The Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale
The Prologue
When ended was the life of Saint Cecile,
Ere we had ridden fully fivë mile,
At Boughton-under-Blee us gan o’ertake
A man, that clothed was in clothës black,
And underneath he wore a white surplíce.
His hackenay, which was all pomely-gris,
So sweated, that it wonder was to see;
It seem’d as he had pricked milës three.
The horse eke that his yeoman rode upon
So sweated, that unnethës might he gon.
About the peytrel stood the foam full high;
He was of foam, as flecked as a pie.
A mailë twyfold on his crupper lay;
It seemed that he carried little array;
All light for summer rode this worthy man.
And in my heart to wonder I began
What that he was, till that I understood
How that his cloak was sewed to his hood;
For which, when I had long advised me,
I deemed him some Canon for to be.
His hat hung at his back down by a lace,
For he had ridden more than trot or pace;
He haddë pricked like as he were wood.
A clote-leaf he had laid under his hood,
For sweat, and for to keep his head from heat.
But it was joyë for to see him sweat;
His forehead dropped as a stillatory
Were full of plantain or of paritory.
And when that he was come, he gan to cry,
“God save,” quoth he, “this jolly company.
Fast have I pricked,” quoth he, “for your sake,
Becausë that I would you overtake,
To riden in this merry company.”
His Yeoman was eke full of courtesy,
And saidë, “Sirs, now in the morning tide
Out of your hostelry I saw you ride,
And warned here my lord and sovereign,
Which that to ridë with you is full fain,
For his disport; he loveth dalliance.”
“Friend, for thy warning God give thee good chance,”
Said ourë Host; “certáin it wouldë seem
Thy lord were wise, and so I may well deem;
He is full jocund also, dare I lay;
Can he aught tell a merry tale or tway,
With which he gladden may this company?”
“Who, Sir? my lord? Yea, Sir, withoutë lie,
He can of mirth and eke of jollity
Not but enough; also, Sir, trustë me,
An’ ye him knew all so well as do I,
Ye would wonder how well and craftily
He couldë work, and that in sundry wise.
He hath take on him many a great emprise,
Which were full hard for any that is here
To bring about, but they of him it lear.
As homely as he rides amongës you,
If ye him knew, it would be for your prow:
Ye wouldë not forego his ácquaintánce
For muchë good, I dare lay in balance
All that I have in my possessión.
He is a man of high discretión.
I warn you well, he is a passing man.”
“Well,” quoth our Host, “I pray thee tell me than,
Is he a clerk, or no? Tell what he is.”
“Nay, he is greater than a clerk, y-wis,”
Saidë this Yeoman; “and, in wordës few,
Host, of his craft somewhat I will you shew.
I say, my lord can such a subtletý
(But all his craft ye may not weet of me,
And somewhat help I yet to his workíng),
That all the ground on which we be ridíng
Till that we come to Canterbury town,
He could all cleanë turnen up so down,
And pave it all of silver and of gold.”
And when this Yeoman had this talë told
Unto our Host, he said; “Ben’dicite!
This thing is wonder marvellous to me,
Since that thy lord is of so high prudénce,
Because of which men should him reverence,
That of his worship recketh he so lite;
His overest slop it is not worth a mite
As in effect to him, so may I go;
It is all baudy and to-tore also.
Why is thy lord so sluttish, I thee pray,
And is of power better clothes to bey,
If that his deed accordeth with thy speech?
Tellë me that, and that I thee beseech.”
“Why?” quoth this Yeoman, “whereto ask ye me?
God help me so, for he shall never thé
(But I will not avowë that I say,
And therefore keep it secret, I you pray);
He is too wise, in faith, as I believe.
Thing that is overdone, it will not preve
Aright, as clerkës say; it is a vice;
Wherefore in that I hold him lew’d and nice.
For when a man hath over great a wit,
Full oft him happens to misusen it;
So doth my lord, and that me grieveth sore.
God it amend; I can say now no more.”
“Thereof no force, good Yeoman,” quoth our Host;
“Since of the conning of thy lord, thou know’st,
Tell how he doth, I pray thee heartilý,
Since that be is so crafty and so sly.
Where dwellë ye, if it to tellë be?”
“In the suburbës of a town,” quoth he,
“Lurking in hernës and in lanës blind,
Where as these robbers and these thieves by kind
Holdë their privy fearful residence,
As they that darë not show their presénce,
So farë we, if I shall say the soothë.”
“Yet,” quoth our Hostë, “let me talkë tó thee;
Why art thou so discolour’d of thy face?”
