The Canterbury Tales; THE MONKES TALE

PROLOGUE TO THE MONKES TALE

    The murye wordes of the Hoost to the Monk.

       Whan ended was my tale of Melibee,

    And of Prudence, and hir benignytee,

    Oure hooste seyde, "As I am feithful man,

    And by that precious corpus Madrian,

    I hadde levere than a barel ale

    That goode lief my wyf hadde herd this tale!

    She nys nothyng of swich pacience

    As was this Melibeus wyf, Prudence.

    By Goddes bones, whan I bete my knaves

    She bryngeth me forth the grete clobbed staves,

    And crieth, `Slee the dogges, everichoon,

    And brek hem, bothe bak and every boon.'

    And if that any neighebore of myne

    Wol nat in chirche to my wyf enclyne,

    Or be so hardy to hir to trespace,

    Whan she comth hoom she rampeth in my face,

    And crieth, `false coward, wrek thy wyf!

    By corpus bones, I wol have thy knyf,

    And thou shalt have my distaf and go spynne

    Fro day to nyght!'  Right thus she wol bigynne.

    `Allas,' she seith, `that evere I was shape

    To wedden a milksop or a coward ape,

    That wol been overlad with every wight;

    Thou darst nat stonden by thy wyves right!'

    This is my lif, but if that I wol fighte,

    And out at dore anon I moot me dighte,

    Or elles I am but lost, but if that I

    Be lik a wilde leoun fool-hardy.

    I woot wel she wol do me slee som day

    Som neighebore, and thanne go my way.

    For I am perilous with knyf in honde,

    Al be it that I dar hir nat withstonde.

    For she is byg in armes, by my feith,

    That shal he fynde that hir mysdooth or seith-

    But lat us passe awey fro this mateere.

    My lord the Monk," quod he, "be myrie of cheere,

    For ye shul telle a tale, trewely.

    Loo, Rouchestre stant heer faste by.

    Ryde forth, myn owene lord, brek nat oure game.

    But, by my trouthe, I knowe nat youre name;

    Wher shal I calle yow my lord daun John,

    Or daun Thomas, or elles daun Albon?

    Of what hous be ye, by youre fader kyn?

    I vowe to God, thou hast a ful fair skyn,

    It is a gentil pasture ther thow goost.

    Thou art nat lyk a penant or a goost.

    Upon my feith, thou art som officer,

    Som worthy sexteyn, or som celerer,

    For by my fader soule, as to my doom,

    Thou art a maister whan thou art at hoom,

    No povre cloysterer, ne no novys,

    But a governour, wily and wys;

    And therwith-al of brawnes and of bones

    A wel-farynge persone, for the nones.

    I pray to God, yeve hym confusioun

    That first thee broghte unto religioun.

    Thou woldest han been a tredefowel aright;

    Haddwstow as greet a leeve as thou hast myght

    To parfourne al thy lust in engendrure,

    Thou haddest bigeten ful many a creature.

    Allas, why werestow so wyd a cope?

    God yeve me sorwe, but, and I were a pope,

    Nat oonly thou but every myghty man

    Though he were shorn ful hye upon his pan,

    Sholde have a wyf, for al the world is lorn.

    Religioun hath take up al the corn

    Of tredyng, and we borel men been shrympes.

    Of fieble trees ther comen wrecched ympes.

    This maketh that our heyres ben so sclendre

    And feble, that they may nat wel engendre;

    This maketh that oure wyves wole assaye

    Religious folk, for ye mowe bettre paye

    Of Venus paiementz than mowe we;

    God woot no lussheburghes payen ye.

    But be nat wrooth, my lord, for that I pleye,

    Ful ofte in game a sooth I have herd seye."

    This worthy Monk took al in pacience,

    And seyde, "I wol doon al my diligence,

    As fer as sowneth into honestee,

    To telle yow a tale, or two, or three.

    And if yow list to herkne hyderward

    I wol yow seyn the lyf of seint Edward;

    Or ellis first tragedies wol I telle

    Of whiche I have an hundred in my celle.

    Tragedie is to seyn, a certeyn storie,

    As olde bookes maken us memorie,

    Of hym that stood in greet prosperitee

    And is yfallen out of heigh degree

    Into myserie, and endeth wrecchedly,

    And they ben versified communely

    Of six feet, which men clepen exametron.

    In prose eek been endited many oon,

    And eek in meetre, in many a sondry wyse.

    Lo, this declaryng oghte ynogh suffise;

    Now herkneth, if yow liketh for to heere.

    But first, I yow biseeke in this mateere,

    Though I by ordre telle nat this thynges,

    Be it of popes, emperours, or kynges,

    After hir ages, as men writen fynde,

    But tellen hem, som bifore and som bihynde,

    As it now comth unto my remembraunce;

    Have me excused of myn ignoraunce.

Part 13

    THE MONKES TALE

    Heere bigynneth the Monkes Tale de Casibut Virorum

    Illustrium.

       I wol biwaille in manere of Tragedie

    The harm of hem that stoode in heigh degree,

    And fillen so, that ther nas no remedie

    To brynge hem out of hir adversitee.

