The Wife of Bath’s Tale
The Prologue
Experience, though none authority
Were in this world, is right enough for me
To speak of woe that is in marriáge:
For, lordings, since I twelve year was of age,
(Thanked be God that is etern on live),
Husbands at the church door have I had five—
For I so often have y-wedded be—
And all were worthy men in their degree.
But me was told, not longë timë gone is,
That sithen Christë went never but onës
To wedding, in the Cane of Galilee,
That by that ilk example taught he me,
That I not wedded shouldë be but once.
Lo, hearken eke a sharp word for the nonce,
Beside a wellë Jesus, God and man,
Spake in reproof of the Samaritan:
“Thou hast y-had five husbandës,” said he;
“And thilkë man, that now hath wedded thee,
Is not thine husband:” thus said he certáin;
What that he meant thereby, I cannot sayn.
But that I askë, why the fifthë man
Was not husband to the Samaritan?
How many might she have in marriáge?
Yet heard I never tellen in mine age
Upon this number definitioún.
Men may divine, and glosen up and down;
But well I wot, express without a lie,
God bade us for to wax and multiply;
That gentle text can I well understand.
Eke well I wot, he said, that mine husbánd
Should leave father and mother, and take to me;
But of no number mentión made he,
Of bigamy or of octogamy;
Why then should men speak of it villainy?
Lo here, the wisë king Dan Solomon,
I trow that he had wivës more than one;
As would to God it lawful were to me
To be refreshed half so oft as he!
What gift of God had he for all his wivës?
No man hath such, that in this world alive is.
God wot, this noble king, as to my wit,
The first night had many a merry fit
With each of them, so well was him on live.
Blessed be God that I have wedded five!
Welcome the sixth whenever that he shall.
For since I will not keep me chaste in all,
When mine husband is from the world y-gone,
Some Christian man shall weddë me anon.
For then th’ apostle saith that I am free
To wed, a’ God’s half, where it liketh me.
He saith, that to be wedded is no sin;
Better is to be wedded than to brin.
What recketh me though folk say villainy
Of shrewed Lamech, and his bigamy?
I wot well Abraham was a holy man,
And Jacob eke, as far as ev’r I can.
And each of them had wivës more than two;
And many another holy man also.
Where can ye see, in any manner age,
That highë God defended marriáge
By word express? I pray you tell it me;
Or where commanded he virginity?
I wot as well as you, it is no dread,
Th’ apostle, when he spake of maidenhead,
He said, that precept thereof had he none:
Men may counsél a woman to be one,
But counseling is no commandëment;
He put it in our owen judgëment.
For, haddë God commanded maidenhead,
Then had he damned wedding out of dread;
And certes, if there were no seed y-sow,
Virginity then whereof should it grow?
Paul durstë not commanden, at the least,
A thing of which his Master gave no hest.
The dart is set up for virginity;
Catch whoso may, who runneth best let see.
But this word is not ta’en of every wight,
But there as God will give it of his might.
I wot well that th’ apostle was a maid,
But natheless, although he wrote and said,
He would that every wight were such as he,
All is but counsel to virginitý.
And, since to be a wife he gave me leave
Of indulgence, so is it no repreve
To weddë me, if that my make should die,
Without exceptión of bigamy;
All were it good no woman for to touch
(He meant as in his bed or in his couch),
For peril is both fire and tow t’ assemble;
Ye know what this example may resemble.
This is all and some, he held virginity
More profit than wedding in fraïlty:
(Frailty clepe I, but if that he and she
Would lead their livës all in chastity),
I grant it well, I have of none envý
Who maidenhead prefer to bigamy;
It liketh them t’ be clean in body and ghost;
Of mine estate I will not make a boast.
For, well ye know, a lord in his household
Hath not every vessel all of gold;
Some are of tree, and do their lord servíce.
God calleth folk to him in sundry wise,
And each one hath of God a proper gift,
Some this, some that, as liketh him to shift.
Virginity is great perfectión,
And continence eke with devotión:
But Christ, that of perfection is the well,
Bade not every wight he should go sell
All that he had, and give it to the poor,
And in such wise follow him and his lore:
He spake to them that would live perfectly—
And, lordings, by your leave, that am not I;
I will bestow the flower of mine age
In th’ acts and in the fruits of marriáge.
Tell me also, to what conclusión
Were members made of generatión,
And of so perfect wise a wight y-wrought?
Trust me right well, they were not made for nought.
Glose whoso will, and say both up and down,
That they were made for the purgatioún
Of urine, and of other thingës smale,
And eke to know a female from a male:
And for none other causë? say ye no?
Experience wot well it is not so.
So that the clerkës be not with me wroth,
I say this, that they werë made for both,
That is to say, for office, and for ease
Of engendrure, there we God not displease.
Why should men ellës in their bookës set,
That man shall yield unto his wife her debt?
Now wherewith should he make his payëment,
If he us’d not his silly instrument?
Then were they made upon a creature
To purge urine, and eke for engendrure.
But I say not that every wight is hold,
That hath such harness as I to you told,
To go and usë them in engendrure;
Then should men take of chastity no cure.
Christ was a maid, and shapen as a man,
And many a saint, since that this world began,
Yet ever liv’d in perfect chastity.
I will not vie with no virginity.
Let them with bread of pured wheat be fed,
And let us wivës eat our barley bread.
And yet with barley bread, Mark tell us can,
Our Lord Jesus refreshed many a man.
In such estate as God hath cleped us,
I’ll persevere, I am not precious,
In wifehood I will use mine instrument
As freely as my Maker hath it sent.
If I be dangerous God give me sorrow;
Mine husband shall it have, both eve and morrow,
When that him list come forth and pay his debt.
A husband will I have, I will no let,
Which shall be both my debtor and my thrall,
And have his tribulatión withal
Upon his flesh, while that I am his wife.
I have the power during all my life
Upon his proper body, and not he;
Right thus th’ apostle told it unto me,
And bade our husbands for to love us well;
All this senténce me liketh every deal.—
Up start the Pardoner, and that anon;
“Now, Dame,” quoth he, “by God and by Saint John,
Ye are a noble preacher in this case.
I was about to wed a wife, alas!
