The Man of Law’s Tale
The Prologue
Our Hostë saw well that the brightë sun
Th’ arc of his artificial day had run
The fourthë part, and half an hourë more;
And, though he were not deep expert in lore,
He wist it was the eight-and-twenty day
Of April, that is messenger to May;
And saw well that the shadow of every tree
Was in its length of the same quantity
That was the body erect that caused it;
And therefore by the shadow he took his wit,
That Phoebus, which that shone so clear and bright,
Degrees was five-and-forty clomb on height;
And for that day, as in that latitude,
It was ten of the clock, he gan conclude;
And suddenly he plight his horse about.
“Lordings,” quoth he, “I warn you all this rout,
The fourthë partie of this day is gone.
Now for the love of God and of Saint John
Losë no time, as farforth as ye may.
Lordings, the timë wasteth night and day,
And steals from us, what privily sleepíng,
And what through negligence in our wakíng,
As doth the stream, that turneth never again,
Descending from the mountain to the plain.
Well might Senec, and many a philosópher,
Bewailë timë more than gold in coffer.
For loss of chattels may recover’d be,
But loss of timë shendeth us, quoth he.
It will not come again, withoutë dread,
No morë than will Malkin’s maidenhead,
When she hath lost it in her wantonness.
Let us not mouldë thus in idleness.
Sir Man of Law,” quoth he, “so have ye bliss,
Tell us a tale anon, as forword is.
Ye be submitted through your free assent
To stand in this case at my judgëment.
Acquit you now, and holdë your behest;
Then have ye done your dévoir at the least.”
“Hostë,” quoth he, “de par dieux jeo asente;
To breakë forword is not mine intent.
Behest is debt, and I would hold it fain,
All my behest; I can no better sayn.
For such law as a man gives another wight,
He should himselfë usen it by right.
Thus will our text: but natheless certáin
I can right now no thrifty talë sayn,
But Chaucer (though he can but lewëdly
On metres and on rhyming craftily)
Hath said them, in such English as he can,
Of oldë time, as knoweth many a man.
And if he have not said them, levë brother,
In one book, he hath said them in another
For he hath told of lovers up and down,
More than Ovidë made of mentioun
In his Epistolae, that be full old.
Why should I tellë them, since they he told?
In youth he made of Ceyx and Alcyon,
And since then he hath spoke of every one
These noble wivës, and these lovers eke.
Whoso that will his largë volume seek
Called the Saintës’ Legend of Cupíd:
There may he see the largë woundës wide
Of Lucrece, and of Babylon Thisbé;
The sword of Dido for the false Enée;
The tree of Phillis for her Demophon;
The plaint of Diane, and of Hermion,
Of Ariadne, and Hypsipilé;
The barren islë standing in the sea;
The drown’d Leander for his fair Heró;
The tearës of Heléne, and eke the woe
Of Briseïs, and Laodamia;
The cruelty of thee, Queen Medeá,
Thy little children hanging by the halse,
For thy Jason, that was of love so false.
Hypermnestra, Pénelop’, Alcest’,
Your wifehood he commendeth with the best.
But certainly no wordë writeth he
Of thilkë wick’ example of Canacé,
That loved her own brother sinfully;
(Of all such cursed stories I say, Fy),
Or else of Tyrius Apollonius,
How that the cursed king Antiochus
Bereft his daughter of her maidenhead;
That is so horrible a tale to read,
When he her threw upon the pavëment.
And therefore he, of full avisëment,
Would never write in none of his sermons
Of such unkind abominatións;
Nor I will none rehearse, if that I may.
But of my tale how shall I do this day?
Me were loth to be liken’d doubtëless
To Muses, that men call Pieridés
(Metamorphoseos wot what I mean),
But natheless I reckë not a bean,
Though I come after him with hawëbake;
I speak in prose, and let him rhymës make.”
And with that word, he with a sober cheer
Began his tale, and said as ye shall hear.
The Tale
O scatheful harm, condition of povérty,
With thirst, with cold, with hunger so confounded;
To askë help thee shameth in thine heartë;
If thou none ask, so sore art thou y-wounded,
That very need unwrappeth all thy wound hid.
Maugré thine head thou must for indigence
Or steal, or beg, or borrow thy dispence.
Thou blamest Christ, and sayst full bitterly,
He misdeparteth riches temporal;
Thy neighëbour thou witest sinfully,
And sayst, thou hast too little, and he hath all:
“Parfay (sayst thou) sometime he reckon shall,
When that his tail shall brennen in the glede,
For he not help’d the needful in their need.”
Hearken what is the sentence of the wise:
Better to die than to have indigence.
Thy selvë neighëbour will thee despise,
If thou be poor, farewell thy reverence.
Yet of the wisë man take this senténce,
Allë the days of poorë men be wick’,
Beware therefore ere thou come to that prick.
If thou be poor, thy brother hateth thee,
And all thy friendës flee from thee, alas!
O richë merchants, full of wealth be ye,
O noble, prudent folk, as in this case,
Your baggës be not fill’d with ambës ace,
But with six-cinque, that runneth for your chance;
At Christenmass well merry may ye dance.
Ye seekë land and sea for your winníngs,
As wisë folk ye knowen all th’ estate
Of regnës; ye be fathers of tidings,
And talës, both of peace and of debate:
I were right now of talës desolate,
But that a merchant, gone in many a year,
Me taught a tale, which ye shall after hear.
In Syria whilom dwelt a company
Of chapmen rich, and thereto sad and true,
That widëwherë sent their spicery,
Clothës of gold, and satins rich of hue.
Their chaffare was so thriftly and so new,
That every wight had dainty to chaffare
With them, and eke to sellë them their ware.