    For certein, whan that Fortune list to flee,

    Ther may no man the cours of hire withholde;

    Lat no man truste on blynd prosperitee;

    Be war of thise ensamples, trewe and olde.

                               Lucifer

       At Lucifer, though he an aungel were,

    And nat a man, at hym wol I biginne,

    For though Fortune may noon aungel dere,

    From heigh degree yet fel he for his synne

    Doun into helle, where he yet is inne.

    O Lucifer, brightest of aungels alle,

    Now artow Sathanas, that mayst nat twynne

    Out of miserie, in which that thou art falle.

                               Adam

       Loo Adam, in the feeld of Damyssene,

    With Goddes owene fynger wroght was he,

    And nat bigeten of mannes sperme unclene,

    And welte all Paradys, savynge o tree.

    Hadde nevere worldly man so heigh degree

    As Adam, til he, for mysgovernaunce,

    Was dryven out of hys hye prosperitee

    To labour, and to helle, and to meschaunce.

                               Sampson

       Loo Sampson, which that was annunciat

    By angel, longe er his nativitee,

    And was to God almyghty consecrat,

    And stood in noblesse whil he myghte see,

    Was nevere swich another as was hee,

    To speke of strengthe and therwith hardynesse;

    But to hise wyves toolde he his secree,

    Thurgh which he slow hymself for wrecchednesse.

    Sampsoun, this noble almyghty champioun,

    Withouten wepene, save his handes tweye,

    He slow and al torente the leoun

    Toward his weddyng walkynge by the weye.

    His false wyf koude hym so plese and preye

    Til she his conseil knew, and she untrewe

    Unto hise foos his conseil gan biwreye,

    And hym forsook, and took another newe.

    Thre hundred foxes took Sampson for ire,

    And alle hir tayles he togydre bond,

    And sette the foxes tayles alle on fire;

    For he on every tayl had knyt a brond,

    And they brende alle the cornes in that lond,

    And alle hir olyveres and vynes eke.

    A thousand men he slow eek with his hond,

    And hadde no wepene but an asses cheke.

    Whan they were slayn, so thursted hym, that he

    Was wel ny lorn, for which he gan to preye

    That God wolde on his peyne han som pitee,

    And sende hym drynke, or elles moste he deye;

    And of this asses cheke, that was dreye,

    Out of a wang-tooth sprang anon a welle

    Of which he drank anon, shortly to seye,

    Thus heelp hym God, as Judicum can telle.

    By verray force at Gazan, on a nyght,

    Maugree Philistiens of that citee,

    The gates of the toun he hath upplyght,

    And on his bak ycaryed hem hath he

    Hye on an hille, that men myghte hem see.

    O noble almyghty Sampson, lief and deere,

    Had thou nat toold to wommen thy secree,

    In all this world ne hadde been thy peere.

    This Sampson nevere ciser drank, ne wyn,

    Ne on his heed cam rasour noon, ne sheere,

    By precept of the messager divyn,

    For alle hise strengthes in hise heeres weere.

    And fully twenty wynter, yeer by yeere,

    He hadde of Israel the governaunce.

    But soone shal he wepen many a teere,

    For wommen shal hym bryngen to meschaunce!

    Unto his lemman Dalida he tolde

    That in hise heeres al his strengthe lay,

    And falsly to hise fooman she hym solde;

    And slepynge in hir barme upon a day

    She made to clippe or shere hise heres away,

    And made hise foomen al this craft espyn.

    And whan that they hym foond in this array,

    They bounde hym faste, and putten out hise eyen.

    But er his heer were clipped or yshave,

    Ther was no boond with which men myght him bynde,

    But now is he in prison in a cave,

    Where as they made hym at the queerne grynde.

    O noble Sampson, strongest of mankynde,

    O whilom juge in glorie and in richesse,

    Now maystow wepen with thyne eyen blynde,

    Sith thou fro wele art falle in wrecchednesse!

    The ende of this caytyf was as I shal seye;

    Hise foomen made a feeste upon a day,

    And made hym as hir fool biforn hem pleye.

    And this was in a temple of greet array;

    But atte laste he made a foul affray,

    For he two pilers shook, and made hem falle,

    And doun fil temple and al, and ther it lay,

    And slow hymself, and eek his foomen alle.

    This is to seyn, the prynces everichoon,

    And eek thre thousand bodyes were ther slayn

    With fallynge of the grete temple of stoon.

    Of Sampson now wol I namoore sayn:

    Beth war by this ensample oold and playn

    That no men telle hir conseil til hir wyves

    Of swich thyng as they solde han secree fayn,

    If that it touche hir lymmes or hir lyves.

                             Hercules

       Off Hercules the sovereyn conquerour

    Syngen hise werkes laude and heigh renoun,

    For in his tyme of strengthe he was the flour.

    He slow and rafte the skyn of the leoun,

    He of Centauros leyde the boost adoun,

    He arpies slow, the crueel bryddes felle,

    He golden apples refte of the dragoun,

    He drow out Cerberus the hound of helle.