What? should I bie it on my flesh so dear?
Yet had I lever wed no wife this year.”
“Abide,” quoth she; “my tale is not begun.
Nay, thou shalt drinken of another tun
Ere that I go, shall savour worse than ale.
And when that I have told thee forth my tale
Of tribulatión in marriáge,
Of which I am expert in all mine age,
(This is to say, myself hath been the whip),
Then mayest thou choose whether thou wilt sip
Of thilkë tunnë, that I now shall broach.
Beware of it, ere thou too nigh approach,
For I shall tell examples more than ten:
Whoso will not beware by other men,
By him shall other men corrected be:
These samë wordës writeth Ptolemý;
Read in his Almagest, and take it there.”
“Dame, I would pray you, if your will it were,”
Saidë this Pardoner, “as ye began,
Tell forth your tale, and sparë for no man,
And teach us youngë men of your practique.”
“Gladly,” quoth she, “since that it may you like.
But that I pray to all this company,
If that I speak after my fantasy,
To takë nought agrief what I may say;
For mine intent is only for to play.—
Now, Sirs, then will I tell you forth my tale.
As ever may I drinkë wine or ale
I shall say sooth; the husbands that I had
Three of them werë good, and two were bad.
The three were goodë men, and rich, and old.
Unnethës mightë they the statute hold
In which that they were bounden unto me.
Yet wot well what I mean of this, pardie.
As God me help, I laugh when that I think
How piteously at night I made them swink,
But, by my fay, I told of it no store:
They had me giv’n their land and their treasór,
Me needed not do longer diligence
To win their love, or do them reverence.
They loved me so well, by God above,
That I toldë no dainty of their love.
A wise woman will busy her ever-in-one
To get their lovë, where that she hath none.
But, since I had them wholly in my hand,
And that they had me given all their land,
Why should I takë keep them for to please,
But it were for my profit, or mine ease?
I set them so a-workë, by my fay,
That many a night they sangë, well-away!
The bacon was not fetched for them, I trow,
That some men have in Essex at Dunmow.
I govern’d them so well after my law,
That each of them full blissful was and fawe
To bringë me gay thingës from the fair.
They were full glad when that I spake them fair,
For, God it wot, I chid them spiteously.
Now hearken how I bare me properly.
Ye wisë wivës, that can understand,
Thus should ye speak, and bear them wrong on hand,
For half so boldëly can there no man
Swearen and lien as a woman can.
(I say not this by wivës that be wise,
But if it be when they them misadvise.)
A wisë wife, if that she can her good,
Shall bearë them on hand the cow is wood,
And takë witness of her owen maid
Of their assent: but hearken how I said.
“Sir oldë kaynard, is this thine array?
Why is my neighëbourë’s wife so gay?
She is honour’d over all where she go’th,
I sit at home, I have no thrifty cloth.
What dost thou at my neighëbourë’s house?
Is she so fair? art thou so amoroús?
What rown’st thou with our maid? ben’dicite,
Sir oldë lechour, let thy japës be.
And if I have a gossip, or a friend
(Withoutë guilt), thou chidest as a fiend,
If that I walk or play unto his house.
Thou comest home as drunken as a mouse,
And preachest on thy bench, with evil prefe:
Thou say’st to me, it is a great mischief
To wed a poorë woman, for costáge:
And if that she be rich, of high paráge,
Then say’st thou, that it is a tormentry
To suffer her pride and meláncholy.
And if that she be fair, thou very knave,
Thou say’st that every holour will her have;
She may no while in chastity abide,
That is assailed upon every side.
Thou say’st some folk desire us for richéss,
Some for our shape, and some for our fairness,
And some, for she can either sing or dance,
And some for gentiless and dalliance,
Some for her handës and her armës smale:
Thus goes all to the devil, by thy tale;
Thou say’st, men may not keep a castle wall
That may be so assailed over all.
And if that she be foul, thou say’st that she
Coveteth every man that she may see;
For as a spaniel she will on him leap,
Till she may findë some man her to cheap;
And none so grey goose goes there in the lake,
(So say’st thou) that will be without a make.
And say’st, it is a hard thing for to weld
A thing that no man will, his thankës, held.
Thus say’st thou, lorel, when thou go’st to bed,
And that no wise man needeth for to wed,
Nor no man that intendeth unto heaven.
With wildë thunder dint and fiery leven
Motë thy wicked neckë be to-broke.
Thou say’st, that dropping houses, and eke smoke,
And chiding wivës, makë men to flee
Out of their owne house; ah! ben’dicite,
What aileth such an old man for to chide?
Thou say’st, we wivës will our vices hide,
Till we be fast, and then we will them shew.
Well may that be a proverb of a shrew.
Thou say’st, that oxen, asses, horses, hounds,
They be assayed at diversë stounds,
Basons and lavers, ere that men them buy,
Spoonës, stoolës, and all such husbandry,
And so be pots, and clothës, and array,
But folk of wivës makë none assay,
Till they be wedded—oldë dotard shrew!—
And then, say’st thou, we will our vices shew.
Thou say’st also, that it displeaseth me,
But if that thou wilt praisë my beauty,
And but thou pore alway upon my face,
And call me fairë dame in every place;
And but thou make a feast on thilkë day
That I was born, and make me fresh and gay;
And but thou do to my norice honoúr,
And to my chamberere within my bow’r,
And to my father’s folk, and mine allies;
Thus sayest thou, old barrel full of lies.
And yet also of our prentice Jenkin,
For his crisp hair, shining as gold so fine,
And for he squireth me both up and down,
Yet hast thou caught a false suspicioún:
I will him not, though thou wert dead to-morrow.
But tell me this, why hidest thou, with sorrow,
The keyës of thy chest away from me?
It is my good as well as thine, pardie.
What, think’st to make an idiot of our dame?
Now, by that lord that callëd is Saint Jame,
Thou shalt not both, although that thou wert wood,
Be master of my body, and my good,
The one thou shalt forego, maugré thine eyen.
What helpeth it of me t’ inquire and spyen?
I trow thou wouldest lock me in thy chest.
Thou shouldest say, ‘Fair wife, go where thee lest;
Take your disport; I will believe no tales;
I know you for a true wife, Dame Ales.’