Now fell it, that the masters of that sort
Have shapen them to Romë for to wend,
Were it for chapmanhood or for disport,
None other message would they thither send,
But come themselves to Rome, this is the end:
And in such place as thought them ávantage
For their intent, they took their herbergage.
Sojourned have these merchants in that town
A certain time as fell to their pleasance:
And so befell, that th’ excellent renown
Of th’ emperorë’s daughter, Dame Constance,
Reported was, with every circumstance,
Unto these Syrian merchants in such wise,
From day to day, as I shall you devise
This was the common voice of every man:
“Our emperor of Romë, God him see,
A daughter hath, that since the world began,
To reckon as well her goodness and beautý,
Was never such another as is she:
I pray to God in honour her sustene,
And would she were of all Európe the queen.
“In her is highë beauty without pride,
And youth withoutë greenhood or follý:
To all her workës virtue is her guide;
Humbless hath slain in her all tyranny:
She is the mirror of all courtesy,
Her heart a very chamber of holiness,
Her hand miníster of freedom for almess.”
And all this voice was sooth, as God is true;
But now to purpose let us turn again.
These merchants have done freight their shippës new,
And when they have this blissful maiden seen,
Homë to Syria then they went full fain,
And did their needës, as they have done yore,
And liv’d in weal; I can you say no more.
Now fell it, that these merchants stood in grace
Of him that was the Soudan of Syrie:
For when they came from any strangë place
He would of his benignë courtesy
Make them good cheer, and busily espy
Tidings of sundry regnës, for to lear
The wonders that they mightë see or hear.
Amongës other thingës, speciálly
These merchants have him told of Dame Constance’
So great nobless, in earnest so royálly,
That this Soudan hath caught so great pleasance
To have her figure in his remembránce,
That all his lust, and all his busy cure,
Was for to love her while his life may dure.
Paráventure in thilkë largë book,
Which that men call the heaven, y-written was
With starrës, when that he his birthë took,
That he for love should have his death, alas!
For in the starrës, clearer than is glass,
Is written, God wot, whoso could it read,
The death of every man withoutë dread.
In starrës many a winter therebeforn
Was writ the death of Hector, Achilles,
Of Pompey, Julius, ere they were born;
The strife of Thebes; and of Hercules,
Of Samson, Turnus, and of Socrates
The death; but mennë’s wittës be so dull,
That no wight can well read it at the full.
This Soudan for his privy council sent,
And, shortly of this matter for to pace,
He hath to them declared his intent,
And told them certain, but he might have grace
To have Constance, within a little space,
He was but dead; and charged them in hie
To shapë for his life some remedy.
Diversë men diversë thingës said;
And arguments they casten up and down;
Many a subtle reason forth they laid;
They speak of magic, and abusión;
But finally, as in conclusión,
They cannot see in that none ávantage,
Nor in no other way, save marriáge.
Then saw they therein such difficulty
By way of reason, for to speak all plain,
Because that there was such diversity
Between their bothë lawës, that they sayn,
They trowë that no Christian prince would fain
Wedden his child under our lawë sweet,
That us was given by Mahound our prophéte.
And he answered: “Rather than I lose
Constance, I will be christen’d doubtëless:
I must be hers, I may none other choose,
I pray you hold your arguments in peace,
Savë my life, and be not reckëless
To gettë her that hath my life in cure,
For in this woe I may not long endure.”
What needeth greater dilatation?
I say, by treaty and ambassadry,
And by the Popë’s mediation,
And all the Church, and all the chivalry,
That in destruction of Mah’metry,
And in increase of Christë’s lawë dear,
They be accorded so as ye may hear;
How that the Soudan, and his baronage,
And all his lieges, shall y-christen’d be,
And he shall have Constance in marriáge,
And certain gold, I n’ot what quantity,
And hereto find they suffisant suretý.
The same accord is sworn on either side;
Now, fair Constance, Almighty God thee guide!
Now wouldë some men waiten, as I guess,
That I should tellen all the purveyance,
The which the emperor of his nobless
Hath shapen for his daughter, Dame Constance.
Well may men know that so great ordinance
May no man tellen in a little clause,
As was arrayed for so high a cause.
Bishops be shapen with her for to wend,
Lordës, ladíes, and knightës of renown,
And other folk enough, this is the end.
And notified is throughout all the town,
That every wight with great devotioún
Should pray to Christ, that he this marriáge
Receive in gree, and speedë this voyáge.
The day is comen of her départíng—
I say the woful fatal day is come,
That there may be no longer tarrying,
But forward they them dressen all and some.
Constance, that was with sorrow all o’ercome,
Full pale arose, and dressed her to wend,
For well she saw there was no other end.
Alas! what wonder is it though she wept,
That shall be sent to a strange natión
From friendës, that so tenderly her kept,
And to be bound under subjectión
of one, she knew not his conditión?
Husbands be all good, and have been of yore,
That knowë wivës; I dare say no more.
“Father,” she said, “thy wretched child Constance,
Thy youngë daughter, foster’d up so soft,
And you, my mother, my sov’reign pleasance
Over all thing, out-taken Christ on loft,
Constance your child her recommendeth oft
Unto your grace; for I shall to Syrie,
Nor shall I ever see you more with eye.
“Alas! unto the barbarous natión
I must anon, since that it is your will:
But Christ, that starf for our redemptión,
So give me grace his hestës to fulfil.
I, wretched woman, no force though I spill!
Women are born to thraldom and penánce,
And to be under mannë’s governance.”
