somme are scatered al the floor aboute,

Somme lepe in-to the roof; with-outen doute,

Though that the feend noght in our sighte him shewe,

I trowe he with us be, that ilke shrewe!

In helle wher that he is lord and sire,

Nis ther more wo, ne more rancour ne ire.

Whan that our pot is broke, as I have sayd,

Every man chit, and halt him yvel apayd.

Som seyde, it was long on the fyr-making,

Som seyde, nay! it was on the blowing;

(Than was I fered, for that was myn office);

‘Straw!’ quod the thridde, ‘ye been lewed and nyce,

It was nat tempred as it oghte be.’

‘Nay!’ quod the ferthe, ‘stint, and herkne me;

By-cause our fyr ne was nat maad of beech,

That is the cause, and other noon, so theech!’

I can nat telle wher-on it was long,

But wel I wot greet stryf is us among.

‘What!’ quod my lord, ‘ther is na-more to done,

Of thise perils I wol be war eft-sone;

I am right siker that the pot was crased.

Be as be may, be ye no-thing amased;

As usage is, lat swepe the floor as swythe,

Plukke up your hertes, and beth gladde and blythe.’

The mullok on an hepe y-sweped was,

And on the floor y-cast a canevas,

And al this mullok in a sive y-throwe,

And sifted, and y-piked many a throwe.

‘Pardee,’ quod oon, ‘somwhat of our metal

Yet is ther heer, though that we han nat al.

Al-though this thing mishapped have as now,

Another tyme it may be wel y-now,

Us moste putte our good in aventure;

A marchant, parde! may nat ay endure,

Trusteth me wel, in his prosperitee;

Somtyme his good is drenched in the see,

And somtym comth it sauf un-to the londe.’

‘Pees!’ quod my lord, ‘the next tyme I wol fonde

To bringe our craft al in another plyte;

And but I do, sirs, lat me han the wyte;

Ther was defaute in som-what, wel I woot.’

Another seyde, the fyr was over hoot:—

But, be it hoot or cold, I dar seye this,

That we concluden evermore amis.

We fayle of that which that we wolden have,

And in our madnesse evermore we rave.

And whan we been togidres everichoon,

Every man semeth a Salomon.

But al thing which that shyneth as the gold

Nis nat gold, as that I have herd it told;

Ne every appel that is fair at yë

Ne is nat good, what-so men clappe or crye.

Right so, lo! fareth it amonges us;

He that semeth the wysest, by Iesus!

Is most fool, whan it cometh to the preef;

And he that semeth trewest is a theef;

That shul ye knowe, er that I fro yow wende,

By that I of my tale have maad an ende.

Explicit prima pars. Et sequitur pars secunda.

Ther is a chanoun of religioun

Amonges us, wolde infecte al a toun,

Though it as greet were as was Ninivee,

Rome, Alisaundre, Troye, and othere three.

His sleightes and his infinit falsnesse

Ther coude no man wryten, as I gesse,

Thogh that he mighte liven a thousand yeer.

In al this world of falshede nis his peer;

For in his termes so he wolde him winde,

And speke his wordes in so sly a kinde,

Whan he commune shal with any wight,

That he wol make him doten anon right,

But it a feend be, as him-selven is.

Ful many a man hath he bigyled er this,

And wol, if that he live may a whyle;

And yet men ryde and goon ful many a myle

Him for to seke and have his aqueyntaunce,

Noght knowinge of his false governaunce.

And if yow list to yeve me audience,

I wol it tellen heer in your presence.

But worshipful chanouns religious,

Ne demeth nat that I sclaundre your hous,

Al-though my tale of a chanoun be.

Of every ordre som shrewe is, parde,

And god forbede that al a companye

Sholde rewe a singuler mannes folye.

To sclaundre yow is no-thing myn entente,

But to correcten that is mis I mente.

This tale was nat only told for yow,

But eek for othere mo; ye woot wel how

That, among Cristes apostelles twelve,

Ther nas no traytour but Iudas him-selve.

Than why sholde al the remenant have blame

That giltlees were? by yow I seye the same.

Save only this, if ye wol herkne me,

If any Iudas in your covent be,

Remeveth him bitymes, I yow rede,

If shame or los may causen any drede.

And beth no-thing displesed, I yow preye,

But in this cas herkneth what I shal seye.

In London was a preest, an annueleer,

That therin dwelled hadde many a yeer,

Which was so plesaunt and so servisable

Unto the wyf, wher-as he was at table,

That she wolde suffre him no-thing for to paye

For bord ne clothing, wente he never so gaye;

And spending-silver hadde he right y-now.

Therof no fors; I wol precede as now,

And telle forth my tale of the chanoun,

That broghte this preest to confusioun.

This false chanoun cam up-on a day

Unto this preestes chambre, wher he lay,

Biseching him to lene him a certeyn

Of gold, and he wolde quyte it him ageyn.

‘Lene me a mark,’ quod he, ‘but dayes three,

And at my day I wol it quyten thee.