“We love no man, that taketh keep or charge
Where that we go; we will be at our large.
Of allë men most blessed may he be,
The wise astrologer Dan Ptolemy,
That saith this proverb in his Almagest:
‘Of allë men his wisdom is highést,
That recketh not who hath the world in hand.’
By this proverb thou shalt well understand,
Have thou enough, what thar thee reck or care
How merrily that other folkës fare?
For certes, oldë dotard, by your leave,
Ye shall have [pleasure] right enough at eve.
He is too great a niggard that will werne
A man to light a candle at his lantérn;
He shall have never the less light, pardie.
Have thou enough, thee thar not plainë thee.
Thou say’st also, if that we make us gay
With clothing and with precious array,
That it is peril of our chastity.
And yet—with sorrow!—thou enforcest thee,
And say’st these words in the apostle’s name:
‘In habit made with chastity and shame
Ye women shall apparel you,’ quoth he,
‘And not in tressed hair and gay perrie,
As pearlës, nor with gold, nor clothës rich.’
After thy text nor after thy rubrich
I will not work as muchel as a gnat.
Thou say’st also, I walk out like a cat;
For whoso wouldë singe the cattë’s skin
Then will the cattë well dwell in her inn;
And if the cattë’s skin be sleek and gay,
She will not dwell in housë half a day,
But forth she will, ere any day be daw’d,
To shew her skin, and go a caterwaw’d.
This is to say, if I be gay, sir shrew,
I will run out, my borel for to shew.
Sir oldë fool, what helpeth thee to spyen?
Though thou pray Argus with his hundred eyen
To be my wardécorps, as he can best,
In faith he shall not keep me, but me lest:
Yet could I make his beard, so may I thé.
“Thou sayest eke, that there be thingës three,
Which thingës greatly trouble all this earth,
And that no wightë may endure the ferth:
O lefe sir shrew, may Jesus short thy life.
Yet preachest thou, and say’st, a hateful wife
Y-reckon’d is for one of these mischances.
Be there none other manner resemblánces
That ye may liken your parables unto,
But if a silly wife be one of tho?
Thou likenest a woman’s love to hell;
To barren land where water may not dwell.
Thou likenest it also to wild fire;
The more it burns, the more it hath desire
To cónsume every thing that burnt will be.
Thou sayest, right as wormës shend a tree,
Right so a wife destroyeth her husbond;
This know they well that be to wivës bond.”
Lordings, right thus, as ye have understand,
Bare I stiffly mine old husbands on hand,
That thus they saiden in their drunkenness;
And all was false, but that I took witness
On Jenkin, and upon my niece also.
O Lord! the pain I did them, and the woe,
Full guiltëless, by Goddë’s sweetë pine;
For as a horse I couldë bite and whine;
I couldë plain, an’ I was in the guilt,
Or ellës oftentime I had been spilt.
Whoso first cometh to the mill, first grint;
I plained first, so was our war y-stint.
They were full glad to excuse them full blive
Of things that they never aguilt their live.
Of wenches would I bearë them on hand,
When that for sickness scarcely might they stand,
Yet tickled I his heartë for that he
Ween’d that I had of him so great cherté:
I swore that all my walking out by night
Was for to éspy wenches that he dight:
Under that colour had I many a mirth.
For all such wit is given us at birth;
Deceit, weeping, and spinning, God doth give
To women kindly, while that they may live.
And thus of one thing I may vauntë me,
At th’ end I had the better in each degree,
By sleight, or force, or by some manner thing,
As by continual murmur or grudging,
Namely a-bed, there haddë they mischance,
There would I chide, and do them no pleasance:
I would no longer in the bed abide,
If that I felt his arm over my side,
Till he had made his ransom unto me,
Then would I suffer him do his nicetý.
And therefore every man this tale I tell,
Win whoso may, for all is for to sell;
With empty hand men may no hawkës lure;
For winning would I all his will endure,
And makë me a feigned appetite—
And yet in bacon had I never delight:
That made me that I ever would them chide.
For, though the Pope had sitten them beside,
I would not spare them at their owen board,
For, by my troth, I quit them word for word.
As help me very God omnipotent,
Though I right now should make my testament,
I owe them not a word, that is not quit,
I brought it so aboutë by my wit,
That they must give it up, as for the best,
Or ellës had we never been in rest.
For, though he looked as a wood lión,
Yet should he fail of his conclusión.
Then would I say, “Now, goodë lefe, take keep
How meekly looketh Wilken ourë sheep!
Come near, my spouse, and let me ba thy cheek.
Ye shouldë be all patient and meek,
And have a sweet y-spiced conscience,
Since ye so preach of Jobë’s patience.
Suffer alway, since ye so well can preach,
And but ye do, certáin we shall you teach
That it is fair to have a wife in peace.
One of us two must bowë doubtëless:
And since a man is more reasónable
Than woman is, ye must be suff’rable.
What aileth you to grudgë thus and groan?
Is it for ye would have my [love] alone?
Why, take it all: lo, have it every deal,
Peter! shrew you but ye love it well.
For if I wouldë sell my bellë chose,
I couldë walk as fresh as is a rose,
But I will keep it for your owen tooth.
Ye be to blame, by God, I say you sooth.”
Such manner wordës haddë we on hand.
Now will I speaken of my fourth husbánd.
My fourthë husband was a revellour;
This is to say, he had a paramour,
And I was young and full of ragerie,
Stubborn and strong, and jolly as a pie.
Then could I dancë to a harpë smale,
And sing, y-wis, as any nightingale,
When I had drunk a draught of sweetë wine.
Metellius, the foulë churl, the swine,
That with a staff bereft his wife of life
For she drank wine, though I had been his wife,
Never should he have daunted me from drink:
And, after wine, of Venus most I think.
For all so sure as cold engenders hail,
A liquorish mouth must have a liquorish tail.
In woman vinolent is no defence,
This knowë lechours by experience.
But, lord Christ, when that it rememb’reth me
Upon my youth, and on my jollity,
It tickleth me about mine heartë-root;
Unto this day it doth mine heartë boot,
That I have had my world as in my time.