I trow at Troy when Pyrrhus brake the wall,
Or Ilion burnt, or Thebes the city,
Nor at Rome for the harm through Hannibal,
That Romans hath y-vanquish’d timës three,
Was heard such tender weeping for pitý,
As in the chamber was for her partíng;
But forth she must, whether she weep or sing.
O firstë moving cruel Firmament,
With thy diurnal sway that crowdest aye,
And hurtlest all from East till Occident
That naturally would hold another way;
Thy crowding set the heav’n in such array
At the beginning of this fierce voyáge,
That cruel Mars hath slain this marriáge.
Unfortunate ascendant tortuous,
Of which the lord is helpless fall’n, alas!
Out of his angle into the darkest house;
O Mars, O Atyzar, as in this case;
O feeble Moon, unhappy is thy pace.
Thou knittest thee where thou art not receiv’d,
Where thou wert well, from thennës art thou weiv’d.
Imprudent emperor of Rome, alas!
Was there no philosópher in all thy town?
Is no time bet than other in such case?
Of voyage is there none electión,
Namely to folk of high conditión,
Not when a root is of a birth y-know?
Alas! we be too lewëd, or too slow.
To ship was brought this woeful fairë maid
Solemnëly, with every circumstance:
“Now Jesus Christ be with you all,” she said.
There is no more, but “Farewell, fair Constance.”
She pained her to make good countenance.
And forth I let her sail in this mannér,
And turn I will again to my mattér.
The mother of the Soudan, well of vices,
Espied hath her sonë’s plain intent,
How he will leave his oldë sacrifices:
And right anon she for her council sent,
And they be come, to knowë what she meant,
And when assembled was this folk in fere,
She sat her down, and said as ye shall hear.
“Lordës,” she said, “ye knowen every one,
How that my son in point is for to lete
The holy lawës of our Alkaron,
Given by God’s messenger Mahométe:
But one avow to greatë God I hete,
Life shall rather out of my body start,
Than Mahomet’s law go out of mine heart.
“What should us tiden of this newë law,
But thraldom to our bodies, and penánce,
And afterward in hell to be y-draw,
For we renied Mahound our creance?
But, lordës, will ye maken assurance,
As I shall say, assenting to my lore?
And I shall make us safe for evermore.”
They sworen and assented every man
To live with her and die, and by her stand:
And every one, in the best wise he can,
To strengthen her shall all his friendës fand.
And she hath this emprise taken in hand,
Which ye shall hearë that I shall devise;
And to them all she spake right in this wise.
“We shall first feign us Christendom to take;
Cold water shall not grieve us but a lite:
And I shall such a feast and revel make,
That, as I trow, I shall the Soudan quite.
For though his wife be christen’d ne’er so white,
She shall have need to wash away the red,
Though she a fount of water with her led.”
O Soudaness, root of iniquity,
Virago thou, Semiramis the secónd!
O serpent under femininity,
Like to the serpent deep in hell y-bound!
O feigned woman, all that may confound
Virtue and innocence, through thy malíce,
Is bred in thee, as nest of every vice!
O Satan envious! since thilkë day
That thou wert chased from our heritage,
Well knowest thou to woman th’ oldë way.
Thou madest Eve to bring us in serváge:
Thou wilt fordo this Christian marriáge:
Thine instrument so (well-away the while!)
Mak’st thou of women when thou wilt beguile.
This Soudaness, whom I thus blame and warray,
Let privily her council go their way:
Why should I in this talë longer tarry?
She rode unto the Soudan on a day,
And said him, that she would reny her lay,
And Christendom of priestës’ handës fong,
Repenting her she heathen was so long;
Beseeching him to do her that honour,
That she might have the Christian folk to feast:
“To pleasë them I will do my laboúr.”
The Soudan said, “I will do at your hest,”
And kneeling, thanked her for that request;
So glad he was, he wist not what to say.
She kiss’d her son, and home she went her way.
Arrived be these Christian folk to land
In Syria, with a great solemnë rout,
And hastily this Soudan sent his sond,
First to his mother, and all the realm about,
And said, his wife was comen out of doubt,
And pray’d them for to ride again the queen,
The honour of his regnë to sustene.
Great was the press, and rich was the array
Of Syrians and Romans met in fere.
The mother of the Soudan rich and gay
Received her with all so glad a cheer
As any mother might her daughter dear:
And to the nextë city there beside
A softë pace solemnely they ride.
Nought, trow I, the triúmph of Julius
Of which that Lucan maketh such a boast,
Was royaller, or morë curious,
Than was th’ assembly of this blissful host:
But O this scorpion, this wicked ghost,
The Soudaness, for all her flattering
Cast under this full mortally to sting.
The Soudan came himself soon after this,
So royally, that wonder is to tell,
And welcomed her with all joy and bliss.
And thus in mirth and joy I let them dwell.
The fruit of his mattér is that I tell;
When the time came, men thought it for the best
That revel stint, and men go to their rest.
The time is come that this old Soudaness
Ordained hath the feast of which I told,
And to the feast the Christian folk them dress
In general, yea, bothë young and old.
There may men feast and royalty behold,
And dainties more than I can you devise;
But all too dear they bought it ere they rise.
O sudden woe, that ev’r art successoúr
To worldly bliss! sprent is with bitterness
Th’ end of our joy, of our worldly laboúr;
Woe occupies the fine of our gladness.
Hearken this counsel, for thy sickerness:
Upon thy gladë days have in thy mind
The unware woe of harm, that comes behind.
For, shortly for to tell it at a word,
The Soudan and the Christians every one
Were all to-hewn and sticked at the board,
But it were only Dame Constance alone.
This oldë Soudaness, this cursed crone,
Had with her friendës done this cursed deed,
For she herself would all the country lead.
