This preest, at this cursed chanouns bidding,

Up-on the fyr anon sette this thing,

And blew the fyr, and bisied him ful faste;

And this chanoun in-to the croslet caste

A poudre, noot I wher-of that it was

Y-maad, other of chalk, other of glas,

Or som-what elles, was nat worth a flye,

To blynde with the preest; and bad him hye

The coles for to couchen al above

The croslet, ‘for, in tokening I thee love,’

Quod this chanoun, ‘thyn owene hondes two

Shul werche al thing which that shal heer be do.’

‘Graunt mercy,’ quod the preest, and was ful glad,

And couched coles as the chanoun bad.

And whyle he bisy was, this feendly wrecche,

This fals chanoun, the foule feend him fecche!

Out of his bosom took a bechen cole,

In which ful subtilly was maad an hole,

And ther-in put was of silver lymaille

An ounce, and stopped was, with-outen fayle,

The hole with wex, to kepe the lymail in.

And understondeth, that this false gin

Was nat maad ther, but it was maad bifore;

And othere thinges I shal telle more

Herafterward, which that he with him broghte;

Er he cam ther, him to bigyle he thoghte,

And so he dide, er that they wente a-twinne;

Til he had torned him, coude he not blinne.

It dulleth me whan that I of him speke,

On his falshede fayn wolde I me wreke,

If I wiste how; but he is heer and ther:

He is so variaunt, he abit no-wher.

But taketh heed now, sirs, for goddes love!

He took his cole of which I spak above,

And in his hond he baar it prively.

And whyls the preest couchede busily

The coles, as I tolde yow er this,

This chanoun seyde, ‘freend, ye doon amis;

This is nat couched as it oghte be;

But sone I shal amenden it,’ quod he.

‘Now lat me medle therwith but a whyle,

For of yow have I pitee, by seint Gyle!

Ye been right hoot, I see wel how ye swete,

Have heer a cloth, and wype awey the wete.’

And whyles that the preest wyped his face,

This chanoun took his cole with harde grace,

And leyde it above, up-on the middeward

Of the croslet, and blew wel afterward,

Til that the coles gonne faste brenne.

‘Now yeve us drinke,’ quod the chanoun thenne,

‘As swythe al shal be wel, I undertake;

Sitte we doun, and lat us mery make.’

And whan that this chanounes bechen cole

Was brent, al the lymaille, out of the hole,

Into the croslet fil anon adoun;

And so it moste nedes, by resoun,

Sin it so even aboven couched was;

But ther-of wiste the preest no-thing, alas!

He demed alle the coles y-liche good,

For of the sleighte he no-thing understood.

And whan this alkamistre saugh his tyme,

‘Rys up,’ quod he, ‘sir preest, and stondeth by me;

And for I woot wel ingot have ye noon,

Goth, walketh forth, and bring us a chalk-stoon;

For I wol make oon of the same shap

That is an ingot, if I may han hap.

And bringeth eek with yow a bolle or a panne,

Ful of water, and ye shul see wel thanne

How that our bisinesse shal thryve and preve.

And yet, for ye shul han no misbileve

Ne wrong conceit of me in your absence,

I ne wol nat been out of your presence,

But go with yow, and come with yow ageyn.’

The chambre-dore, shortly for to seyn,

They opened and shette, and wente hir weye.

And forth with hem they carieden the keye,

And come agayn with-outen any delay.

What sholde I tarien al the longe day?

He took the chalk, and shoop it in the wyse

Of an ingot, as I shal yow devyse.

I seye, he took out of his owene sleve,

A teyne of silver (yvele mote he cheve!)

Which that ne was nat but an ounce of weighte;

And taketh heed now of his cursed sleighte!

He shoop his ingot, in lengthe and eek in brede,

Of this teyne, with-outen any drede,

So slyly, that the preest it nat espyde;

And in his sleve agayn he gan it hyde;

And fro the fyr he took up his matere,

And in thingot putte it with mery chere,

And in the water-vessel he it caste

Whan that him luste, and bad the preest as faste,

‘Look what ther is, put in thyn hand and grope,

Thow finde shalt ther silver, as I hope;

What, devel of helle! sholde it elles be?

Shaving of silver silver is, pardee!’