    He slow the crueel tyrant Busirus,

    And made his hors to frete hym, flessh and boon;

    He slow the firy serpent venymus,

    Of Acheloys two hornes, he brak oon.

    And he slow Cacus in a Cave of stoon;

    He slow the geaunt Antheus the stronge,

    He slow the grisly boor, and that anon,

    And bar the hevene on his nekke longe.

    Was nevere wight, sith that this world bigan,

    That slow so manye monstres as dide he.

    Thurghout this wyde world his name ran,

    What for his strengthe, and for his heigh bountee,

    And every reawme wente he for to see.

    He was so stroong that no man myghte hym lette;

    At bothe the worldes endes, seith Trophee,

    In stide of boundes, he a pileer sette.

    A lemman hadde this noble champioun,

    That highte Dianira, fressh as May,

    And as thise clerkes maken mencioun,

    She hath hym sent a sherte fressh and gay.

    Allas, this sherte, allas, and weylaway!

    Envenymed was so subtilly withalle,

    That er that he had wered it half a day

    It made his flessh al from hise bones falle.

    But nathelees somme clerkes hir excusen

    By oon that highte Nessus, that it maked.

    Be as be may, I wol hir noght accusen;

    But on his bak this sherte he wered al naked,

    Til that his flessh was for the venym blaked;

    And whan he saugh noon oother remedye,

    In hoote coles he hath hym-selven raked,

    For with no venym deigned hym to dye.

    Thus starf this worthy myghty Hercules.

    Lo, who may truste on Fortune any throwe?

    For hym that folweth al this world of prees,

    Er he be war, is ofte yleyd ful lowe.

    Ful wys is he that kan hymselven knowe.

    Beth war, for whan that Fortune list to glose,

    Thanne wayteth she her man to overthrowe,

    By swich a wey, as he wolde leest suppose.

                         Nabugodonosor

       The myghty trone, the precious tresor

    The golrious ceptre and roial magestee

    That hadde the kyng Nabugodonosor,

    With tonge unnethe may discryved bee.

    He twyes wan Jerusalem the citee;

    The vessel of the temple he with hym ladde.

    At Babiloigne was his sovereyn see,

    In which his glorie and his delit he hadde.

    The faireste children of the blood roial

    Of Israel he leet do gelde anoon,

    And make ech of hem to been his thral.

    Amonges othere, Daniel was oon,

    That was the wiseste child of everychon;

    For he the dremes of the kyng expouned

    Wheras in Chaldeye clerk ne was ther noon

    That wiste to what fyn hise dremes sowned.

    This proude kyng leet maken a statue of gold

    Sixty cubites long, and sevene in brede,

    To which ymage bothe yonge and oold

    Comaunded he to loute and have in drede,

    Or in a fourneys ful of flambes rede

    He shal be brent, that wolde noght obeye.

    But nevere wolde assente to that dede

    Daniel, ne hise yonge felawes tweye.

    This kyng of kynges proud was and elaat;

    He wende, that God that sit in magestee

    Ne myghte hym nat bireve of his estaat;

    But sodeynly he loste his dignytee,

    And lyk a beest hym semed for to bee,

    And eet hey as an oxe and lay theroute;

    In reyn with wilde beestes walked hee

    Til certein tyme was ycome aboute.

    And lik an egles fetheres wex his heres,

    Hise nayles lyk a briddes clawes weere,

    Til God relessed hym a certeyn yeres,

    And yaf hym wit, and thanne, with many a teere,

    He thanked God; and evere his lyf in feere

    Was he to doon amys, or moore trespace,

    And til that tyme he leyd was on his beere,

    He knew that God was ful of myght and grace.

                          Balthasar

       His sone which that highte Balthasar,

    That heeld the regne after his fader day,

    He by his fader koude noght be war,

    For proud he was of herte and of array;

    And eek an ydolastre he was ay.

    His hye estaat assured hym in pryde;

    But Fortune caste hym doun and ther he lay,

    And sodeynly his regne gan divide.

    A feeste he made unto hise lordes alle

    Upon a tyme, and bad hem blithe bee,

    And thanne hise officeres gan he calle,

    "Gooth, bryngeth forth the vesseles," quod he,

    "Whiche that my fader, in his prosperitee,

    Out of the temple of Jerusalem birafte,

    And to oure hye goddes thanke we

    Of honour, that oure eldres with us lafte."

    Hys wyf, hise lordes, and hise concubynes

    Ay dronken, whil hire appetites laste,

    Out of thise noble vessels sondry wynes.

    And on a wal this kyng hise eyen caste,

    And saugh an hand armlees that wroot ful faste,

    For feere of which he quook and siked soore.

    This hand, that Balthasar so soore agaste,

    Wroot `Mame, techel, phares,' and na moore.

    In al that land magicien was noon

    That koude expounde what this lettre mente.

    But Daniel expowned it anon,

    And seyde, "Kyng, God to thy fader lente

    Glorie and honour, regne, tresour, rente;

    And he was proud, and nothyng God ne dradde,

    And therfore God greet wreche upon hym sente,

    And hym birafte the regne that he hadde.