Nor there was Syrian that was converted,
That of the counsel of the Soudan wot,
That was not all to-hewn, ere he asterted:
And Constance have they ta’en anon foot-hot,
And in a ship all steerëless, God wot,
They have her set, and bid her learn to sail
Out of Syria again-ward to Itale.
A certain treasure that she thither lad,
And, sooth to say, of victual great plenty,
They have her giv’n, and clothës eke she had,
And forth she sailed in the saltë sea:
O my Constance, full of benignity,
O emperorë’s youngë daughter dear,
He that is lord of fortune be thy steer!
She bless’d herself, and with full piteous voice
Unto the cross of Christ thus saidë she;
“O dear, O wealful altar, holy cross,
Red of the Lambë’s blood, full of pity,
That wash’d the world from old iniquity,
Me from the fiend and from his clawës keep,
That day that I shall drenchen in the deep.
“Victorious tree, protection of the true,
That only worthy werë for to bear
The King of Heaven, with his woundës new,
The whitë Lamb, that hurt was with a spear;
Flemer of fiendës out of him and her
On which thy limbës faithfully extend,
Me keep, and give me might my life to mend.”
Yearës and days floated this creature
Throughout the sea of Greece, unto the strait
Of Maroc, as it was her áventure:
On many a sorry meal now may she bait,
After her death full often may she wait,
Ere that the wildë wavës will her drive
Unto the place there as she shall arrive.
Men mighten askë, why she was not slain?
Eke at the feast who might her body save?
And I answer to that demand again,
Who saved Daniel in the horrible cave,
Where every wight, save he, master or knave,
Was with the lion frett, ere he astart?
No wight but God, that he bare in his heart.
God list to shew his wonderful mirácle
In her, that we should see his mighty workës:
Christ, which that is to every harm triácle,
By certain meanës oft, as knowë clerkës,
Doth thing for certain endë, that full derk is
To mannë’s wit, that for our, ignorance
Ne cannot know his prudent purveyance.
Now since she was not at the feast y-slaw,
Who keptë her from drowning in the sea?
Who keptë Jonas in the fish’s maw,
Till he was spouted up at Nineveh?
Well may men know, it was no wight but he
That kept the Hebrew people from drowníng,
With dryë feet throughout the sea passing.
Who bade the fourë spirits of tempést,
That power have t’ annoyë land and sea,
Both north and south, and also west and east,
Annoyë neither sea, nor land, nor tree?
Soothly the cómmander of that was he
That from the tempest aye this woman kept,
As well when she awoke as when she slept.
Where might this woman meat and drinkë have?
Three year and more how lasted her vitaille?
Who fed the Egyptian Mary in the cave
Or in desért? no wight but Christ sans faille.
Five thousand folk it was as great marvaille
With loavës five and fishës two to feed:
God sent his foison at her greatë need.
She drived forth into our oceán
Throughout our wildë sea, till at the last
Under an hold, that nempnen I not can,
Far in Northumberland, the wave her cast,
And in the sand her ship sticked so fast,
That thennës would it not in all a tide:
The will of Christ was that she should abide.
The Constable of the castle down did fare
To see this wreck, and all the ship he sought,
And found this weary woman full of care;
He found also the treasure that she brought:
In her languágë mercy she besought,
The life out of her body for to twin,
Her to deliver of woe that she was in.
A manner Latin corrupt was her speech,
But algate thereby was she understond.
The Constable, when him list no longer seech,
This woeful woman brought he to the lond.
She kneeled down, and thanked Goddë’s sond;
But what she was she would to no man say
For foul nor fair, although that she should dey.
She said, she was so mazed in the sea,
That she forgot her mindë, by her truth.
The Constable had of her so great pity
And eke his wifë, that they wept for ruth:
She was so diligent withoutë slouth
To serve and please every one in that place,
That all her lov’d, that looked in her face.
The Constable and Dame Hermegild his wife
Were Pagans, and that country every where;
But Hermegild lov’d Constance as her life;
And Constance had so long sojourned there
In orisons, with many a bitter tear,
Till Jesus had converted through His grace
Dame Hermegild, Constábless of that place.
In all that land no Christians durstë rout;
All Christian folk had fled from that countrý
Through Pagans, that conquered all about
The plages of the North by land and sea.
To Wales had fled the Christianity
Of oldë Britons, dwelling in this isle;
There was their refuge for the meanëwhile.
But yet n’ere Christian Britons so exiled,
That there n’ere some which in their privity
Honoured Christ, and heathen folk beguiled;
And nigh the castle such there dwelled three:
And one of them was blind, and might not see,
But it were with thilk eyen of his mind,
With which men mayë see when they be blind.
Bright was the sun, as in a summer’s day,
For which the Constable, and his wife also,
And Constance, have y-take the rightë way
Toward the sea, a furlong way or two,
To playen, and to roamë to and fro;
And in their walk this blindë man they met,
Crooked and old, with eyen fast y-shet.
“In the name of Christ,” criéd this blind Britón,
“Dame Hermegild, give me my sight again!”
This lady wax’d afrayed of that soun’,
Lest that her husband, shortly for to sayn,
Would her for Jesus Christë’s love have slain,
Till Constance made her hold, and bade her wirch
The will of Christ, as daughter of holy Church.
The Constable wax’d abashed of that sight,
And saidë; “What amounteth all this fare?”
Constance answered; “Sir, it is Christ’s might,
That helpeth folk out of the fiendë’s snare:”
And so farforth she gan our law declare,
That she the Constable, ere that it were eve,
Converted, and on Christ made him believe.