“Peter!” quoth he, “God give it hardë grace,
I am so us’d the hotë fire to blow,
That it hath changed my coloúr, I trow;
I am not wont in no mirrór to pry,
But swinkë sore, and learn to multiply.
We blunder ever, and poren in the fire,
And, for all that, we fail of our desire;
For ever we lack our conclusión.
To muchë folk we do illusión,
And borrow gold, be it a pound or two,
Or ten or twelve, or many summës mo’,
And make them weenen, at the leastë way,
That of a poundë we can makë tway.
Yet is it false; and aye we have good hope
It for to do, and after it we grope:
But that sciénce is so far us beforn,
That we may not, although we had it sworn,
It overtake, it slides away so fast;
It will us makë beggars at the last.”
While this Yeomán was thus in his talkíng,
This Canon drew him near, and heard all thing
Which this Yeomán spake, for suspición
Of mennë’s speech ever had this Canón:
For Cato saith, that he that guilty is,
Deemeth all things be spoken of him y-wis;
Because of that he gan so nigh to draw
To his Yeomán, that he heard all his saw;
And thus he said unto his Yeoman tho;
“Hold thou thy peace, and speak no wordës mo’:
For if thou do, thou shalt it dear abie.
Thou slanderest me here in this companý,
And eke discoverest that thou shouldest hide.”
“Yea,” quoth our Host, “tell on, whatso betide;
Of all his threatening reck not a mite.”
“In faith,” quoth he, “no more do I but lite.”
And when this Canon saw it would not be
But his Yeoman would tell his privitý,
He fled away for very sorrow and shame.
“Ah!” quoth the Yeoman, “here shall rise a game;
All that I can anon I will you tell,
Since he is gone; the foulë fiend him quell!
For ne’er hereafter will I with him meet,
For penny nor for pound, I you behete.
He that me broughtë first unto that game,
Ere that he die, sorrow have he and shame.
For it is earnest to me, by my faith;
That feel I well, what so any man saith;
And yet for all my smart, and all my grief,
For all my sorrow, labour, and mischíef,
I couldë never leave it in no wise.
Now would to God my wittë might suffice
To tellen all that longeth to that art!
But natheless yet will I tellë part;
Since that my lord is gone, I will not spare;
Such thing as that I know, I will declare.”
The Tale
With this Canón I dwelt have seven year,
And of his science am I ne’er the near:
All that I had I havë lost thereby,
And, God wot, so have many more than I.
Where I was wont to be right fresh and gay
Of clothing, and of other good array
Now may I wear an hose upon mine head;
And where my colour was both fresh and red,
Now is it wan, and of a leaden hue
(Whoso it useth, sore shall he it rue);
And of my swink yet bleared is mine eye;
Lo what advantage is to multiply!
That sliding science hath me made so bare,
That I have no good, where that ever I fare;
And yet I am indebted so thereby
Of gold, that I have borrow’d truëly,
That, while I live, I shall it quitë never;
Let every man beware by me for ever.
What manner man that casteth him thereto,
If he continue, I hold his thrift y-do;
So help me God, thereby shall he not win,
But empty his purse, and make his wittës thin.
And when he, through his madness and follý,
Hath lost his owen good through jupartie,
Then he exciteth other men thereto,
To lose their good as he himself hath do’.
For unto shrewës joy it is and ease
To have their fellows in pain and disease.
Thus was I onës learned of a clerk;
Of that no charge; I will speak of our work.
When we be there as we shall exercise
Our elvish craft, we seemë wonder wise,
Our termës be so clergial and quaint.
I blow the fire till that mine heartë faint.
Why should I tellen each proportión
Of thingës, whichë that we work upon,
As on five or six ounces, may well be,
Of silver, or some other quantitý?
And busy me to tellë you the names,
As orpiment, burnt bonës, iron squames,
That into powder grounden be full small?
And in an earthen pot how put is all,
And, salt y-put in, and also peppére,
Before these powders that I speak of here,
And well y-cover’d with a lamp of glass?
And of much other thing which that there was?
And of the pots and glasses engluting,
That of the air might passen out no thing?
And of the easy fire, and smart also,
Which that was made? and of the care and woe
That we had in our matters súblimíng,
And in amalgaming, and calciníng
Of quicksilver, called mercúry crude?
For all our sleightës we can not conclude.
Our orpiment, and súblim’d mercurý,
Our ground litharge eke on the porphyrý,
Of each of these of ounces a certáin,
Not helpeth us, our labour is in vain.
Nor neither our spiríts’ ascensioún,
Nor our mattérs that lie all fix’d adown,
May in our working nothing us avail;
For lost is all our labour and traváil,
And all the cost, a twenty devil way,
Is lost also, which we upon it lay.
