Canterbury Tales and Other Poems - Geoffrey Chaucer (best desktop ebook reader .txt) 📗

no wine bereaveth me my might Of hand, nor foot, nor of mine eyen sight.’

And for despite he dranke muche more

A hundred part* than he had done before, times And right anon this cursed irous wretch This knighte’s sone let before him fetch, *caused Commanding him he should before him stand: And suddenly he took his bow in hand,

And up the string he pulled to his ear, And with an arrow slew the child right there.

‘Now whether have I a sicker* hand or non?’* sure **not Quoth he; ‘Is all my might and mind agone?

Hath wine bereaved me mine eyen sight?’

Why should I tell the answer of the knight?

His son was slain, there is no more to say.

Beware therefore with lordes how ye play, use freedom Sing placebo;<20> and I shall if I can, But if it be unto a poore man: *unless To a poor man men should his vices tell, But not t’ a lord, though he should go to hell.

Lo, irous Cyrus, thilke* Persian, *that How he destroy’d the river of Gisen,<21>

For that a horse of his was drowned therein, When that he wente Babylon to win:

He made that the river was so small,

That women mighte wade it *over all. everywhere Lo, what said he, that so well teache can, ‘Be thou no fellow to an irous man,

Nor with no wood* man walke by the way, *furious Lest thee repent;’ I will no farther say.

 

“Now, Thomas, leve* brother, leave thine ire, *dear Thou shalt me find as just as is as squire; Hold not the devil’s knife aye at thine heaat; Thine anger doth thee all too sore smart; pain But shew to me all thy confession.”

“Nay,” quoth the sicke man, “by Saint Simon I have been shriven* this day of my curate; *confessed I have him told all wholly mine estate.

Needeth no more to speak of it, saith he, But if me list of mine humility.”

“Give me then of thy good to make our cloister,”

Quoth he, “for many a mussel and many an oyster, When other men have been full well at ease, Hath been our food, our cloister for to rese: raise, build And yet, God wot, unneth* the foundement* scarcely **foundation Performed is, nor of our pavement

Is not a tile yet within our wones: habitation By God, we owe forty pound for stones.

Now help, Thomas, for *him that harrow’d hell, Christ <22>

For elles must we oure bookes sell,

And if ye lack our predication,

Then goes this world all to destruction.

For whoso from this world would us bereave, So God me save, Thomas, by your leave, He would bereave out of this world the sun For who can teach and worken as we conne? know how to do And that is not of little time (quoth he), But since Elijah was, and Elisee, Elisha Have friars been, that find I of record, In charity, y-thanked be our Lord.

Now, Thomas, help for sainte charity.”

And down anon he set him on his knee,

The sick man waxed wellnigh wood* for ire, *mad He woulde that the friar had been a-fire With his false dissimulation.

“Such thing as is in my possession,”

Quoth he, “that may I give you and none other: Ye say me thus, how that I am your brother.”

“Yea, certes,” quoth this friar, “yea, truste well; I took our Dame the letter of our seal”<23>

“Now well,” quoth he, “and somewhat shall I give Unto your holy convent while I live;

And in thine hand thou shalt it have anon, On this condition, and other none,

That thou depart* it so, my deare brother, *divide That every friar have as much as other: This shalt thou swear on thy profession, Withoute fraud or cavillation.” quibbling “I swear it,” quoth the friar, “upon my faith.”

And therewithal his hand in his he lay’th; “Lo here my faith, in me shall be no lack.”

“Then put thine hand adown right by my back,”

Saide this man, “and grope well behind, Beneath my buttock, there thou shalt find A thing, that I have hid in privity.”

“Ah,” thought this friar, “that shall go with me.”

And down his hand he launched to the clift, cleft In hope for to finde there a gift.

And when this sicke man felte this frere About his taile groping there and here, Amid his hand he let the friar a fart; There is no capel* drawing in a cart, *horse That might have let a fart of such a soun’.

The friar up start, as doth a wood* lioun: *fierce “Ah, false churl,” quoth he, “for Godde’s bones, This hast thou in despite done for the nones: on purpose Thou shalt abie* this fart, if that I may.” suffer for His meinie, which that heard of this affray, *servants Came leaping in, and chased out the frere, And forth he went with a full angry cheer countenance And fetch’d his fellow, there as lay his store: He looked as it were a wilde boar,

And grounde with his teeth, so was he wroth.

A sturdy pace down to the court he go’th, Where as there wonn’d* a man of great honour, *dwelt To whom that he was always confessour: This worthy man was lord of that village.

This friar came, as he were in a rage, Where as this lord sat eating at his board: Unnethes* might the friar speak one word, *with difficulty Till at the last he saide, “God you see.” save This lord gan look, and said, “Ben’dicite!

What? Friar John, what manner world is this?

I see well that there something is amiss; Ye look as though the wood were full of thieves.

Sit down anon, and tell me what your grieve* is, *grievance, grief And it shall be amended, if I may.”