This Constable was not lord of the place
Of which I speak, there as he Constance fand,
But kept it strongly many a winter space,
Under Allá, king of Northumberland,
That was full wise, and worthy of his hand
Against the Scotës, as men may well hear;
But turn I will again to my mattére.
Satan, that ever us waiteth to beguile,
Saw of Constance all her perfectioún,
And cast anon how he might quite her while;
And made a young knight, that dwelt in that town,
Love her so hot of foul affectioún,
That verily him thought that he should spill
But he of her might onës have his will.
He wooed her, but it availed nought;
She wouldë do no sinnë by no way:
And for despite, he compassed his thought
To makë her a shameful death to dey;
He waiteth when the Constable is away,
And privily upon a night he crept
In Hermegilda’s chamber while she slept.
Weary, forwaked in her orisons,
Sleepeth Constance, and Hermegild also.
This knight, through Satanas’ temptatións,
All softëtly is to the bed y-go,
And cut the throat of Hermegild in two,
And laid the bloody knife by Dame Constance,
And went his way, there God give him mischance.
Soon after came the Constable home again,
And eke Allá that king was of that land,
And saw his wife dispiteously slain,
For which full oft he wept and wrung his hand;
And in the bed the bloody knife he fand
By Dame Constance: Alas! what might she say?
For very woe her wit was all away.
To King Allá was told all this mischance,
And eke the time, and where, and in what wise,
That in a ship was founden this Constance,
As here before ye have me heard devise:
The kingë’s heart for pity gan agrise,
When he saw so benign a creature
Fall in disease and in misáventure.
For as the lamb toward his death is brought,
So stood this innocent before the king:
This falsë knight, that had this treason wrought,
Bore her in hand that she had done this thing:
But natheless there was great murmuring
Among the people, that say they cannot guess
That she had done so great a wickedness.
For they had seen her ever virtuoús,
And loving Hermegild right as her life:
Of this bare witness each one in that house,
Save he that Hermegild slew with his knife:
This gentle king had caught a great motife
Of this witness, and thought he would inquere
Deeper into this case, the truth to lear.
Alas! Constance, thou has no champión,
Nor fightë canst thou not, so well-away!
But he that starf for our redemptión,
And bound Satán, and yet li’th where he lay,
So be thy strongë champion this day:
For, but Christ upon thee mirácle kithe,
Withoutë guilt thou shalt be slain as swithe.
She set her down on knees, and thus she said;
“Immortal God, that savedest Susanne
From falsë blame; and thou merciful maid,
Mary I mean, the daughter to Saint Anne,
Before whose child the angels sing Osanne,
If I be guiltless of this felony,
My succour be, or ellës shall I die.”
Have ye not seen sometime a palë face
(Among a press) of him that hath been lad
Toward his death, where he getteth no grace,
And such a colour in his face hath had,
Men mightë know him that was so bestad
Amongës all the faces in that rout?
So stood Constance, and looked her about.
O queenës living in prosperity,
Duchesses, and ye ladies every one,
Havë some ruth on her adversity!
An emperor’s daughtér, she stood alone;
She had no wight to whom to make her moan.
O blood royál, that standest in this drede,
Far be thy friendës in thy greatë need!
This king Allá had such compassióun,
As gentle heart is full filled of pitý,
That from his eyen ran the water down
“Now hastily do fetch a book,” quoth he;
“And if this knight will swearë, how that she
This woman slew, yet will we us advise
Whom that we will that shall be our justíce.”
A Briton book, written with Evangiles,
Was fetched, and on this book he swore anon
She guilty was; and, in the meanëwhiles,
An hand him smote upon the neckë bone,
That down he fell at once right as a stone:
And both his eyen burst out of his face
In sight of ev’rybody in that place.
A voice was heard, in general audience,
That said; “Thou hast deslander’d guiltëless
The daughter of holy Church in high presence;
Thus hast thou done, and yet hold I my peace?”
Of this marvel aghast was all the press,
As mazed folk they stood every one
For dread of wreakë, save Constance alone.
Great was the dread and eke the repentánce
Of them that haddë wrong suspición
Upon this sely innocent Constance;
And for this miracle, in conclusión,
And by Constance’s mediatión,
The king, and many another in that place,
Converted was, thanked be Christë’s grace!
This falsë knight was slain for his untruth
By judgëment of Alla hastily;
And yet Constance had of his death great ruth;
And after this Jesus of his mercý
Made Alla weddë full solemnëly
This holy woman, that is so bright and sheen,
And thus hath Christ y-made Constance a queen.
But who was woeful, if I shall not lie,
Of this wedding but Donegild, and no mo’,
The kingë’s mother, full of tyranny?
Her thought her cursed heart would burst in two;
She would not that her son had donë so;
Her thought it a despite that he should take
So strange a creature unto his make.
Me list not of the chaff nor of the stre
Make so long a tale, as of the corn.
What should I tellen of the royalty
Of this marriáge, or which course goes beforn,
Who bloweth in a trump or in an horn?
The fruit of every tale is for to say;
They eat and drink, and dance, and sing, and play.
They go to bed, as it was skill and right;
For though that wivës be full holy things,
They mustë take in patience at night
Such manner necessaries as be pleasings
To folk that have y-wedded them with rings,
And lay a lite their holiness aside
As for the time, it may no better betide.
On her he got a knavë child anon,
And to a Bishop and to his Constable eke
He took his wife to keep, when he is gone
To Scotland-ward, his foemen for to seek.
Now fair Constance, that is so humble and meek,
So long is gone with childë till that still
She held her chamb’r, abiding Christë’s will
The time is come, a knavë child she bare;
Mauricius at the font-stone they him call.