There is also full many another thing
That is unto our craft appértainíng,
Though I by order them not rehearsë can,
Becausë that I am a lewëd man;
Yet will I tell them as they come to mind,
Although I cannot set them in their kind,
As bol-armoniac, verdigris, boráce;
And sundry vessels made of earth and glass;
Our urinalës, and our descensories,
Phials, and croslets, and sublímatories,
Cucurbitës, and álembikës eke,
And other suchë, dear enough a leek,
It needeth not for to rehearse them all.
Waters rubifying, and bullës’ gall,
Arsenic, sal-armoniac, and brimstóne,
And herbës could I tell eke many a one,
As egremoine, valerian, and lunáry,
And other such, if that me list to tarry;
Our lampës burning bothë night and day,
To bring about our craft if that we may;
Our furnace eke of calcinatión,
And of waters albificatión,
Unslaked lime, chalk, and glair of an ey,
Powders divérse, ashes, dung, piss, and clay,
Seared pokettes, saltpetre, and vitriol;
And divers firës made of wood and coal;
Sal-tartar, alkali, salt preparáte,
And combust matters, and coaguláte;
Clay made with horse and mannë’s hair, and oil
Of tartar, alum, glass, barm, wort, argoil,
Rosalgar, and other matters imbibing;
And eke of our mattérs encorporing,
And of our silver citrinatión,
Our cémentíng, and fermentatión,
Our ingots, tests, and many thingës mo’.
I will you tell, as was me taught also,
The fourë spirits, and the bodies seven,
By order, as oft I heard my lord them neven.
The first spirit Quicksílver called is;
The second Orpiment; the third, y-wis,
Sal-Armoniac, and the fourth Brimstóne.
The bodies sev’n eke, lo them here anon.
Sol gold is, and Luna silvér we threpe;
Mars iron, Mercury quícksilver we clepe;
Saturnus lead, and Jupiter is tin,
And Venus copper, by my father’s kin.
This cursed craft whoso will exercise,
He shall no good have that him may suffice;
For all the good he spendeth thereabout,
He losë shall, thereof have I no doubt.
Whoso that list to utter his follý,
Let him come forth and learn to multiply:
And every man that hath aught in his coffer,
Let him appear, and wax a philosópher;
Ascauncë that craft is so light to lear.
Nay, nay, God wot, all be he monk or frere,
Priest or canón, or any other wight;
Though he sit at his book both day and night;
In learning of this elvish nicë lore,
All is in vain; and pardie muchë more,
Is to learn a lew’d man this subtletý;
Fie! speak not thereof, for it will not be.
And conne he letterure, or conne he none,
As in effect, he shall it find all one;
For bothë two, by my salvatión,
Concluden in multiplicatión
Alikë well, when they have all y-do;
This is to say, they failë bothë two.
Yet forgot I to makë rehearsále
Of waters corrosive, and of limáile,
And of bodies’ mollificatión,
And also of their induratión,
Oilës, ablutions, metál fusíble,
To tellen all, would passen any Bible
That owhere is; wherefore, as for the best,
Of all these namës now will I me rest;
For, as I trow, I have you told enough
To raise a fiend, all look he ne’er so rough.
Ah! nay, let be; the philosópher’s stone,
Elixir call’d, we seekë fast each one;
For had we him, then were we sicker enow;
But unto God of heaven I make avow,
For all our craft, when we have all y-do,
And all our sleight, he will not come us to.
He hath y-made us spendë muchë good,
For sorrow of which almost we waxed wood,
But that good hopë creeped in our heart,
Supposing ever, though we sorë smart,
To be relieved by him afterward.
Such súpposing and hope is sharp and hard.
I warn you well it is to seeken ever.
That future temps hath madë men dissever,
In trust thereof, from all that ever they had,
Yet of that art they cannot waxë sad,
For unto them it is a bitter sweet;
So seemeth it; for had they but a sheet
Which that they mightë wrap them in at night,
And a bratt to walk in by dayëlight,
They would them sell, and spend it on this craft;
They cannot stint, until no thing be laft.
And evermore, wherever that they gon,
Men may them knowë by smell of brimstóne;
For all the world they stinken as a goat;
Their savour is so rammish and so hot,
That though a man a milë from them be,
The savour will infect him, trustë me.
Lo, thus by smelling and threadbare array,
If that men list, this folk they knowë may.
And if a man will ask them privily,
Why they be clothed so unthriftily,
They right anon will rownen in his ear,
And sayen, if that they espied were,
Men would them slay, because of their sciénce:
Lo, thus these folk betrayen innocence!