He putte his hond in, and took up a teyne

Of silver fyn, and glad in every veyne

Was this preest, whan he saugh that it was so.

‘Goddes blessing, and his modres also,

And alle halwes have ye, sir chanoun,’

Seyde this preest, ‘and I hir malisoun,

But, and ye vouche-sauf to techen me

This noble craft and this subtilitee,

I wol be youre, in al that ever I may!’

Quod the chanoun, ‘yet wol I make assay

The second tyme, that ye may taken hede

And been expert of this, and in your nede

Another day assaye in myn absence

This disciplyne and this crafty science.

Lat take another ounce,’ quod he tho,

‘Of quik-silver, with-outen wordes mo,

And do ther-with as ye han doon er this

With that other, which that now silver is.’

This preest him bisieth in al that he can

To doon as this chanoun, this cursed man,

Comanded him, and faste he blew the fyr,

For to come to theffect of his desyr.

And this chanoun, right in the mene whyle,

Al redy was, the preest eft to bigyle,

And, for a countenance, in his hande he bar

An holwe stikke (tak keep and be war!)

In the ende of which an ounce, and na-more,

Of silver lymail put was, as bifore

Was in his cole, and stopped with wex weel

For to kepe in his lymail every deel.

And whyl this preest was in his bisinesse,

This chanoun with his stikke gan him dresse

To him anon, and his pouder caste in

As he did er; (the devel out of his skin

Him torne, I pray to god, for his falshede;

For he was ever fals in thoght and dede);

And with this stikke, above the croslet,

That was ordeyned with that false get,

He stired the coles, til relente gan

The wex agayn the fyr, as every man,

But it a fool be, woot wel it mot nede,

And al that in the stikke was out yede,

And in the croslet hastily it fel.

Now gode sirs, what wol ye bet than wel?

Whan that this preest thus was bigyled ageyn,

Supposing noght but trouthe, soth to seyn,

He was so glad, that I can nat expresse

In no manere his mirthe and his gladnesse;

And to the chanoun he profred eftsone

Body and good; ‘ye,’ quod the chanoun sone,

‘Though povre I be, crafty thou shalt me finde;

I warne thee, yet is ther more bihinde.

Is ther any coper her-inne?’ seyde he.

‘Ye,’ quod the preest, ‘sir, I trowe wel ther be.’

‘Elles go by us som, and that as swythe,

Now, gode sir, go forth thy wey and hy the.’

He wente his wey, and with the coper cam,

And this chanoun it in his handes nam,

And of that coper weyed out but an ounce.

Al to simple is my tonge to pronounce,

As ministre of my wit, the doublenesse

Of this chanoun, rote of al cursednesse.

He semed freendly to hem that knewe him noght,

But he was feendly bothe in herte and thoght.

It werieth me to telle of his falsnesse,

And nathelees yet wol I it expresse,

To thentente that men may be war therby,

And for noon other cause, trewely.

He putte his ounce of coper in the croslet,

And on the fyr as swythe he hath it set,

And caste in poudre, and made the preest to blowe,

And in his werking for to stoupe lowe,

As he dide er, and al nas but a Iape;

Right as him liste, the preest he made his ape;

And afterward in the ingot he it caste,

And in the panne putte it at the laste

Of water, and in he putte his owene hond.

And in his sleve (as ye biforn-hond

Herde me telle) he hadde a silver teyne.

He slyly took it out, this cursed heyne—

Unwiting this preest of his false craft—

And in the pannes botme he hath it laft;

And in the water rombled to and fro,

And wonder prively took up also

The coper teyne, noght knowing this preest,

And hidde it, and him hente by the breest,

And to him spak, and thus seyde in his game,

‘Stoupeth adoun, by god, ye be to blame,

Helpeth me now, as I dide yow whyl-er,

Putte in your hand, and loketh what is ther.’

This preest took up this silver teyne anon,

And thanne seyde the chanoun, ‘lat us gon

With thise three teynes, which that we han wroght,

To som goldsmith, and wite if they been oght.

For, by my feith, I nolde, for myn hood,

But-if that they were silver, fyn and good,

And that as swythe preved shal it be.’

Un-to the goldsmith with thise teynes three

They wente, and putte thise teynes in assay

To fyr and hamer; mighte no man sey nay,

But that they weren as hem oghte be.