But age, alas! that all will envenime,
Hath me bereft my beauty and my pith:
Let go; farewell; the devil go therewith.
The flour is gon, there is no more to tell,
The bran, as I best may, now must I sell.
But yet to be right merry will I fand.
Now forth to tell you of my fourth husband,
I say, I in my heart had great despite,
That he of any other had delight;
But he was quit, by God and by Saint Joce:
I made for him of the same wood a cross;
Not of my body in no foul mannére,
But certainly I madë folk such cheer,
That in his owen grease I made him fry
For anger, and for very jealousý.
By God, in earth I was his purgatory,
For which I hope his soul may be in glory.
For, God it wot, he sat full oft and sung,
When that his shoe full bitterly him wrung.
There was no wight, save God and he, that wist
In many wise how sore I did him twist.
He died when I came from Jerusalem,
And lies in grave under the roodë beam:
Although his tomb is not so curious
As was the sepulchre of Darius,
Which that Apelles wrought so subtlely.
It is but waste to bury them preciously.
Let him fare well, God give his soulë rest,
He is now in his grave and in his chest.
Now of my fifthë husband will I tell:
God let his soul never come into hell.
And yet was he to me the mostë shrew;
That feel I on my ribbës all by rew,
And ever shall, until mine ending day.
But in our bed he was so fresh and gay,
And therewithal so well he could me glose,
When that he wouldë have my bellë chose,
Though he had beaten me on every bone,
Yet could he win again my love anon.
I trow, I lov’d him better, for that he
Was of his love so dangerous to me.
We women have, if that I shall not lie,
In this mattér a quaintë fantasy.
Whatever thing we may not lightly have,
Thereafter will we cry all day and crave.
Forbid us thing, and that desirë we;
Press on us fast, and thennë will we flee.
With danger utter we all our chaffare;
Great press at market maketh dearë ware,
And too great cheap is held at little price;
This knoweth every woman that is wise.
My fifthë husband, God his soulë bless,
Which that I took for love and no richéss,
He some time was a clerk of Oxenford,
And had left school, and went at home to board
With my gossip, dwelling in ourë town:
God have her soul, her name was Alisoun.
She knew my heart, and all my privity,
Bet than our parish priest, so may I thé.
To her betrayed I my counsel all;
For had my husband pissed on a wall,
Or done a thing that should have cost his life,
To her, and to another worthy wife,
And to my niece, which that I loved well,
I would have told his counsel every deal.
And so I did full often, God it wot,
That made his face full often red and hot
For very shame, and blam’d himself, for he
Had told to me so great a privity.
And so befell that onës in a Lent
(So oftentimes I to my gossip went,
For ever yet I loved to be gay,
And for to walk in March, April, and May
From house to house, to hearë sundry tales),
That Jenkin clerk, and my gossíp, Dame Ales,
And I myself, into the fieldës went.
Mine husband was at London all that Lent;
I had the better leisure for to play,
And for to see, and eke for to be sey
Of lusty folk; what wist I where my grace
Was shapen for to be, or in what place?
Therefore made I my visitatións
To vigilies, and to processións,
To preachings eke, and to these pilgrimáges,
To plays of miracles, and marriáges,
And weared upon me gay scarlet gites.
These wormës, nor these mothës, nor these mites
On my apparel frett them never a deal
And know’st thou why? for they were used well.
Now will I tellë forth what happen’d me:
I say, that in the fieldës walked we,
Till truëly we had such dalliance,
This clerk and I, that of my purveyance
I spake to him, and told him how that he,
If I were widow, shouldë weddë me.
For certainly, I say for no bobance,
Yet was I never without purveyance
Of marriage, nor of other thingës eke:
I hold a mouse’s wit not worth a leek,
That hath but one hole for to startë to,
And if that failë, then is all y-do.
[I bare him on hand he had enchanted me
(My damë taughtë me that subtilty);
And eke I said, I mette of him all night,
He would have slain me, as I lay upright,
And all my bed was full of very blood;
But yet I hop’d that he should do me good;
For blood betoken’d gold, as me was taught.
And all was false, I dream’d of him right naught,
But as I follow’d aye my damë’s lore,
As well of that as of other things more.]
But now, sir, let me see, what shall I sayn?
Aha! by God, I have my tale again.
When that my fourthë husband was on bier,
I wept algate and made a sorry cheer,
As wivës must, for it is the uságe;
And with my kerchief covered my viságe;
But, for I was provided with a make,
I wept but little, that I undertake.
To churchë was mine husband borne a-morrow
With neighëbours that for him madë sorrow,
And Jenkin, ourë clerk, was one of tho:
As help me God, when that I saw him go
After the bier, methought he had a pair
Of leggës and of feet so clean and fair,
That all my heart I gave unto his hold.
He was, I trow, a twenty winter old,
And I was forty, if I shall say sooth,
But yet I had always a coltë’s tooth.
Gat-toothed I was, and that became me well,
I had the print of Saintë Venus’ seal.
[As help me God, I was a lusty one,
And fair, and rich, and young, and well begone:
For certes I am all venerian
In feeling, and my heart is martian;
Venus me gave my lust and liquorishness,
And Mars gave me my sturdy hardiness.]
Mine ascendant was Taure, and Mars therein:
Alas, alas, that ever love was sin!
I follow’d aye mine inclinatión
By virtue of my constellatión:
That made me that I couldë not withdraw
My chamber of Venus from a good felláw.
[Yet have I Martë’s mark upon my face,
And also in another privy place.
For God so wisly be my salvatión,
I loved never by discretión,
But ever follow’d mine own appetite,
All were he short, or long, or black, or white,
I took no keep, so that he liked me,
How poor he was, neither of what degree.]
What should I say? but that at the month’s end
This jolly clerk Jenkin, that was so hend,
Had wedded me with great solemnity,
And to him gave I all the land and fee
That ever was me given therebefore:
But afterward repented me full sore.
He wouldë suffer nothing of my list.
By God, he smote me onës with his fist,
For that I rent out of his book a leaf,
That of the stroke mine earë wax’d all deaf.