    He was out-cast of mannes compaignye,

    With asses was his habitacioun,

    And eet hey as a beest in weet and drye,

    Til that he knew by grace and by resoun

    That God of hevene hath domynacioun

    Over every regne and every creature,

    And thanne hadde God of hym compassioun

    And hym restored his regne and his figure.

    Eek thou that art his sone art proud also,

    And knowest alle thise thynges verraily,

    And art rebel to God and art his foo.

    Thou drank eek of hise vessels boldely,

    Thy wyf eek, and thy wenches synfully

    Dronke of the same vessels sondry wynys,

    And heryest false goddes cursedly;

    Therfore to thee yshapen ful greet pyne ys.

    This hand was sent from God, that on the wal

    Wroot `Mane techel phares,' truste me!

    Thy regne is doon, thou weyest noght at al,

    Dyvyded is thy regne, and it shal be

    To Medes and to Perses yeve," quod he.

    And thilke same nyght this kyng was slawe

    And Darius occupyeth his degree,

    Thogh he therto hadde neither right ne lawe.

    Lordynges, ensample heer-by may ye take

    How that in lordshipe is no sikernesse;

    For whan Fortune wole a man forsake,

    She bereth awey his regne and his richesse,

    And eek hise freendes, bothe moore and lesse,

    For what man that hath freendes thurgh Fortune

    Mishap wol maken hem enemys, as I gesse;

    This proverbe is ful sooth and ful commune.

                               Cenobia

       Cenobia, of Palymerie queene,

    As writen Persiens of hir noblesse,

    So worthy was in armes, and so keene,

    That no wight passed hir in hardynesse,

    Ne in lynage, ne in oother gentillesse.

    Of kynges blood of Perce is she descended.

    I seye nat that she hadde moost fairnesse,

    But of hire shap she myghte nat been amended.

    From hir childhede I fynde that she fledde

    Office of wommen, and to wode she wente,

    And many a wilde hertes blood she shedde

    With arwes brode, that she to hem sente.

    She was so swift that she anon hem hente,

    And whan that she was elder, she wolde kille

    Leouns, leopardes, and beres al to-rente,

    And in hir armes weelde hem at hir wille.

    She dorste wilde heestes dennes seke,

    And rennen in the montaignes al the nyght

    And slepen under the bussh, and she koude eke

    Wrastlen by verray force and verray myght

    With any yong man, were he never so wight;

    Ther myghte nothyng in hir armes stonde.

    She kepte hir maydenhod from every wight,

    To no man deigned hir for to be bonde.

    But atte laste hir freendes han hir maried

    To Odenake, a prynce of that contree,

    Al were it so that she hem longe taried,

    And ye shul understonde how that he

    Hadde swiche fantasies as hadde she.

    But nathelees, whan they were knyt infeere,

    They lyved in joye and in felicitee,

    For ech of hem hadde oother lief and deere;

    Save o thyng, that she wolde nevere assente

    By no wey that he sholde by hir lye

    But ones, for it was hir pleyn entente

    To have a child the world to multiplye;

    And also soone as that she myghte espye

    That she was nat with childe with that dede,

    Thanne wolde she suffre hym doon his fantasye

    Eft-soone and nat but oones, out of drede.

    And if she were with childe at thilke cast,

    Namoore sholde he pleyen thilke game

    Til fully fourty dayes weren past;

    Thanne wolde she ones suffre hym do the same.

    Al were this Odenake wilde or tame,

    He gat no moore of hir, for thus she seyde,

    It was to wyves lecheie and shame

    In oother caas, it that men with hem pleyde.

    Two sones by this Odenake hadde she,

    The whiche she kepte in vertu and lettrure,

    But now unto oure tale turne we;

    I seye, so worshipful a creature,

    And wys ther-with, and large with mesure,

    So penyble in the werre, and curteis eke,

    Ne moore labour myghte in werre endure,

    Was noon, though al this world men wolde seke.

    Hir riche array ne myghte nat be told

    As wel in vessel as in hir clothyng;

    She was al clad in perree and in gold,

    And eek she lafte noght for noon huntyng

    To have of sondry tonges ful knowyng,

    Whan that she leyser hadde, and for to entende

    To lerne bookes was al hire likyng,

    How she in vertu myghte hir lyf dispende.

    And shortly of this proces for to trete,

    So doghty was hir housbonde and eek she,

    That they conquered manye regnes grete

    In the orient, with many a faire citee,

    Apertenaunt unto the magestee

    Of Rome, and with strong hond held hem ful faste,

    Ne nevere myghte hir foomen doon hem flee,

    Ay whil that Odenakes dayes laste.

    Hir batailles, who-so list hem for to rede,

    Agayn Sapor the kyng and othere mo,

    And how that al this proces fil in dede,

    Why she conquered, and what title had therto,

    And after of hir meschief and hire wo,

    How that she was biseged and ytake,

    Lat hym unto my maister Petrak go,

    That writ ynough of this, I undertake.