This Constable doth forth come a messenger,
And wrote unto his king that clep’d was All’,
How that this blissful tiding is befall,
And other tidings speedful for to say.
He hath the letter, and forth he go’th his way.
This messenger, to do his ávantage,
Unto the kingë’s mother rideth swithe,
And saluteth her full fair in his languáge.
“Madame,” quoth he, “ye may be glad and blithe,
And thankë God an hundred thousand sithe;
My lady queen hath child, withoutë doubt,
To joy and bliss of all this realm about.
“Lo, here the letter sealed of this thing,
That I must bear with all the haste I may:
If ye will aught unto your son the king,
I am your servant both by night and day.”
Donegild answér’d, “As now at this time, nay;
But here I will all night thou take thy rest,
To-morrow will I say thee what me lest.”
This messenger drank sadly ale and wine,
And stolen were his letters privily
Out of his box, while he slept as a swine;
And counterfeited was full subtilly
Another letter, wrote full sinfully,
Unto the king, direct of this mattére
From his Constable, as ye shall after hear.
This letter said, the queen deliver’d was
Of so horrible a fiendlike creatúre,
That in the castle none so hardy was
That any while he durst therein endure:
The mother was an elf by áventure
Become, by charmës or by sorcery,
And every man hated her company.
Woe was this king when he this letter had seen,
But to no wight he told his sorrows sore,
But with his owen hand he wrote again;
“Welcome the sond of Christ for evermore
To me, that am now learned in this lore:
Lord, welcome be thy lust and thy pleasance,
My lust I put all in thine ordinance.
“Keepë this child, all be it foul or fair,
And eke my wife, unto mine homecoming:
Christ when him list may send to me an heir,
More agreeáble than this to my liking.”
This letter he sealed, privily weeping.
Which to the messenger was taken soon,
And forth he went, there is no more to do’n.
O messenger full fill’d of drunkenness,
Strong is thy breath, thy limbës falter aye,
And thou betrayest allë secretness;
Thy mind is lorn, thou janglest as a jay;
Thy face is turned in a new array;
Where drunkenness reigneth in any rout,
There is no counsel hid, withoutë doubt.
O Donegild, I have no English dign
Unto thy malice, and thy tyranny:
And therefore to the fiend I thee resign,
Let him indite of all thy treachery.
Fy, mannish, fy! O nay, by God I lie;
Fy, fiendlike spirit! for I dare well tell,
Though thou here walk, thy spirit is in hell.
This messenger came from the king again,
And at the kingë’s mother’s court he light,
And she was of this messenger full fain,
And pleased him in all that e’er she might.
He drank, and well his girdle underpight;
He slept, and eke he snored in his guise
All night, until the sun began to rise.
Eft were his letters stolen every one,
And counterfeited letters in this wise:
The king commanded his Constable anon,
On pain of hanging and of high jewíse,
That he should suffer in no manner wise
Constance within his regne for to abide
Three dayës, and a quarter of a tide;
But in the samë ship as he her fand,
Her and her youngë son, and all her gear,
He shouldë put, and crowd her from the land,
And charge her, that she never eft come there.
O my Constance, well may thy ghost have fear,
And sleeping in thy dream be in penánce,
When Donegild cast all this ordinance.
This messenger, on morrow when he woke,
Unto the castle held the nextë way,
And to the constable the letter took;
And when he this dispiteous letter sey,
Full oft he said, “Alas, and well-away!
Lord Christ,” quoth he, “how may this world endure?
So full of sin is many a creature.
“O mighty God, if that it be thy will,
Since thou art rightful judge, how may it be
That thou wilt suffer innocence to spill,
And wicked folk reign in prosperity?
Ah! good Constance, alas! so woe is me,
That I must be thy tormentor, or dey
A shameful death, there is no other way.”
Wept bothë young and old in all that place,
When that the king this cursed letter sent;
And Constance, with a deadly palë face,
The fourthë day toward her ship she went:
But natheless she took in good intent
The will of Christ, and kneeling on the strond
She saidë, “Lord, aye welcome be thy sond.
“He that me keptë from the falsë blame,
While I was in the land amongës you,
He can me keep from harm and eke from shame
In the salt sea, although I see not how:
As strong as ever he was, he is yet now,
In him trust I, and in his mother dear;
That is to me my sail and eke my stere.”
Her little child lay weeping in her arm,
And, kneeling, piteously to him she said,
“Peace, little son, I will do thee no harm:”
With that her kerchief off her head she braid,
And over his little eyen she it laid,
And in her arm she lulled it full fast,
And unto heav’n her eyen up she cast.
“Mother,” quoth she, “and maiden bright, Marý,
Sooth is, that through a woman’s eggement
Mankind was lorn, and damned aye to die;
For which thy child was on a cross y-rent:
Thy blissful eyen saw all his torment,
Then is there no comparison between
Thy woe, and any woe man may sustene.
“Thou saw’st thy child y-slain before thine eyen,
And yet now lives my little child, parfay:
Now, lady bright, to whom the woeful cryen,
Thou glory of womanhood, thou fairë may,
Thou haven of refuge, bright star of day,
Rue on my child, that of thy gentleness
Ruest on every rueful in distress.
“O little child, alas! what is thy guilt,
That never wroughtest sin as yet, pardie?
Why will thine hardë father have thee spilt?
O mercy, dearë Constable,” quoth she,
“And let my little child here dwell with thee:
And if thou dar’st not save him from blame,
So kiss him onës in his father’s name.”
Therewith she looked backward to the land,
And saidë, “Farewell, husband ruthëless!”
And up she rose, and walked down the strand
Toward the ship, her following all the press:
And ever she pray’d her child to hold his peace,
And took her leave, and with an holy intent
She blessed her, and to the ship she went.