And if so be that thou me finde fals,

Another day do hange me by the hals!’

This preest him took a mark, and that as swythe,

And this chanoun him thanked ofte sythe,

And took his leve, and wente forth his weye,

And at the thridde day broghte his moneye,

And to the preest he took his gold agayn,

Wherof this preest was wonder glad and fayn.

‘Certes,’ quod he, ‘no-thing anoyeth me

To lene a man a noble, or two or three,

Or what thing were in my possessioun,

Whan he so trewe is of condicioun,

That in no wyse he breke wol his day;

To swich a man I can never seye nay.’

‘What!’ quod this chanoun, ‘sholde I be untrewe?

Nay, that were thing y-fallen al of-newe.

Trouthe is a thing that I wol ever kepe

Un-to that day in which that I shal crepe

In-to my grave, and elles god forbede;

Bileveth this as siker as is your crede.

God thanke I, and in good tyme be it sayd,

That ther was never man yet yvel apayd

For gold ne silver that he to me lente,

Ne never falshede in myn herte I mente.

And sir,’ quod he, ‘now of my privetee,

Sin ye so goodlich han been un-to me,

And kythed to me so greet gentillesse,

Somwhat to quyte with your kindenesse,

I wol yow shewe, and, if yow list to lere,

I wol yow teche pleynly the manere,

How I can werken in philosophye.

Taketh good heed, ye shul wel seen at yë,

That I wol doon a maistrie er I go.’

‘Ye,’ quod the preest, ‘ye, sir, and wol ye so?

Marie! ther-of I pray yow hertely!’

‘At your comandement, sir, trewely,’

Quod the chanoun, ‘and elles god forbede!’

Lo, how this theef coude his servyse bede!

Ful sooth it is, that swich profred servyse

Stinketh, as witnessen thise olde wyse;

And that ful sone I wol it verifye

In this chanoun, rote of al trecherye,

That ever-more delyt hath and gladnesse—

Swich feendly thoughtes in his herte impresse—

How Cristes peple he may to meschief bringe;

God kepe us from his fals dissimulinge!

Noght wiste this preest with whom that he delte,

Ne of his harm cominge he no-thing felte.

O sely preest! o sely innocent!

With coveityse anon thou shall be blent!

O gracelees, ful blind is thy conceit,

No-thing ne artow war of the deceit

Which that this fox y-shapen hath to thee!

His wyly wrenches thou ne mayst nat flee.

Wherfor, to go to the conclusioun

That refereth to thy confusioun,

Unhappy man! anon I wol me hye

To tellen thyn unwit and thy folye,

And eek the falsnesse of that other wrecche,

As ferforth as that my conning may strecche.

This chanoun was my lord, ye wolden wene?

Sir host, in feith, and by the hevenes quene,

It was another chanoun, and nat he,

That can an hundred fold more subtiltee!

He hath bitrayed folkes many tyme;

Of his falshede it dulleth me to ryme.

Ever whan that I speke of his falshede,

For shame of him my chekes wexen rede;

Algates, they biginnen for to glowe,

For reednesse have I noon, right wel I knowe,

In my visage; for fumes dyverse

Of metals, which ye han herd me reherce,

Consumed and wasted han my reednesse.

Now tak heed of this chanouns cursednesse!

‘Sir,’ quod he to the preest, ‘lat your man gon

For quik-silver, that we it hadde anon;

And lat him bringen ounces two or three;

And whan he comth, as faste shul ye see

A wonder thing, which ye saugh never er this.’

‘Sir,’ quod the preest, ‘it shall be doon, y-wis.’

He bad his servant fecchen him this thing,

And he al redy was at his bidding,

And wente him forth, and cam anon agayn

With this quik-silver, soothly for to sayn,

And took thise ounces three to the chanoun;

And he hem leyde fayre and wel adoun,

And bad the servant coles for to bringe,

That he anon mighte go to his werkinge.

The coles right anon weren y-fet,

And this chanoun took out a crosselet

Of his bosom, and shewed it the preest.

‘This instrument,’ quod he, ‘which that thou seest,

Tak in thyn hand, and put thy-self ther-inne

Of this quik-silver an ounce, and heer biginne,

In the name of Crist, to wexe a philosofre.

Ther been ful fewe, whiche that I wolde profre

To shewen hem thus muche of my science.

For ye shul seen heer, by experience,

That this quik-silver wol I mortifye

Right in your sighte anon, withouten lye,

And make it as good silver and as fyn

As ther is any in your purs or myn,

Or elleswher, and make it malliable;

And elles, holdeth me fals and unable

Amonges folk for ever to appere!

I have a poudre heer, that coste me dere,

Shal make al good, for it is cause of al

My conning, which that I yow shewen shal.

Voydeth your man, and lat him be ther-oute,

And shet the dore, whyls we been aboute

Our privetee, that no man us espye

Whyls that we werke in this philosophye.’

Al as he bad, fulfilled was in dede,

This ilke servant anon-right out yede,

And his maister shette the dore anon,

And to hir labour speedily they gon.