    Whan Odenake was deed, she myghtily

    The regnes heeld; and with hir propre hond

    Agayn hir foos she faught so cruelly

    That ther nas kyng ne prynce in al that lond

    That he nas glad, if he that grace fond

    That she ne wolde upon his lond werreye.

    With hir they makded alliance by bond

    To been in pees, and let hire ride and pleye.

    The Emperour of Rome, Claudius,

    Ne hym bifore, the Romayn Galien,

    Ne dorste nevere been so corageus,

    Ne noon Ermyn, ne noon Egipcien,

    Ne Surrien, ne noon arabyen,

    With-inne the feeldes that dorste with hir fighte,

    Lest that she wolde hem with hir handes slen,

    Or with hir meignee putten hem to flighte.

    In kynges habit wente hir sones two

    As heires of hir fadres regnes alle,

    And Hermanno, and Thymalao

    Hir names were, as Persiens hem calle.

    But ay Fortune hath in hir hony galle;

    This myghty queene may no while endure.

    Fortune out of hir regne made hir falle

    To wrecchednesse and to mysaventure.

    Aurelian, whan that the governaunce

    Of Rome cam into hise handes tweye,

    He shoope upon this queene to doon vengeaunce,

    And with hise legions he took his weye

    Toward Cenobie, and shortly for to seye,

    He made hir flee and atte last hir hente,

    And fettred hir, and eek hir children tweye,

    And wan the land, and hoom to Rome he wente.

    Amonges othere thynges that he wan,

    Hir chaar, that was with gold wroght and perree,

    This grete Romayn, this Aurelian,

    Hath with hym lad for that men sholde it see.

    Biforen his triumphe walketh shee,

    With gilte cheynes on hir nekke hangynge;

    Coroned was she, after hir degree,

    And ful of perree charged hir clothynge.

    Allas, Fortune! she that whilom was

    Dredful to kynges and to emperoures,

    Now gaureth al the peple on hir, allas!

    And she that helmed was in starke shoures

    And wan by force townes stronge and toures

    Shal on hir heed now were a vitremyte,

    And she that bar the ceptre ful of floures

    Shal bere a distaf, hir costes for to quyte.

                        De Petro Rege Ispannie

       O noble, O worthy Petro, glorie of Spayne!

    Whom Fortune heeld so hye in magestee,

    Wel oghten men thy pitous deeth complayne;

    Out of thy land thy brother made thee flee,

    And after at a seege by subtiltee

    Thou were bitraysed, and lad unto his tente

    Where as he with his owene hand slow thee,

    Succedynge in thy regne and in thy rente.

    The feeld of snow, with thegle of blak therinne

    Caught with the lymerod, coloured as the gleede,

    He brew this cursednesse and al this synne.

    The wikked nest was werker of this nede,

    Noght Charles Olyvver, that took ay heede

    Of trouthe and honour, but of Armorike

    Genyloun Olyver, corrupt for meede,

    Broghte this worthy kyng in swich a brike.

                     De Petro Rege de Cipro

       O worthy Petro, kyng of Cipre, also,

    That Alisandre wan by heigh maistrie,

    Ful many an hethen wroghtestow ful wo,

    Of which thyne owene liges hadde envye,

    And for nothyng but for thy chivalrie,

    They in thy bed han slayn thee by the morwe.

    Thus kan Fortune hir wheel governe and gye,

    And out of joye brynge men to sorwe.

                    De Barnabo de Lumbardia

       Off Melan grete Barnabo Viscounte,

    God of delit and scourge of Lumbardye,

    Why sholde I nat thyn infortune acounte,

    Sith in estaat thow cloumbe were so hye?

    Thy brother sone, that was thy double allye

    For he thy nevew was, and sone-in-lawe,

    Withinne his prisoun made thee to dye,

    But why, ne how, noot I that thou were slawe.

                  De Hugelino Comite de Pize

       Off the Erl Hugelyn of Pyze the langour

    Ther may no tonge telle for pitee.

    But litel out of Pize stant a tour,

    In whiche tour in prisoun put was he,

    And with hym been his litel children thre,

    The eldeste scarsly fyf yeer was of age.

    Allas, Fortune, it was greet crueltee

    Swiche briddes for to putte in swiche a cage!

    Dampned was he to dyen in that prisoun,

    For Roger, which that Bisshop was of Pize,

    Hadde on hym maad a fals suggestioun,

    Thurgh which the peple gan upon hym rise,

    And putten hym to prisoun in swich wise

    As ye han herd, and mete and drynke he hadde

    So smal that wel unnethe it may suffise,

    And therwithal it was ful povre and badde.

    And on a day bifil, that in that hour

    Whan that his mete wont was to be broght,

    The gayler shette the dores of the tour;

    He herde it wel, but he spak right noght-

    And in his herte anon ther fil a thoght,

    That they for hunger wolde doon hym dyen.

    "Allas," quod he, "allas, that I was wroght!"

    Therwith the teeris fillen from hise eyen.

    His yonge sone, that thre yeer was of age,

    Unto hym seyde, "Fader, why do ye wepe?

    Whanne wol the gayler bryngen our potage?

    Is ther no morsel breed that ye do kepe?