Victualed was the ship, it is no drede,
Abundantly for her a full long space:
And other necessaries that should need
She had enough, heried be Goddë’s grace:
For wind and weather, Almighty God purchase,
And bring her home; I can no better say;
But in the sea she drived forth her way.
Allá the king came home soon after this
Unto the castle, of the which I told,
And asked where his wife and his child is;
The Constable gan about his heart feel cold,
And plainly all the matter he him told
As ye have heard; I can tell it no better;
And shew’d the king his seal, and eke his letter
And saidë; “Lord, as ye commanded me
On pain of death, so have I done certáin.”
The messenger tormented was, till he
Mustë beknow, and tell it flat and plain,
From night to night in what place he had lain;
And thus, by wit and subtle inquiring,
Imagin’d was by whom this harm gan spring.
The hand was known that had the letter wrote,
And all the venom of the cursed deed;
But in what wise, certáinly I know nót.
Th’ effect is this, that Alla, out of drede,
His mother slew, that may men plainly read,
For that she traitor was to her liegeánce:
Thus ended oldë Donegild with mischance.
The sorrow that this Alla night and day
Made for his wife, and for his child also,
There is no tonguë that it tellë may.
But now will I again to Constance go,
That floated in the sea in pain and woe
Five year and more, as liked Christë’s sond,
Ere that her ship approached to the lond.
Under an heathen castle, at the last,
Of which the name in my text I not find,
Constance and eke her child the sea upcast.
Almighty God, that saved all mankind,
Have on Constance and on her child some mind,
That fallen is in heathen hand eftsoon
In point to spill, as I shall tell you soon!
Down from the castle came there many a wight
To gauren on this ship, and on Constance:
But shortly from the castle, on a night,
The lordë’s steward—God give him mischance—
A thief that had renied our creance,
Came to the ship alone, and said he would
Her leman be, whether she would or n’ould.
Woe was this wretched woman then begone;
Her child cri’d, and she cried piteously:
But blissful Mary help’d her right anon,
For, with her struggling well and mightily,
The thief fell overboard all suddenly,
And in the sea he drenched for vengeánce,
And thus hath Christ unwemmed kept Constánce.
O foul lust of luxúry! lo thine end!
Not only that thou faintest mannë’s mind,
But verily thou wilt his body shend.
Th’ end of thy work, or of thy lustës blind,
Is cómplaining: how many may men find,
That not for work, sometimes, but for th’ intent
To do this sin, be either slain or shent?
How may this weakë woman have the strength
Her to defend against this renegate?
O Góliath, unmeasurable of length,
How mightë David makë thee so mate?
So young, and of armoúr so desolate,
How durst he look upon thy dreadful face?
Well may men see it was but Goddë’s grace.
Who gave Judith couráge or hardiness
To slay him, Holofernes, in his tent,
And to deliver out of wretchedness
The people of God? I say for this intent,
That right as God spirit of vigour sent
To them, and saved them out of mischance,
So sent he might and vigour to Constance.
Forth went her ship throughout the narrow mouth
Of Jubaltare and Septe, driving alway,
Sometimë west, and sometime north and south,
And sometime east, full many a weary day:
Till Christë’s mother (blessed be she aye)
Had shapen through her endëless goodness
To make an end of all her heaviness.
Now let us stint of Constance but a throw,
And speak we of the Roman emperor,
That out of Syria had by letters know
The slaughter of Christian folk, and dishonór
Done to his daughter by a false traitór—
I mean the cursed wicked Soudaness,
That at the feast let slay both more and less.
For which this emperor had sent anon
His senator, with royal ordinance,
And other lordës, God wot, many a one,
On Syrians to takë high vengeánce:
They burn and slay, and bring them to mischance
Full many a day: but shortly this is th’ end,
Homeward to Rome they shaped them to wend.
This senator repaired with victóry
To Romë-ward, sailing full royally,
And met the ship driving, as saith the story,
In which Constancë sat full piteously:
And nothing knew he what she was, nor why
She was in such array; nor she will say
Of her estate, although that she should dey.
He brought her unto Rome, and to his wife
He gave her, and her youngë son also:
And with the senator she led her life.
Thus can our Lady bringen out of woe
Woeful Constance, and many another mo’:
And longë time she dwelled in that place,
In holy works ever, as was her grace.
The senatorë’s wife her auntë was,
But for all that she knew her ne’er the more:
I will no longer tarry in this case,
But to King Alla, whom I spake of yore,
That for his wifë wept and sighed sore,
I will return, and leave I will Constance
Under the senatorë’s governance.
King Alla, which that had his mother slain,
Upon a day fell in such repentánce;
That, if I shortly tell it shall and plain,
To Rome he came to receive his penitánce,
And put him in the Popë’s ordinance
In high and low, and Jesus Christ besought
Forgive his wicked works that he had wrought.
The fame anon throughout the town is borne,
How Alla king shall come on pilgrimage,
By harbingers that wentë him beforn,
For which the senator, as was uságe,
Rode him again, and many of his lineáge,
As well to show his high magnificence,
As to do any king a reverence.
Great cheerë did this noble senator
To King Allá and he to him also;
Each of them did the other great honór;
And so befell, that in a day or two
This senator did to King Alla go
To feast, and shortly, if I shall not lie,
Constance’s son went in his company.
Some men would say, at réquest of Constance
This senator had led this child to feast:
I may not tellen every circumstance,
Be as be may, there was he at the least:
But sooth is this, that at his mother’s hest
Before Allá, during the meatë’s space,
The child stood, looking in the kingë’s face.