Pass over this; I go my tale unto.
Ere that the pot be on the fire y-do
Of metals, with a certain quantity
My lord them tempers, and no man but he
(Now he is gone, I dare say boldëly);
For as men say, he can do craftily,
Algate I wot well he hath such a name,
And yet full oft he runneth into blame;
And know ye how? full oft it happ’neth so,
The pot to-breaks, and farewell! all is go’.
These metals be of so great violence,
Our wallës may not make them résistence,
But if they werë wrought of lime and stone;
They piercë so, that through the wall they gon;
And some of them sink down into the ground
(Thus have we lost by timës many a pound),
And some are scatter’d all the floor about;
Some leap into the roof withoutë doubt.
Though that the fiend not in our sight him shew,
I trowë that he be with us, that shrew;
In hellë, where that he is lord and sire,
Is there no morë woe, rancoúr, nor ire.
When that our pot is broke, as I have said,
Every man chides, and holds him evil apaid.
Some said it was long on the fire-makíng;
Some saidë nay, it was on the blowíng
(Then was I fear’d, for that was mine offíce);
“Straw!” quoth the third, “ye be lewëd and nice,
It was not temper’d as it ought to be.”
“Nay,” quoth the fourthë, “stint and hearken me;
Because our fire was not y-made of beech,
That is the cause, and other none, so thé ’ch.
I cannot tell whereon it was along,
But well I wot great strife is us among.”
“What?” quoth my lord, “there is no more to do’n,
Of these períls I will beware eftsoon.
I am right sicker that the pot was crazed.
Be as be may, be ye no thing amazed.
As usage is, let sweep the floor as swithe;
Pluck up your heartës and be glad and blithe.”
The mullok on a heap y-sweeped was,
And on the floor y-cast a canëvas,
And all this mullok in a sieve y-throw,
And sifted, and y-picked many a throw.
“Pardie,” quoth one, “somewhat of our metál
Yet is there here, though that we have not all.
And though this thing mishapped hath as now,
Another time it may be well enow.
We mustë put our good in ádventúre;
A merchant, pardie, may not aye endure,
Trustë me well, in his prosperity:
Sometimes his good is drenched in the sea,
And sometimes comes it safe unto the land.”
“Peace,” quoth my lord; “the next time I will fand
To bring our craft all in another plight,
And but I do, Sirs, let me have the wite;
There was default in somewhat, well I wot.”
Another said, the fire was over hot.
But be it hot or cold, I dare say this,
That we concluden evermore amiss;
We fail alway of that which we would have;
And in our madness evermore we rave.
And when we be together every one,
Every man seemeth a Solomon.
But all thing, which that shineth as the gold,
It is not gold, as I have heard it told;
Nor every apple that is fair at eye,
It is not good, what so men clap or cry.
Right so, lo, fareth it amongës us.
He that the wisest seemeth, by Jesús,
Is most fool, when it cometh to the prefe;
And he that seemeth truest, is a thief.
That shall ye know, ere that I from you wend;
By that I of my tale have made an end.
There was a canon of religioún
Amongës us, would ínfect all a town,
Though it as great were as was Ninevéh,
Rome, Alisandre, Troy, or other three.
His sleightës and his infinite falsenéss
There couldë no man writen, as I guess,
Though that he mightë live a thousand year;
In all this world of falseness n’is his peer.
For in his termës he will him so wind,
And speak his wordës in so sly a kind,
When he commúnë shall with any wight,
That he will make him doat anon aright,
But it a fiendë be, as himself is.
Full many a man hath he beguil’d ere this,
And will, if that he may live any while;
And yet men go and ride many a mile
Him for to seek, and have his ácquaintánce,
Not knowing of his falsë governánce.
And if you list to give me audiénce,
I will it tellë here in your presénce.
But, worshipful canóns religioús,
Ne deemë not that I slander your house,
Although that my tale of a canon be.
Of every order some shrew is, pardie;
And God forbid that all a company
Should rue a singular mannë’s folly.
To slander you is no thing mine intent;
But to correct that is amiss I meant.
This talë was not only told for you,
But eke for other more; ye wot well how
That amongës Christë’s apostlës twelve
There was no traitor but Judas himselve;
Then why should all the remenant have blame,
That guiltless were? By you I say the same.
Save only this, if ye will hearken me,
If any Judas in your convent be,
Removë him betimës, I you rede,
If shame or loss may causen any dread.
And be no thing displeased, I you pray;
But in this casë hearken what I say.