Stubborn I was, as is a lioness,
And of my tongue a very jangleress,
And walk I would, as I had done beforn,
From house to house, although he had it sworn:
For which he oftentimes wouldë preach,
And me of oldë Roman gestës teach.
How that Sulpitius Gallus left his wife,
And her forsook for term of all his,
For nought but open-headed he her say
Looking out at his door upon a day.
Another Roman told he me by name,
That, for his wife was at a summer game
Without his knowing, he forsook her eke.
And then would he upon his Bible seek
That ilkë proverb of Ecclesiast,
Where he commandeth, and forbiddeth fast,
Man shall not suffer his wife go roll about.
Then would he say right thus withoutë doubt:
“Whoso that buildeth his house all of sallows,
And pricketh his blind horse over the fallows,
And suff’reth his wife to go seekë hallows,
Is worthy to be hanged on the gallows.”
But all for nought; I settë not a haw
Of his provérbs, nor of his oldë saw;
Nor would I not of him corrected be.
I hate them that my vices tellë me,
And so do more of us (God wot) than I.
This made him wood with me all utterly;
I wouldë not forbear him in no case.
Now will I say you sooth, by Saint Thomas,
Why that I rent out of his book a leaf,
For which he smote me, so that I was deaf.
He had a book, that gladly night and day
For his disport he would it read alway;
He call’d it Valerie, and Theophrast,
And with that book he laugh’d alway full fast.
And eke there was a clerk sometime at Rome,
A cardinal, that hightë Saint Jerome,
That made a book against Jovinian,
Which book was there; and eke Tertullian,
Chrysippus, Trotula, and Heloïse,
That was an abbess not far from Paris;
And eke the Parables of Solomon,
Ovidë’s Art, and bourdës many one;
And allë these were bound in one volume.
And every night and day was his custume
(When he had leisure and vacatión
From other worldly occupatión)
To readen in this book of wicked wives.
He knew of them more legends and more lives
Than be of goodë wivës in the Bible.
For, trust me well, it is an impossíble
That any clerk will speakë good of wives,
(But if it be of holy saintës’ lives)
Nor of none other woman never the mo’.
Who painted the lión, tell it me, who?
By God, if women haddë written stories,
As clerkës have within their oratóries,
They would have writ of men more wickedness
Than all the mark of Adam may redress.
The children of Mercury and of Venus,
Be in their working full contrarious.
Mercury loveth wisdom and sciénce,
And Venus loveth riot and dispence.
And for their diverse dispositión,
Each falls in other’s exaltatión.
As thus, God wot, Mercúry is desolate
In Pisces, where Venus is exaltáte,
And Venus falls where Mercury is raised.
Therefore no woman by no clerk is praised.
The clerk, when he is old, and may not do
Of Venus’ works not worth his oldë shoe,
Then sits he down, and writes in his dotage,
That women cannot keep their marriáge.
But now to purpose, why I toldë thee
That I was beaten for a book, pardie.
Upon a night Jenkin, that was our sire,
Read on his book, as he sat by the fire,
Of Eva first, that for her wickedness
Was all mankind brought into wretchedness,
For which that Jesus Christ himself was slain,
That bought us with his heartë-blood again.
Lo here express of women may ye find
That woman was the loss of all mankind.
Then read he me how Samson lost his hairs
Sleeping, his leman cut them with her shears,
Through whichë treason lost he both his eyen.
Then read he me, if that I shall not lien,
Of Hercules, and of his Dejanire,
That caused him to set himself on fire.
Nothing forgot he of the care and woe
That Socrates had with his wivës two;
How Xantippe cast piss upon his head.
This silly man sat still, as he were dead,
He wip’d his head, and no more durst he sayn,
But, “Ere the thunder stint there cometh rain.”
Of Phasiphaë, that was queen of Crete,
For shrewedness he thought the talë sweet.
Fy, speak no more, it is a grisly thing,
Of her horrible lust and her likíng.
Of Clytemnestra, for her lechery
That falsely made her husband for to die,
He read it with full good devotión.
He told me eke, for what occasión
Amphiorax at Thebes lost his life:
My husband had a legend of his wife
Eryphilé, that for an ouche of gold
Had privily unto the Greekës told,
Where that her husband hid him in a place,
For which he had at Thebes sorry grace.
Of Luna told he me, and of Lucie;
They bothë made their husbands for to die,
That one for love, that other was for hate.
Luna her husband on an ev’ning late
Empoison’d had, for that she was his foe:
Lucia liquorish lov’d her husband so,
That, for he should always upon her think,
She gave him such a manner lovë-drink,
That he was dead before it were the morrow:
And thus algatës husbands haddë sorrow.
Then told he me how one Latumeus
Complained to his fellow Arius
That in his garden growed such a tree,
On which he said how that his wivës three
Hanged themselves for heart dispiteous.
“O leve brother,” quoth this Arius,
“Give me a plant of thilkë blessed tree,
And in my garden planted shall it be.”
Of later date of wivës hath he read,
That some have slain their husbands in their bed,
And let their lechour dight them all the night,
While that the corpse lay on the floor upright:
And some have driven nails into their brain,
While that they slept, and thus they have them slain:
Some have them given poison in their drink:
He spake more harm than heartë may bethink.
And therewithal he knew of more provérbs,
Than in this world there groweth grass or herbs.
“Better (quoth he) thine habitatión
Be with a lion, or a foul dragón,
Than with a woman using for to chide.
Better (quoth he) high in the roof abide,
Than with an angry woman in the house,
They be so wicked and contrarioús:
They hatë that their husbands loven aye.”
He said, “A woman cast her shame away
When she cast off her smock;” and farthermo’,
“A fair woman, but she be chaste also,
Is like a gold ring in a sowë’s nose.”
Who couldë ween, or who couldë suppose
The woe that in mine heart was, and the pine?
And when I saw that he would never fine
To readen on this cursed book all night,
All suddenly three leavës have I plight
Out of his book, right as he read, and eke
I with my fist so took him on the cheek,
That in our fire he backward fell adown.
And he up start, as doth a wood lión,
And with his fist he smote me on the head,
That on the floor I lay as I were dead.