This sotted preest, who was gladder than he?

Was never brid gladder agayn the day,

Ne nightingale, in the sesoun of May,

Nas never noon that luste bet to singe;

Ne lady lustier in carolinge

Or for to speke of love and wommanhede,

Ne knight in armes to doon an hardy dede

To stonde in grace of his lady dere,

Than had this preest this sory craft to lere;

And to the chanoun thus he spak and seyde,

‘For love of god, that for us alle deyde,

And as I may deserve it un-to yow,

What shal this receit coste? telleth now!’

‘By our lady,’ quod this chanoun, ‘it is dere,

I warne yow wel; for, save I and a frere,

In Engelond ther can no man it make.’

‘No fors,’ quod he, ‘now, sir, for goddes sake,

What shal I paye? telleth me, I preye.’

‘Y-wis,’ quod he, ‘it is ful dere, I seye;

Sir, at o word, if that thee list it have,

Ye shul paye fourty pound, so god me save!

And, nere the freendship that ye dide er this

To me, ye sholde paye more, y-wis.’

This preest the somme of fourty pound anon

Of nobles fette, and took hem everichon

To this chanoun, for this ilke receit;

Al his werking nas but fraude and deceit.

‘Sir preest,’ he seyde, ‘I kepe han no loos

Of my craft, for I wolde it kept were cloos;

And as ye love me, kepeth it secree;

For, and men knewe al my subtilitee,

By god, they wolden han so greet envye

To me, by-cause of my philosophye,

I sholde be deed, ther were non other weye.’

‘God it forbede!’ quod the preest, ‘what sey ye?’

Yet hadde I lever spenden al the good

Which that I have (and elles wexe I wood!)

Than that ye sholden falle in swich mescheef.’

‘For your good wil, sir, have ye right good preef,’

Quod the chanoun, ‘and far-wel, grant mercy!’

He wente his wey and never the preest him sy

After that day; and whan that this preest sholde

Maken assay, at swich tyme as he wolde,

Of this receit, far-wel! it wolde nat be!

Lo, thus byiaped and bigyled was he!

Thus maketh he his introduccioun

To bringe folk to hir destruccioun.—

Considereth, sirs, how that, in ech estaat,

Bitwixe men and gold ther is debaat

So ferforth, that unnethes is ther noon.

This multiplying blent so many oon,

That in good feith I trowe that it be

The cause grettest of swich scarsetee.

Philosophres speken so mistily

In this craft, that men can nat come therby,

For any wit that men han now a-dayes.

They mowe wel chiteren, as doon thise Iayes,

And in her termes sette hir lust and peyne,

But to hir purpos shul they never atteyne.

A man may lightly lerne, if he have aught,

To multiplye, and bringe his good to naught!

Lo! swich a lucre is in this lusty game,

A mannes mirthe it wol torne un-to grame,

And empten also grete and hevy purses,

And maken folk for to purchasen curses

Of hem, that han hir good therto y-lent.

O! fy! for shame! they that han been brent,

Allas! can they nat flee the fyres hete?

Ye that it use, I rede ye it lete,

Lest ye lese al; for bet than never is late.

Never to thryve were to long a date.

Though ye prolle ay, ye shul it never finde;

Ye been as bolde as is Bayard the blinde,

That blundreth forth, and peril casteth noon;

He is as bold to renne agayn a stoon

As for to goon besydes in the weye.

So faren ye that multiplye, I seye.

If that your yën can nat seen aright,

Loke that your minde lakke nought his sight.

For, though ye loke never so brode, and stare,

Ye shul nat winne a myte on that chaffare,

But wasten al that ye may rape and renne.

Withdrawe the fyr, lest it to faste brenne;

Medleth na-more with that art, I mene,

For, if ye doon, your thrift is goon ful clene.

And right as swythe I wol yow tellen here,

What philosophres seyn in this matere.

Lo, thus seith Arnold of the Newe Toun,

As his Rosarie maketh mencioun;

He seith right thus, with-outen any lye,

‘Ther may no man Mercurie mortifye,

But it be with his brother knowleching.

How that he, which that first seyde this thing,

Of philosophres fader was, Hermes;

He seith, how that the dragoun, doutelees,

Ne deyeth nat, but-if that he be slayn

With his brother; and that is for to sayn,

By the dragoun, Mercurie and noon other

He understood; and brimstoon by his brother,

That out of sol and luna were y-drawe.