This Alla king had of this child great wonder,
And to the senator he said anon,
“Whose is that fairë child that standeth yonder?”
“I n’ot,” quoth he, “by God and by Saint John;
A mother he hath, but father hath he none,
That I of wot:” and shortly in a stound
He told to Alla how this child was found.
“But God wot,” quoth this senator also,
“So virtuous a liver in all my life
I never saw, as she, nor heard of mo’
Of worldly woman, maiden, widow or wife:
I dare well say she haddë lever a knife
Throughout her breast, than be a woman wick’,
There is no man could bring her to that prick.
Now was this child as like unto Constance
As possible is a creature to be:
This Alla had the face in remembránce
Of Dame Constance, and thereon mused he,
If that the childë’s mother were aught she
That was his wife; and privily he sight,
And sped him from the table that he might.
“Parfay,” thought he, “phantom is in mine head.
I ought to deem, of skilful judgëment,
That in the saltë sea my wife is dead.”
And afterward he made his argument,
“What wot I, if that Christ have hither sent
My wife by sea, as well as he her sent
To my country, from thennës that she went?”
And, after noon, home with the senator
Went Alla, for to see this wondrous chance.
This senator did Alla great honór,
And hastily he sent after Constance:
But trustë well, her listë not to dance.
When that she wistë wherefore was that sond,
Unneth upon her feet she mightë stand.
When Alla saw his wife, fair he her gret,
And wept, that it was ruthë for to see,
For at the firstë look he on her set
He knew well verily that it was she:
And she, for sorrow, as dumb stood as a tree:
So was her heartë shut in her distress,
When she remember’d his unkindëness.
Twicë she swooned in his owen sight,
He wept and him excused piteously:
“Now God,” quoth he, “and all his hallows bright
So wisly on my soulë have mercý,
That of your harm as guiltëless am I,
As is Mauríce my son, so like your face,
Else may the fiend me fetch out of this place.”
Long was the sobbing and the bitter pain,
Ere that their woeful heartës mightë cease;
Great was the pity for to hear them plain,
Through whichë plaintës gan their woe increase.
I pray you all my labour to release,
I may not tell all their woe till to-morrow,
I am so weary for to speak of sorrow.
But finally, when that the sooth is wist,
That Alla guiltless was of all her woe,
I trow an hundred timës have they kiss’d,
And such a bliss is there betwixt them two,
That, save the joy that lasteth evermo’,
There is none like, that any creatúre
Hath seen, or shall see, while the world may dure.
Then prayed she her husband meekëly
In the relief of her long piteous pine,
That he would pray her father specially,
That of his majesty he would incline
To vouchësafe some day with him to dine:
She pray’d him eke, that he should by no way
Unto her father no word of her say.
Some men would say, how that the child Mauríce
Did this messáge unto the emperor:
But, as I guess, Alla was not so nice,
To him that is so sovereign of honór
As he that is of Christian folk the flow’r,
Send any child, but better ’tis to deem
He went himself; and so it may well seem.
This emperor hath granted gentilly
To come to dinner, as he him besought:
And well rede I, he looked busily
Upon this child, and on his daughter thought.
Alla went to his inn, and as him ought
Arrayed for this feast in every wise,
As farforth as his cunning may suffice.
The morrow came, and Alla gan him dress,
And eke his wife, the emperor to meet:
And forth they rode in joy and in gladness,
And when she saw her father in the street,
She lighted down and fell before his feet.
“Father,” quoth she, “your youngë child Constance
Is now full clean out of your rémembránce.
“I am your daughter, your Constance,” quoth she,
“That whilom ye have sent into Syrie;
It am I, father, that in the salt sea
Was put alone, and damned for to die.
Now, goodë father, I you mercy cry,
Send me no more into none heatheness,
But thank my lord here of his kindëness.”
Who can the piteous joyë tellen all,
Betwixt them three, since they be thus y-met?
But of my talë make an end I shall,
The day goes fast, I will no longer let.
These gladdë folk to dinner be y-set;
In joy and bliss at meat I let them dwell,
A thousand fold well more than I can tell.
This child Maurice was since then emperór
Made by the Pope, and lived Christianly,
To Christë’s Churchë did he great honór:
But I let all his story passë by,
Of Constance is my tale especially,
In the oldë Roman gestës men may find
Mauríce’s life, I bear it not in mind.
This King Alla, when he his timë sey,
With his Constance, his holy wife so sweet,
To England are they come the rightë way,
Where they did live in joy and in quiét.
But little while it lasted, I you hete,
Joy of this world for time will not abide,
From day to night it changeth as the tide.
Who liv’d ever in such delight one day,
That him not moved either conscience,
Or ire, or talent, or some kind affray,
Envy, or pride, or passion, or offence?
I say but for this endë this senténce,
That little while in joy or in pleasance
Lasted the bliss of Alla with Constance.
For death, that takes of high and low his rent,
When passed was a year, even as I guess,
Out of this world this King Alla he hent,
For whom Constance had full great heaviness.
Now let us pray that God his soulë bless:
And Dame Constancë, finally to say,
Toward the town of Romë went her way.
To Rome is come this holy creature,
And findeth there her friendës whole and sound:
Now is she scaped all her áventure:
And when that she her father hath y-found,
Down on her kneës falleth she to ground,
Weeping for tenderness in heartë blithe
She herieth God an hundred thousand sithe.
In virtue and in holy almës-deed
They liven all, and ne’er asunder wend;
Till death departeth them, this life they lead:
And fare now well, my tale is at an end.—
Now Jesus Christ, that of his might may send
Joy after woe, govérn us in his grace
And keep us allë that be in this place.