“I have,” quoth he, “had a despite to-day, God *yielde you,* adown in your village, *reward you That in this world is none so poor a page, That would not have abominatioun

Of that I have received in your town:

And yet ne grieveth me nothing so sore, As that the olde churl, with lockes hoar, Blasphemed hath our holy convent eke.”

“Now, master,” quoth this lord, “I you beseek” —

“No master, Sir,” quoth he, “but servitour, Though I have had in schoole that honour. <24>

God liketh not, that men us Rabbi call Neither in market, nor in your large hall.”

*“No force,” quoth he; “but tell me all your grief.” no matter*

Sir,” quoth this friar, “an odious mischief This day betid* is to mine order and me, *befallen And so par consequence to each degree

Of holy churche, God amend it soon.”

“Sir,” quoth the lord, “ye know what is to doon: do *Distemp’r you not,* ye be my confessour. be not impatient

Ye be the salt of th’ earth, and the savour; For Godde’s love your patience now hold; Tell me your grief.” And he anon him told As ye have heard before, ye know well what.

The lady of the house aye stiller sat, Till she had hearde what the friar said, “Hey, Godde’s mother;” quoth she, “blissful maid, Is there ought elles? tell me faithfully.”

“Madame,” quoth he, “how thinketh you thereby?”

“How thinketh me?” quoth she; “so God me speed, I say, a churl hath done a churlish deed, What should I say? God let him never the; thrive His sicke head is full of vanity;

I hold him in *a manner phrenesy.” a sort of frenzy*

“Madame,” quoth he, “by God, I shall not lie, But I in other wise may be awreke, revenged I shall defame him *ov’r all there* I speak; *wherever This false blasphemour, that charged me To parte that will not departed be,

To every man alike, with mischance.”

 

The lord sat still, as he were in a trance, And in his heart he rolled up and down, “How had this churl imaginatioun

To shewe such a problem to the frere.

Never ere now heard I of such mattere; I trow* the Devil put it in his mind. believe In all arsmetrik shall there no man find, *arithmetic Before this day, of such a question.

Who shoulde make a demonstration,

That every man should have alike his part As of the sound and savour of a fart?

O nice* proude churl, I shrew** his face. foolish *curse Lo, Sires,” quoth the lord, “with harde grace, Who ever heard of such a thing ere now?

To every man alike? tell me how.

It is impossible, it may not be.

Hey nice* churl, God let him never the.* foolish **thrive The rumbling of a fart, and every soun’, Is but of air reverberatioun,

And ever wasteth lite* and lite* away; little There is no man can deemen, by my fay, judge, decide If that it were departed equally. *divided What? lo, my churl, lo yet how shrewedly impiously, wickedly Unto my confessour to-day he spake;

I hold him certain a demoniac.

Now eat your meat, and let the churl go play, Let him go hang himself a devil way!”

 

Now stood the lorde’s squier at the board, That carv’d his meat, and hearde word by word Of all this thing, which that I have you said.

“My lord,” quoth he, “be ye not *evil paid, displeased*

I coulde telle, for a gowne-cloth, cloth for a gown*

To you, Sir Friar, so that ye be not wrot, How that this fart should even* dealed be *equally Among your convent, if it liked thee.”

“Tell,” quoth the lord, “and thou shalt have anon A gowne-cloth, by God and by Saint John.”

“My lord,” quoth he, “when that the weather is fair, Withoute wind, or perturbing of air,

Let* bring a cart-wheel here into this hall, cause*

But looke that it have its spokes all; Twelve spokes hath a cart-wheel commonly; And bring me then twelve friars, know ye why?

For thirteen is a convent as I guess;<25>

Your confessor here, for his worthiness, Shall perform up the number of his convent. complete

Then shall they kneel adown by one assent, And to each spoke’s end, in this mannere, Full sadly* lay his nose shall a frere; *carefully, steadily Your noble confessor there, God him save, Shall hold his nose upright under the nave.

Then shall this churl, with belly stiff and tought tight As any tabour,* hither be y-brought; *drum And set him on the wheel right of this cart Upon the nave, and make him let a fart, And ye shall see, on peril of my life, By very proof that is demonstrative,

That equally the sound of it will wend, go And eke the stink, unto the spokes’ end, Save that this worthy man, your confessour’

(Because he is a man of great honour), Shall have the firste fruit, as reason is; The noble usage of friars yet it is,

The worthy men of them shall first be served, And certainly he hath it well deserved; He hath to-day taught us so muche good With preaching in the pulpit where he stood, That I may vouchesafe, I say for me,

He had the firste smell of fartes three; And so would all his brethren hardily; He beareth him so fair and holily.”

 

The lord, the lady, and each man, save the frere, Saide, that Jankin spake in this mattere As well as Euclid, or as Ptolemy.

Touching the churl, they said that subtilty And high wit made him speaken as he spake; He is no fool, nor no demoniac.

And Jankin hath y-won a newe gown;

My tale