And therfor,’ seyde he, ‘tak heed to my sawe,

Let no man bisy him this art for to seche,

But-if that he thentencioun and speche

Of philosophres understonde can;

And if he do, he is a lewed man.

For this science and this conning,’ quod he,

‘Is of the secree of secrees, parde.’

Also ther was a disciple of Plato,

That on a tyme seyde his maister to,

As his book Senior wol bere witnesse,

And this was his demande in soothfastnesse:

‘Tel me the name of the privy stoon?’

And Plato answerde unto him anoon,

‘Tak the stoon that Titanos men name.’

‘Which is that?’ quod he. ‘Magnesia is the same,’

Seyde Plato. ‘Ye, sir, and is it thus?

This is ignotum per ignotius.

What is Magnesia, good sir, I yow preye?’

‘It is a water that is maad, I seye,

Of elementes foure,’ quod Plato.

‘Tel me the rote, good sir,’ quod he tho,

‘Of that water, if that it be your wille?’

‘Nay, nay,’ quod Plato, ‘certein, that I nille.

The philosophres sworn were everichoon,

That they sholden discovere it un-to noon,

Ne in no book it wryte in no manere;

For un-to Crist it is so leef and dere

That he wol nat that it discovered be,

But wher it lyketh to his deitee

Man for tenspyre, and eek for to defende

Whom that him lyketh; lo, this is the ende.’

Thanne conclude I thus; sith god of hevene

Ne wol nat that the philosophres nevene

How that a man shal come un-to this stoon,

I rede, as for the beste, lete it goon.

For who-so maketh god his adversarie,

As for to werken any thing in contrarie

Of his wil, certes, never shal he thryve,

Thogh that he multiplye terme of his lyve.

And ther a poynt; for ended is my tale;

God sende every trewe man bote of his bale!—Amen.

Here is ended the Chanouns Yemannes Tale.

Here folweth the Prologe of the Maunciples Tale.

Wite ye nat wher ther stant a litel toun

Which that y-cleped is Bob-up-and-doun,

Under the Blee, in Caunterbury weye?

Ther gan our hoste for to Iape and pleye,

And seyde, ‘sirs, what! Dun is in the myre!

Is ther no man, for preyere ne for hyre,

That wol awake our felawe heer bihinde?

A theef mighte him ful lightly robbe and binde.

See how he nappeth! see, for cokkes bones,

As he wol falle from his hors at ones.

Is that a cook of Londoun, with meschaunce?

Do him come forth, he knoweth his penaunce,

For he shal telle a tale, by my fey!

Al-though it be nat worth a botel hey.

Awake, thou cook,’ quod he, ‘god yeve thee sorwe,

What eyleth thee to slepe by the morwe?

Hastow had fleen al night, or artow dronke,

Or hastow with som quene al night y-swonke,

So that thou mayst nat holden up thyn heed?’

This cook, that was ful pale and no-thing reed,

Seyde to our host, ‘so god my soule blesse,

As ther is falle on me swich hevinesse,

Noot I nat why, that me were lever slepe

Than the beste galoun wyn in Chepe.’

‘Wel,’ quod the maunciple, ‘if it may doon ese

To thee, sir cook, and to no wight displese

Which that heer rydeth in this companye,

And that our host wol, of his curteisye,

I wol as now excuse thee of thy tale;

For, in good feith, thy visage is ful pale,

Thyn yën daswen eek, as that me thinketh,

And wel I woot, thy breeth ful soure stinketh,

That sheweth wel thou art not wel disposed;

Of me, certein, thou shalt nat been y-glosed.

Se how he ganeth, lo, this dronken wight,

As though he wolde us swolwe anon-right.

Hold cloos thy mouth, man, by thy fader kin!

The devel of helle sette his foot ther-in!

Thy cursed breeth infecte wol us alle;

Fy, stinking swyn, fy! foule moot thee falle!

A! taketh heed, sirs, of this lusty man.

Now, swete sir, wol ye Iusten atte fan?

Ther-to me thinketh ye been wel y-shape!

I trowe that ye dronken han wyn ape,

And that is whan men pleyen with a straw.’