    I am so hungry that I may nat slepe.

    Now wolde God that I myghte slepen evere!

    Thanne sholde nat hunger in my wombe crepe,

    Ther is nothyng but breed that me were levere."

    Thus day by day this child bigan to crye,

    Til in his fadres barm adoun it lay,

    And seyde, "Farewel, fader, I moot dye!"

    And kiste his fader, and dyde the same day.

    And whan the woful fader deed it say,

    For wo hise armes two he gan to byte,

    And seyde, "Allas, Fortune and weylaway!

    Thy false wheel my wo al may I wyte!"

    Hise children wende that it for hunger was

    That he his armes gnow, and nat for wo,

    And seyde, "Fader, do nat so, allas!

    But rather ete the flessh upon us two.

    Oure flessh thou yaf us, take our flessh us fro,

    And ete ynogh," right thus they to hym seyde;

    And after that withinne a day or two

    They leyde hem in his lappe adoun, and deyde.

    Hymself, despeired, eek for hunger starf,

    Thus ended is this myghty Erl of Pize.

    From heigh estaat Fortune awey hym carf,

    Of this tragedie it oghte ynough suffise.

    Whoso wol here it in a lenger wise,

    Redeth the grete poete of Ytaille

    That highte Dant, for he kan al devyse

    Fro point to point, nat o word wol he faille.

                               Nero

       Al though that Nero were vicius

    As any feend that lith in helle adoun,

    Yet he, as telleth us Swetonius,

    This wyde world hadde in subjeccioun,

    Bothe Est and West, South and Septemtrioun;

    Of rubies, saphires, and of peerles white

    Were alle hise clothes brouded up and doun,

    For he in gemmes greetly gan delite.

    Moore delicaat, moore pompous of array,

    Moore proud was nevere emperour than he.

    That ilke clooth that he hadde wered o day,

    After that tyme he nolde it nevere see.

    Nettes of gold-threed hadde he greet plentee,

    To fisshe in Tybre, whan hym liste pleye.

    Hise lustes were al lawe in his decree,

    For Fortune as his freend hym wolde obeye.

    He Rome brende for his delicasie;

    The senatours he slow upon a day,

    To heere how men wolde wepe and crie;

    And slow his brother, and by his suster lay.

    His mooder made he in pitous array,

    For he hir wombe slitte, to biholde

    Wher he conceyved was, so weilaway

    That he so litel of his mooder tolde!

    No teere out of hise eyen for that sighte

    Ne cam; but seyde, "A fair womman was she."

    Greet wonder is how that he koude or myghte

    Be domesman of hir dede beautee.

    The wyn to bryngen hym comanded he,

    And drank anon; noon oother wo he made,

    Whan myght is joyned unto crueltee,

    Allas, to depe wol the venym wade!

    In yowthe a maister hadde this emperour

    To techen hym lettrure and curteisye,

    For of moralitee he was the flour,

    As in his tyme, but if bookes lye.

    And whil this maister hadde of hym maistrye,

    He maked hym so konnyng and so sowple,

    That longe tyme it was, er tirannye

    Or any vice dorste on hym uncowple.

    This Seneca, of which that I devyse,

    By-cause Nero hadde of hym swich drede,

    (For he fro vices wolde hym chastise

    Discreetly as by word, and nat by dede)

    "Sire," wolde he seyn, "an emperour moot nede

    Be vertuous and hate tirannye."-

    For which he in a bath made hym to blede

    On bothe hise armes, til he moste dye.

    This Nero hadde eek of acustumaunce

    In youthe agayns his maister for to ryse,

    Which afterward hym thoughte greet grevaunce;

    Therfore he made hym dyen in this wise,

    But nathelees, this Seneca the wise

    Chees in a bath to dye in this manere,

    Rather than han anoother tormentise,

    And thus hath Nero slayn his maister deere.

    Now fil it so, that Fortune liste no lenger

    The hye pryde of Nero to cherice;

    For though that he was strong, yet was she strenger;

    She thoughte thus, "By God, I am to nyce

    To sette a man that is fulfild of vice

    In heigh degree, and emperour hym calle.

    By God, out of his sete I wol hym trice,

    Whan he leest weneth, sonnest shal he falle."

    The peple roos upon hym on a nyght

    For his defaute, and whan he it espied

    Out of hise dores anoon he hath hym dight

    Allone, and ther he wende han been allied

    He knokked faste, and ay the moore he cried,

    The faster shette they the dores alle.

    For drede of this hym thoughte that he dyed,

    And wente his wey, no lenger dorste he calle.

    The peple cride, and rombled up and doun,

    That with his erys herde he how they seyde,

    "Where is this false tiraunt, this Neroun?"

    For fere almoost out of his wit he breyde,

    And to his goddes pitously he preyde

    For socour, but it myghte nat bityde.

    For drede of this hym thoughte that he deyde,

    And ran into a gardin hym to hyde.

    And in this gardyn foond he cherles tweye,

    That seten by a fyr greet and reed,

    And to thise cherles two he gan to preye

    To sleen hym and to girden of his heed,

    That to his body whan that he were deed

    Were no despit ydoon, for his defame.