And when he saw how still that there I lay,
He was aghast, and would have fled away,
Till at the last out of my swoon I braid,
“Oh, hast thou slain me, thou false thief?” I said,
“And for my land thus hast thou murder’d me?
Ere I be dead, yet will I kissë thee.”
And near he came, and kneeled fair adown,
And saidë, “Dearë sister Alisoun,
As help me God, I shall thee never smite:
That I have done it is thyself to wite,
Forgive it me, and that I thee beseek.”
And yet eftsoons I hit him on the cheek,
And saidë, “Thief, thus much am I awreak.
Now will I die, I may no longer speak.”
But at the last, with muchë care and woe
We fell accorded by ourselvës two:
He gave me all the bridle in mine hand
To have the governance of house and land,
And of his tongue, and of his hand also.
I made him burn his book anon right tho.
And when that I had gotten unto me
By mast’ry all the sovereignëty,
And that he said, “Mine owen truë wife,
Do as thee list, the term of all thy life,
Keep thine honoúr, and eke keep mine estate;”
After that day we never had debate.
God help me so, I was to him as kind
As any wife from Denmark unto Ind,
And also true, and so was he to me:
I pray to God that sits in majesty
So bless his soulë, for his mercy dear.
Now will I say my tale, if ye will hear.—
The Friar laugh’d when he had heard all this:
“Now, Dame,” quoth he, “so have I joy and bliss,
This is a long preamble of a tale.”
And when the Sompnour heard the Friar gale,
“Lo,” quoth this Sompnour, “Goddë’s armës two,
A friar will intermete him evermo’:
Lo, goodë men, a fly and eke a frere
Will fall in ev’ry dish and eke mattére.
What speak’st thou of perambulatioún?
What? amble or trot; or peace, or go sit down:
Thou lettest our disport in this mattére.”
“Yea, wilt thou so, Sir Sompnour?” quoth the Frere;
“Now by my faith I shall, ere that I go,
Tell of a Sompnour such a tale or two,
That all the folk shall laughen in this place.”
“Now do, else, Friar, I beshrew thy face,”
Quoth this Sompnour; “and I beshrewë me,
But if I tellë talës two or three
Of friars, ere I come to Sittingbourne,
That I shall make thine heartë for to mourn:
For well I wot thy patience is gone.”
Our Hostë criëd, “Peace, and that anon;”
And saidë, “Let the woman tell her tale.
Ye fare as folk that drunken be of ale.
Do, Dame, tell forth your tale, and that is best.”
“All ready, sir,” quoth she, “right as you lest,
If I have licence of this worthy Frere.”
“Yes, Dame,” quoth he, “tell forth, and I will hear.”
The Tale
In oldë dayës of the king Arthoúr,
Of which that Britons speakë great honoúr,
All was this land full fill’d of faërie;
The Elf-queen, with her jolly company,
Danced full oft in many a green mead.
This was the old opinion, as I read;
I speak of many hundred years ago;
But now can no man see none elvës mo’,
For now the great charitý and prayéres
Of limitours, and other holy freres,
That search every land and ev’ry stream,
As thick as motës in the sunnë-beam,
Blessing halls, chambers, kitchenës, and bowers,
Cities and burghës, castles high and towers,
Thorpës and barnës, shepens and dairies,
This makes that there be now no faëries:
For there as wont to walkë was an elf,
There walketh now the limitour himself,
In undermelës and in morrownings,
And saith his matins and his holy things,
As he goes in his limitatioún.
Women may now go safely up and down,
In every bush, and under every tree;
There is none other incubus but he;
And he will do to them no dishonoúr.
And so befell it, that this king Arthoúr
Had in his house a lusty bachelér,
That on a day came riding from rivér:
And happen’d, that, alone as she was born,
He saw a maiden walking him beforn,
Of which maiden anon, maugré her head,
By very force he reft her maidenhead:
For which oppressión was such clamoúr,
And such pursuit unto the king Arthoúr,
That damned was this knight for to be dead
By course of law, and should have lost his head;
(Paráventure such was the statute tho),
But that the queen and other ladies mo’
So long they prayed the king of his grace,
Till he his life him granted in the place,
And gave him to the queen, all at her will
To choose whether she would him save or spill.
The queen thanked the king with all her might;
And, after this, thus spake she to the knight,
When that she saw her time upon a day.
“Thou standest yet,” quoth she, “in such array,
That of thy life yet hast thou no suretý;
I grant thee life, if thou canst tell to me
What thing is it that women most desiren:
Beware, and keep thy neck-bone from the iron.
And if thou canst not tell it me anon,
Yet will I give thee leavë for to gon
A twelvemonth and a day, to seek and lear
An answer suffisant in this mattére.
And surety will I have, ere that thou pace,
Thy body for to yielden in this place.”
Woe was the knight, and sorrowfully siked;
But what? he might not do all as him liked.
And at the last he chose him for to wend,
And come again, right at the yearë’s end,
With such answér as God would him purvey:
And took his leave, and wended forth his way.
He sought in ev’ry house and ev’ry place,
Where as he hoped for to findë grace,
To learnë what thing women love the most:
But he could not arrive in any coast,
Where as he mightë find in this mattére
Two creatures accordíng in fere.
Some said that women loved best richéss,
Some said honoúr, and some said jolliness,
Some rich array, and some said lust a-bed,
And oft time to be widow and be wed.
Some said, that we are in our heart most eased
When that we are y-flatter’d and y-praised.
He went full nigh the sooth, I will not lie;
A man shall win us best with flattery;
And with attendance, and with business
Be we y-liméd, bothë more and less.
And some men said that we do love the best
For to be free, and do right as us lest,
And that no man reprove us of our vice,
But say that we are wise, and nothing nice,
For truly there is none among us all,
If any wight will claw us on the gall,
That will not kick, for that he saith us sooth:
Assay, and he shall find it, that so do’th.
For be we never so vicioús within,
We will be held both wise and clean of sin.
And some men said, that great delight have we
For to be held stable and eke secré,
And in one purpose steadfastly to dwell,
And not bewray a thing that men us tell.
But that tale is not worth a rakë-stele.
Pardie, we women cannë nothing hele,
Witness on Midas; will ye hear the tale?