And with this speche the cook wex wrooth and wraw,

And on the maunciple he gan nodde faste

For lakke of speche, and doun the hors him caste,

Wher as he lay, til that men up him took;

This was a fayr chivachee of a cook!

Allas! he nadde holde him by his ladel!

And, er that he agayn were in his sadel,

Ther was greet showving bothe to and fro,

To lifte him up, and muchel care and wo,

So unweldy was this sory palled gost.

And to the maunciple thanne spak our host,

‘By-cause drink hath dominacioun

Upon this man, by my savacioun

I trowe he lewedly wolde telle his tale.

For, were it wyn, or old or moysty ale,

That he hath dronke, he speketh in his nose,

And fneseth faste, and eek he hath the pose.

He hath also to do more than y-nough

To kepe him and his capel out of slough;

And, if he falle from his capel eft-sone,

Than shul we alle have y-nough to done,

In lifting up his hevy dronken cors.

Telle on thy tale, of him make I no fors.

But yet, maunciple, in feith thou art to nyce,

Thus openly repreve him of his vyce.

Another day he wol, peraventure,

Reclayme thee, and bringe thee to lure;

I mene, he speke wol of smale thinges,

As for to pinchen at thy rekeninges,

That wer not honeste, if it cam to preef.’

‘No,’ quod the maunciple, ‘that were a greet mescheef!

So mighte he lightly bringe me in the snare.

Yet hadde I lever payen for the mare

Which he rit on, than he sholde with me stryve;

I wol nat wratthe him, al-so mote I thryve!

That that I spak, I seyde it in my bourde;

And wite ye what? I have heer, in a gourde,

A draught of wyn, ye, of a rype grape,

And right anon ye shul seen a good Iape.

This cook shal drinke ther-of, if I may;

Up peyne of deeth, he wol nat seye me nay!’

And certeinly, to tellen as it was,

Of this vessel the cook drank faste, allas!

What neded him? he drank y-nough biforn.

And whan he hadde pouped in this horn,

To the maunciple he took the gourde agayn;

And of that drinke the cook was wonder fayn,

And thanked him in swich wyse as he coude.

Than gan our host to laughen wonder loude,

And seyde, ‘I see wel, it is necessarie,

Wher that we goon, good drink we with us carie;

For that wol turne rancour and disese

Tacord and love, and many a wrong apese.

O thou Bachus, y-blessed be thy name,

That so canst turnen ernest in-to game!

Worship and thank be to thy deitee!

Of that matere ye gete na-more of me.

Tel on thy tale, maunciple, I thee preye.’

‘Wel, sir,’ quod he, ‘now herkneth what I seye.’

Thus endeth the Prologe of the Manciple.

Here biginneth the Maunciples Tale of the Crowe.

Whan Phebus dwelled here in this erthe adoun,

As olde bokes maken mencioun,

He was the moste lusty bachiler

In al this world, and eek the beste archer;

He slow Phitoun, the serpent, as he lay

Slepinge agayn the sonne upon a day;

And many another noble worthy dede

He with his bowe wroghte, as men may rede.

Pleyen he coude on every minstralcye,

And singen, that it was a melodye,

To heren of his clere vois the soun.

Certes the king of Thebes, Amphioun,

That with his singing walled that citee,

Coude never singen half so wel as he.

Therto he was the semelieste man

That is or was, sith that the world bigan.

What nedeth it his fetures to discryve?

For in this world was noon so fair on lyve.

He was ther-with fulfild of gentillesse,

Of honour, and of parfit worthinesse.

This Phebus, that was flour of bachelrye,

As wel in fredom as in chivalrye,

For his desport, in signe eek of victorie

Of Phitoun, so as telleth us the storie,

Was wont to beren in his hand a bowe.

Now had this Phebus in his hous a crowe,

Which in a cage he fostred many a day,

And taughte it speken, as men teche a Iay.

Whyt was this crowe, as is a snow-whyt swan,

And countrefete the speche of every man

He coude, whan he sholde telle a tale.

Ther-with in al this world no nightingale

Ne coude, by an hondred thousand deel,

Singen so wonder merily and weel.

Now had this Phebus in his hous a wyf,

Which that he lovede more than his lyf,

And night and day dide ever his diligence

Hir for to plese, and doon hir reverence,

Save only, if the sothe that I shal sayn,

Ialous he was, and wolde have hept hir fayn;

For him were looth by-iaped for to be.