    Hymself he slow, he koude no bettre reed,

    Of which Fortune lough and hadde a game.

                          De Oloferno

       Was nevere capitayn under a kyng

    That regnes mo putte in subjeccioun,

    Ne strenger was in feeld of alle thyng

    As ibn his tyme, ne gretter of renoun,

    Ne moore pompous in heigh presumpcioun,

    Than Oloferne, which Fortune ay kiste

    So likerously, and ladde hym up and doun

    Til that his heed was of er that he wiste.

    Nat oonly that this world hadde hym in awe

    For lesynge of richesse or libertee,

    But he made every man reneyen his lawe.

    "Nabugodonosor was god," seyde hee,

    "Noon oother god sholde adoure bee."

    Agayns his heeste no wight dorste trespace,

    Save in Bethulia, a strong citee,

    Where Eliachim a preest was of that place.

    But taak kepe of the deeth of Oloferne;

    Amydde his hoost he dronke lay a nyght,

    Withinne his tente, large as is a berne;

    And yet for al his pompe and al his myght

    Judith, a womman, as he lay upright

    Slepynge, his heed of smoot, and from his tente

    Ful prively she stal from every wight,

    And with his heed unto hir toun she wente.

                    De Rege Anthiocho illustri

       What nedeth it of kyng Anthiochus

    To telle his hye roial magestee,

    His hye pride, hise werkes venymous?

    For swich another was ther noon as he,

    Rede which that he was in Machabee,

    And rede the proude wordes that he seyde,

    And why he fil fro heigh prosperitee,

    And in an hill how wrecchedly he deyde.

    Fortune hym hadde enhaunced so in pride

    That verraily he wende he myghte attayne

    Unto the sterres upon every syde,

    And in balance weyen ech montayne,

    And alle the floodes of the see restrayne.

    And Goddes peple hadde he moost in hate;

    Hem wolde he sleen in torment and in payne,

    Wenynge that God ne myghte his pride abate.

    And for that Nichanore and Thymothee

    Of Jewes weren venquysshed myghtily,

    Unto the Jewes swich an hate hadde he

    That he bad greithen his chaar ful hastily,

    And swoor, and seyde, ful despitously,

    Unto Jerusalem he wolde eft-soone,

    To wreken his ire on it ful cruelly;

    But of his purpos he was let ful soone.

    God for his manace hym so soore smoot

    With invisible wounde, ay incurable,

    That in hise guttes carf it so and boot

    That hise peynes weren importable.

    And certeinly, the wreche was resonable,

    For many a mannes guttes dide he peyne,

    But from his purpos cursed and dampnable

    For al his smert he wolde hym nat restreyne;

    But bad anon apparaillen his hoost,

    And sodeynly, er he was of it war,

    God daunted al his pride and al his boost,

    For he so soore fil out of his char,

    That it hise lemes and his skyn totar,

    So that he neyther myghte go ne ryde,

    But in a chayer men aboute hym bar

    Al forbrused, bothe bak and syde.

    The wreche of God hym smoot so cruelly

    That thurgh his body wikked wormes crepte;

    And therwithal he stank so horribly

    That noon of al his meynee that hym kepte

    Wheither so he wook or ellis slepte,

    Ne myghte noghy for stynk of hym endure.

    In this meschief he wayled and eek wepte,

    And knew God lord of every creature.

    To all his hoost and to hymself also

    Ful wlatsom was the stynk of his careyne,

    No man ne myghte hym bere to ne fro,

    And in this stynk and this horrible peyne

    He starf ful wrecchedly in a monteyne.

    Thus hath this robbour and this homycide,

    That many a man made to wepe and pleyne,

    Swich gerdoun as bilongeth unto pryde.

                          De Alexandro

       The storie of Alisaundre is so commune

    That every wight that hath discrecioun

    Hath herd somwhat or al of his fortune.

    This wyde world, as in conclusioun,

    He wan by strengthe, or for his hye renoun

    They weren glad for pees unto hym sende.

    The pride of man and beest he leyde adoun

    Wher-so he cam, unto the worldes ende.

    Comparison myghte nevere yet been maked

    Bitwixen hym and another conquerour,

    For al this world for drede of hym hath quaked.

    He was of knyghthod and of fredom flour,

    Fortune hym made the heir of hir honour.

    Save wyn and wommen nothyng myghte aswage

    His hye entente in armes and labour,

    So was he ful of leonyn corage.

    What pris were it to hym, though I yow tolde

    Of Darius, and an hundred thousand mo,

    Of kynges, princes, erles, dukes bolde,

    Whiche he conquered and broghte hem into wo?

    I seye, as fer as man may ryde or go,

    The world was his, what sholde I moore devyse?

    For though I write or tolde yow everemo,

    Of his knyghthode it myghte nat suffise.

    Twelf yeer he regned, as seith Machabee,

    Philippes sone of Macidoyne he was,

    That first was kyng in Grece the contree.

    O worhty gentil Alisandre, allas,

    That evere sholde fallen swich a cas!