Ovid, amongës other thingës smale,
Saith, Midas had, under his longë hairs,
Growing upon his head two ass’s ears;
The whichë vice he hid, as best he might,
Full subtlely from every man’s sight,
That, save his wife, there knew of it no mo’;
He lov’d her most, and trusted her also;
He prayed her, that to no creature
She wouldë tellen of his disfigúre.
She swore him, nay, for all the world to win,
She would not do that villainy or sin,
To make her husband have so foul a name:
She would not tell it for her owen shame.
But natheless her thoughtë that she died,
That she so longë should a counsel hide;
Her thought it swell’d so sore about her heart,
That needës must some word from her astart;
And, since she durst not tell it unto man,
Down to a marish fast thereby she ran,
Till she came there, her heart was all afire:
And, as a bittern bumbles in the mire,
She laid her mouth unto the water down.
“Bewray me not, thou water, with thy soun’,”
Quoth she, “to thee I tell it, and no mo’,
Mine husband hath long ass’s earës two!
Now is mine heart all whole; now is it out;
I might no longer keep it, out of doubt.”
Here may ye see, though we a time abide,
Yet out it must, we can no counsel hide.
The remnant of the tale, if ye will hear,
Read in Ovíd, and there ye may it lear.
This knight, of whom my tale is specially,
When that he saw he might not come thereby—
That is to say, what women love the most—
Within his breast full sorrowful was his ghost.
But home he went, for he might not sojourn,
The day was come, that homeward he must turn.
And in his way it happen’d him to ride,
In all his care, under a forest side,
Where as he saw upon a dancë go
Of ladies four-and-twenty, and yet mo’,
Toward this ilkë dance he drew full yern,
The hope that he some wisdom there should learn;
But certainly, ere he came fully there,
Y-vanish’d was this dance, he knew not where;
No creaturë saw he that bare life,
Save on the green he sitting saw a wife—
A fouler wight there may no man devise.
Against this knight this old wife gan to rise,
And said, “Sir Knight, hereforth lieth no way.
Tell me what ye are seeking, by your fay.
Paráventure it may the better be:
These oldë folk know muchë thing,” quoth she.
“My levë mother,” quoth this knight, “certáin,
I am but dead, but if that I can sayn
What thing it is that women most desire:
Could ye me wiss, I would well quite your hire.”
“Plight me thy troth here in mine hand,” quoth she,
“The nextë thing that I require of thee
Thou shalt it do, if it be in thy might,
And I will tell it thee ere it be night.”
“Have here my trothë,” quoth the knight; “I grant.”
“Thennë,” quoth she, “I dare me well avaunt,
Thy life is safe, for I will stand thereby,
Upon my life the queen will say as I:
Let see, which is the proudest of them all,
That wears either a kerchief or a caul,
That dare say nay to that I shall you teach.
Let us go forth withoutë longer speech.”
Then rowned she a pistel in his ear,
And bade him to be glad, and have no fear.
When they were come unto the court, this knight
Said, he had held his day, as he had hight,
And ready was his answer, as he said.
Full many a noble wife, and many a maid,
And many a widow, for that they be wise—
The queen herself sitting as a justíce—
Assembled be, his answer for to hear,
And afterward this knight was bid appear.
To every wight commanded was silénce,
And that the knight should tell in audience,
What thing that worldly women love the best.
This knight he stood not still, as doth a beast,
But to this questión anon answér’d
With manly voice, that all the court it heard,
“My liegë lady, generally,” quoth he,
“Women desire to have the sovereignty
As well over their husband as their love,
And for to be in mast’ry him above.
This is your most desire, though ye me kill,
Do as you list, I am here at your will.”
In all the court there was no wife nor maid,
Nor widow, that contráried what he said,
But said, he worthy was to have his life.
And with that word up start that oldë wife
Which that the knight saw sitting on the green.
“Mercy,” quoth she, “my sovereign lady queen,
Ere that your court departë, do me right.
I taughtë this answér unto this knight,
For which he plighted me his trothë there,
The firstë thing I would of him requere,
He would it do, if it lay in his might.
Before this court then pray I thee, Sir Knight,”
Quoth she, “that thou me take unto thy wife,
For well thou know’st that I have kept thy life.
If I say false, say nay, upon thy fay.”
This knight answér’d, “Alas, and well-away!
I know right well that such was my behest.
For Goddë’s lovë choose a new request:
Take all my good, and let my body go.”
“Nay, then,” quoth she, “I shrew us bothë two,
For though that I be old, and foul, and poor,
I n’ould for all the metal nor the ore,
That under earth is grave, or lies above,
But if thy wife I were and eke thy love.”
“My love?” quoth he, “nay, my damnatión,
Alas! that any of my natión
Should ever so foul disparáged be.”
But all for nought; the end is this, that he
Constrained was, that needs he must her wed,
And take this oldë wife, and go to bed.
Now wouldë some men say paráventure,
That for my negligence I do no cure
To tell you all the joy and all th’ array
That at the feast was made that ilkë day.
To which thing shortly answeren I shall:
I say there was no joy nor feast at all,
There was but heaviness and muchë sorrow:
For privily he wed her on the morrow;
And all day after hid him as an owl,
So woe was him, his wifë look’d so foul.
Great was the woe the knight had in his thought
When he was with his wife to bed y-brought;
He wallow’d, and he turned to and fro.
This oldë wife lay smiling evermo’,
And said, “Dear husband, benedicite,
Fares every knight thus with his wife as ye?
Is this the law of king Arthoúrë’s house?
Is every knight of his thus dangerous?
I am your owen love, and eke your wife,
I am she, which that saved hath your life,
And certes yet did I you ne’er unright.
Why fare ye thus with me this firstë night?
Ye farë like a man had lost his wit.
What is my guilt? for God’s love tell me it,
And it shall be amended, if I may.”
“Amended!” quoth this knight; “alas, nay, nay,
It will not be amended, never mo’;
Thou art so loathly, and so old also,
And thereto comest of so low a kind,
That little wonder though I wallow and wind;
So wouldë God, mine heartë wouldë brest!”
“Is this,” quoth she, “the cause of your unrest?”
“Yea, certainly,” quoth he; “no wonder is.”