And so is every wight in swich degree;

But al in ydel, for it availleth noght.

A good wyf, that is clene of werk and thoght,

Sholde nat been kept in noon await, certayn;

And trewely, the labour is in vayn

To kepe a shrewe, for it wol nat be.

This holde I for a verray nycetee,

To spille labour, for to kepe wyves;

Thus writen olde clerkes in hir lyves.

But now to purpos, as I first bigan:

This worthy Phebus dooth all that he can

To plesen hir, weninge by swich plesaunce,

And for his manhede and his governaunce,

That no man sholde han put him from hir grace.

But god it woot, ther may no man embrace

As to destreyne a thing, which that nature

Hath naturelly set in a creature.

Tak any brid, and put it in a cage,

And do al thyn entente and thy corage

To fostre it tendrely with mete and drinke,

Of alle deyntees that thou canst bithinke,

And keep it al-so clenly as thou may;

Al-though his cage of gold be never so gay,

Yet hath this brid, by twenty thousand fold,

Lever in a forest, that is rude and cold,

Gon ete wormes and swich wrecchednesse.

For ever this brid wol doon his bisinesse

To escape out of his cage, if he may;

His libertee this brid desireth ay.

Lat take a cat, and fostre him wel with milk,

And tendre flesh, and make his couche of silk,

And lat him seen a mous go by the wal;

Anon he weyveth milk, and flesh, and al,

And every deyntee that is in that hous,

Swich appetyt hath he to ete a mous.

Lo, here hath lust his dominacioun,

And appetyt flemeth discrecioun.

A she-wolf hath also a vileins kinde;

The lewedeste wolf that she may finde,

Or leest of reputacion wol she take,

In tyme whan hir lust to han a make.

Alle thise ensamples speke I by thise men

That been untrewe, and no-thing by wommen.

For men han ever a likerous appetyt

On lower thing to parfourne hir delyt

Than on hir wyves, be they never so faire,

Ne never so trewe, ne so debonaire.

Flesh is so newefangel, with meschaunce,

That we ne conne in no-thing han plesaunce

That souneth in-to vertu any whyle.

This Phebus, which that thoghte upon no gyle,

Deceyved was, for al his Iolitee;

For under him another hadde she,

A man of litel reputacioun,

Noght worth to Phebus in comparisoun.

The more harm is; it happeth ofte so,

Of which ther cometh muchel harm and wo.

And so bifel, whan Phebus was absent,

His wyf anon hath for hir lemman sent,

Hir lemman? certes, this is a knavish speche!

Foryeveth it me, and that I yow biseche.

The wyse Plato seith, as ye may rede,

The word mot nede accorde with the dede.

If men shal telle proprely a thing,

The word mot cosin be to the werking.

I am a boistous man, right thus seye I,

Ther nis no difference, trewely,

Bitwixe a wyf that is of heigh degree,

If of hir body dishonest she be,

And a povre wenche, other than this—

If it so be, they werke bothe amis—

But that the gentile, in estaat above,

She shal be cleped his lady, as in love;

And for that other is a povre womman,

She shal be cleped his wenche, or his lemman.

And, god it wool, myn owene dere brother,

Men leyn that oon as lowe as lyth that other.

Right so, bitwixe a titlelees tiraunt

And an outlawe, or a theef erraunt,

The same I seye, ther is no difference.

To Alisaundre told was this sentence;

That, for the tyrant is of gretter might,

By force of meynee for to sleen doun-right,

And brennen hous and hoom, and make al plain,

Lo! therfor is he cleped a capitain;

And, for the outlawe hath but smal meynee,

And may nat doon so greet an harm as he,

Ne bringe a contree to so greet mescheef,

Men clepen him an outlawe or a theef.

But, for I am a man noght textuel,

I wol noght telle of textes never a del;

I wol go to my tale, as I bigan.

Whan Phebus wyf had sent for hir lemman,

Anon they wroghten al hir lust volage.

The whyte crowe, that heng ay in the cage,

Biheld hir werk, and seyde never a word.

And whan that hoom was come Phebus, the lord,

This crowe sang ‘cokkow! cokkow! cokkow!’