    Empoysoned of thyn owene folk thou weere;

    Thy sys Fortune hath turned into aas

    And yet for thee ne weep she never a teere.

    Who shal me yeven teeris to compleyne

    The deeth of gentillesse and of franchise,

    That al the world weelded in his demeyne?

    And yet hym thoughte it myghte nat suffise,

    So ful was his corage of heigh emprise.

    Allas, who shal me helpe to endite

    False Fortune, and poyson to despise,

    The whiche two of al this wo I wyte?

                         De Julio Cesare

       By wisedom, manhede, and by gret labour

    From humble bed to roial magestee

    Up roos he, Julius the conquerour,

    That wan al thoccident by land and see

    By strengthe of hand, or elles by tretee,

    And unto Rome made hem tributarie;

    And sitthe of Rome the emperour was he,

    Til that Fortune weex his adversarie.

    O myghty Cesar, that in Thessalie

    Agayn Pompeus, fader thyn in lawe,

    That of the Orient hadde al the chivalrye

    As fer as that the day bigynneth dawe,

    Thou thurgh thy knyghthod hast hem take and slawe,

    Save fewe folk that with Pompeus fledde,

    Thurgh which thou puttest al thorient in awe,

    Thanke Fortune, that so wel thee spedde!

    But now a litel while I wol biwaille

    This Pompeus, this noble governour

    Of Rome, which that fleigh at this bataille,

    I seye, oon on hise men, a fals traitour,

    His heed of-smoot to wynnen hym favour

    Of Julius, and hym the heed he broghte;

    Allas, Pompeye, of thorient conquerour,

    That Fortune unto swich a fyn thee broghte!

    To Rome agayn repaireth Julius,

    With his triumphe lauriat ful hye;

    But on a tyme Brutus Cassius

    That evere hadde of his hye estaat envye,

    Ful prively hath maad conspiracye

    Agayns this Julius in subtil wise,

    And caste the place in which he sholde dye

    With boydekyns, as I shal yow devyse.

    This Julius to the Capitolie wente

    Upon a day, as he was wont to goon;

    And in the Capitolie anon hym hente

    This false Brutus and his othere foor,

    And stiked hym with boydekyns anoon

    With many a wounde; and thus they lete hym lye.

    But nevere gronte he at no strook but oon,

    Or elles at two, but if his sstorie lye.

    So manly was this Julius of herte

    And so wel lovede estaatly honestee,

    That though hise deedly woundes soore smerte,

    His mantel over hise hypes caste he,

    For no man sholde seen his privetee.

    And as he lay of diyng in a traunce,

    And wiste verraily that deed was hee,

    Of honestee yet hadde he remembraunce.

    Lucan, to thee this storie I recomende,

    And to Sweton, and to Valerie also,

    That of this storie writen word and ende,

    How that to thise grete conqueroures two

    Fortune was first freend, and sitthe foo.

    No man ne truste upon hire favour longe

    But have hir in awayt for evere moo!

    Witnesse on alle thise conqueroures stronge.

                              Cresus

       This riche Cresus whilom kyng of Lyde,

    Of whiche Cresus Cirus soore hym dradde,

    Yet was he caught amyddes al his pryde,

    And to be brent men to the fyr hym ladde.

    But swich a reyn doun fro the welkne shadde

    That slow the fyr, and made hym to escape;

    But to be war no grace yet he hadde,

    Til Fortune on the galwes made hym gape.

    Whanne he escaped was, he kan nat stente

    For to bigynne a newe werre agayn;

    He wende wel, for that Fortune hym sente

    Swich hap that he escaped thurgh the rayn,

    That of hise foos he myghte nat be slayn;

    And eek a swevene upon a nyght he mette,

    Of which he was so proud and eek so fayn

    That in vengeance he al his herte sette.

    Upon a tree he was, as that hym thoughte,

    Ther Jupiter hym wessh bothe bak and syde,

    And Phebus eek a fair towaille hym broughte,

    To dryen hym with; and therfore wax his pryde,

    And to his doghter that stood hym bisyde,

    Which that he knew in heigh science habounde,

    He bad hir telle hym what it signyfyde,

    And she his dreem bigan right thus expounde.

    "The tree," quod she, "the galwes is to meene,

    And Juppiter bitokneth snow and reyn,

    And Phebus with his towaille so clene,

    Tho been the sonne stremes for to seyn.

    Thou shalt anhanged be, fader, certeyn;

    Reyn shal thee wasshe, and sonne shal thee drye."

    Thus warnede hym ful plat and ful pleyn,

    His doghter, which that called was Phanye.

    Anhanged was Cresus, the proude kyng,

    His roial trone myghte hym nat availle.

    Tragedie is noon oother maner thyng,

    Ne kan in syngyng crye ne biwaille,

    But for that Fortune alwey wole assaille

    With unwar strook the regnes that been proude;

    For whan me trusteth hir, thanne wol she faille,

    And covere hir brighte face with a clowde.

    Explicit Tragedia.

    Heere stynteth the Knyght the Monk of his tale.

TO THE NONNES PREESTES TALE    oldpoetry.com/poetry/40837