“Now, Sir,” quoth she, “I could amend all this,
If that me list, ere it were dayës three,
So well ye mightë bear you unto me.
But, for ye speaken of such gentleness
As is descended out of old richéss,
That therefore shallë ye be gentlemen;
Such arrogancy is not worth a hen.
Look who that is most virtuous alway,
Prive and apert, and most intendeth aye
To do the gentle deedës that he can;
And take him for the greatest gentleman.
Christ will, we claim of him our gentleness,
Not of our elders for their old richéss.
For though they gave us all their heritage,
For which we claim to be of high parage,
Yet may they not bequeathë, for no thing,
To none of us, their virtuous living
That made them gentlemen called to be,
And bade us follow them in such degree.
Well can the wisë poet of Florence,
That hightë Dante, speak of this senténce:
Lo, in such manner rhyme is Dante’s tale.
‘Full seld’ upriseth by his branches smale
Prowess of man, for God of his goodness
Wills that we claim of him our gentleness;’
For of our elders may we nothing claim
But temp’ral things that man may hurt and maim.
Eke every wight knows this as well as I,
If gentleness were planted naturally
Unto a certain lineage down the line,
Prive and apert, then would they never fine
To do of gentleness the fair offíce;
Then might they do no villainy nor vice.
Take fire, and bear it to the darkest house
Betwixt this and the mount of Caucasus,
And let men shut the doorës, and go thenne,
Yet will the fire as fair and lightë brenne
As twenty thousand men might it behold;
Its office natural aye will it hold—
On peril of my life—till that it die.
Here may ye see well how that gentery
Is not annexed to possessión,
Since folk do not their operatión
Alway, as doth the fire, lo, in its kind.
For, God it wot, men may full often find
A lordë’s son do shame and villainy.
And he that will have price of his gent’ry,
For he was boren of a gentle house,
And had his elders noble and virtuoús,
And will himselfë do no gentle deedës,
Nor follow his gentle ancestry, that dead is,
He is not gentle, be he duke or earl;
For villain sinful deedës make a churl.
For gentleness is but the renomée
Of thine ancéstors, for their high bounté,
Which is a strangë thing to thy persón:
Thy gentleness cometh from God alone.
Then comes our very gentleness of grace;
It was no thing bequeath’d us with our place.
Think how noble, as saith Valerius,
Was thilkë Tullius Hostilius,
That out of povert’ rose to high nobless.
Read in Senec, and read eke in Boece,
There shall ye see express, that it no drede is,
That he is gentle that doth gentle deedës.
And therefore, levë husband, I conclude,
Albeit that mine ancestors were rude,
Yet may the highë God—and so hope I—
Grant me His grace to live virtuously:
Then am I gentle when that I begin
To live virtuously, and waivë sin.
“And whereas ye of povert’ me repreve,
The highë God, on whom that we believe,
In wilful povert’ chose to lead his life:
And certes, every man, maiden, or wife
May understand that Jesus, heaven’s king,
Ne would not choose a virtuous living.
Glad povert’ is an honest thing, certáin;
This will Senec and other clerkës sayn.
Whoso that holds him paid of his povért’,
I hold him rich, though he hath not a shirt.
He that covéteth is a poorë wight
For he would have what is not in his might.
But he that nought hath, nor covéteth t’ have,
Is rich, although ye hold him but a knave.
Very povért’ is sinnë, properly.
Juvenal saith of povert’ merrily:
The poorë man, when he goes by the way,
Before the thievës he may sing and play.
Povért’ is hateful good; and, as I guess,
A full great bringer out of business;
A great amender eke of sapience
To him that taketh it in patience.
Povert’ is this, although it seem elenge,
Possessión that no wight will challénge.
Povert’ full often, when a man is low,
Makes him his God and eke himself to know:
Povert’ a spectacle is, as thinketh me,
Through which he may his very friendës see.
And, therefore, Sir, since that I you not grieve,
Of my povert’ no morë me repreve.
“Now, Sir, of eldë ye reprevë me:
And certes, Sir, though none authority
Were in no book, ye gentles of honoúr
Say, that men should an oldë wight honoúr,
And call him father, for your gentleness;
And authors shall I finden, as I guess.
Now there ye say that I am foul and old,
Then dread ye not to be a cokëwold.
For filth, and eldë, all so may I thé,
Be greatë wardens upon chastity.
But natheless, since I know your delight,
I shall fulfil your wordly appetite.
Choose now,” quoth she, “one of these thingës tway,
To have me foul and old till that I dey,
And be to you a truë humble wife,
And never you displease in all my life:
Or ellës will ye have me young and fair,
And take your áventure of the repair
That shall be to your house because of me—
Or in some other place, it may well be?
Now choose yourselfë whether that you liketh.”
This knight adviseth him, and sore he siketh,
But at the last he said in this mannére;
“My lady and my love, and wife so dear,
I put me in your wisë governance,
Choose for yourself which may be most pleasance
And most honoúr to you and me also;
I do no force the whether of the two:
For as you liketh, it sufficeth me.”
“Then have I got the mastery,” quoth she,
“Since I may choose and govern as me lest.”
“Yea, certes wife,” quoth he, “I hold it best.”
“Kiss me,” quoth she, “we are no longer wroth,
For by my troth I will be to you both;
This is to say, yea, bothë fair and good.
I pray to God that I may stervë wood,
But I to you be all so good and true,
As ever was wife since the world was new;
And but I be to-morrow as fair to seen,
As any lady, emperess or queen,
That is betwixt the East and eke the West,
Do with my life and death right as you lest.
Cast up the curtain, and look how it is.”
And when the knight saw verily all this,
That she so fair was, and so young thereto,
For joy he hent her in his armës two:
His heartë bathed in a bath of bliss,
A thousand times on row he gan her kiss:
And she obeyed him in every thing
That mightë do him pleasance or liking.
And thus they live unto their livës’ end
In perfect joy; and Jesus Christ us send
Husbandës meek and young, and fresh in bed,
And grace to overlive them that we wed.
And eke I pray Jesus to short their lives,
That will not be govérned by their wives.
And old and angry niggards of dispence,
God send them soon a very pestilence!