In London was a priest, an annualére,
That therein dwelled haddë many a year,
Which was so pleasant and so serviceáble
Unto the wife, where as he was at table,
That she would suffer him no thing to pay
For board nor clothing, went he ne’er so gay;
And spending silver had he right enow;
Thereof no force; will proceed as now,
And tellë forth my tale of the canón,
That brought this priestë to confusión.
This falsë canon came upon a day
Unto the priestë’s chamber, where he lay,
Beseeching him to lend him a certáin
Of gold, and he would quit it him again.
“Lend me a mark,” quoth he, “but dayës three,
And at my day I will it quitë thee.
And if it so be that thou find me false,
Another day hang me up by the halse.”
This priest him took a mark, and that as swithe,
And this canón him thanked often sithe,
And took his leave, and wentë forth his way;
And at the thirdë day brought his monéy;
And to the priest he took his gold again,
Whereof this priest was wondrous glad and fain.
“Certes,” quoth he, “nothing annoyeth me
To lend a man a noble, or two, or three,
Or what thing were in my possessión,
When he so true is of conditión,
That in no wise he breakë will his day;
To such a man I never can say nay.”
“What,” quoth this canon, “should I be untrue?
Nay, that were thing y-fallen all of new.
Truth is a thing that I will ever keep,
Unto the day in which that I shall creep
Into my grave; and ellës God forbid;
Believë this as sicker as your creed.
God thank I, and in good time be it said,
That there was never man yet evil apaid
For gold nor silver that he to me lent,
Nor ever falsehood in mine heart I meant.
And Sir,” quoth he, “now of my privity,
Since ye so goodly have been unto me,
And kithed to me so great gentleness,
Somewhat, to quitë with your kindëness,
I will you shew, and if you list to lear,
I will you teachë plainly the mannére
How I can worken in philosophý.
Takë good heed, ye shall well see at eye
That I will do a mas’try ere I go.”
“Yea,” quoth the priest; “yea, Sir, and will ye so?
Mary! thereof I pray you heartily.”
“At your commandëment, Sir, truëly,”
Quoth the canón, “and ellës God forbid.”
Lo, how this thiefë could his service bede!
Full sooth it is that such proffér’d servíce
Stinketh, as witnessë these oldë wise;
And that full soon I will it verify
In this canón, root of all treacherý,
That evermore delight had and gladnéss
(Such fiendly thoughtës in his heart impress)
How Christë’s people he may to mischief bring.
God keep us from his false dissimulíng!
What wistë this priest with whom that he dealt?
Nor of his harm comíng he nothing felt.
O sely priest, O sely innocent!
With covetíse anon thou shalt be blent;
O gracëless, full blind is thy conceit!
For nothing art thou ware of the deceit
Which that this fox y-shapen hath to thee;
His wily wrenches thou not mayest flee.
Wherefore, to go to the conclusión
That referreth to thy confusión,
Unhappy man, anon I will me hie
To tellë thine unwit and thy follý,
And eke the falseness of that other wretch,
As farforth as that my conníng will stretch.
This canon was my lord, ye wouldë ween;
Sir Host, in faith, and by the heaven’s queen,
It was another canon, and not he,
That can an hundred fold more subtletý.
He hath betrayed folkës many a time;
Of his falsenéss it doleth me to rhyme.
And ever, when I speak of his falsehéad,
For shame of him my cheekës waxë red;
Algatës they beginnë for to glow,
For redness have I none, right well I know,
In my visagë; for fumës divérse
Of metals, which ye have me heard rehearse,
Consumed have and wasted my rednéss.
Now take heed of this canon’s cursedness.
“Sir,” quoth he to the priest, “let your man gon
For quicksilver, that we it had anon;
And let him bringen ounces two or three;
And when he comes, as fastë shall ye see
A wondrous thing, which ye saw ne’er ere this.”
“Sir,” quoth the priest, “it shall be done, y-wis.”
He bade his servant fetchë him this thing,
And he all ready was at his biddíng,
And went him forth, and came anon again
With this quicksilver, shortly for to sayn;
And took these ounces three to the canoún;
And he them laidë well and fair adown,
And bade the servant coalës for to bring,
That he anon might go to his workíng.
The coalës right anon weren y-fet,
And this canón y-took a crossëlet
Out of his bosom, and shew’d to the priest.
“This instrument,” quoth he, “which that thou seest,
Take in thine hand, and put thyself therein
Of this quicksilver an ounce, and here begin,
In the name of Christ, to wax a philosópher.
There be full few, which that I wouldë proffer
To shewë them thus much of my sciénce;
For here shall ye see by experiénce
That this quicksilver I will mortify,
Right in your sight anon withoutë lie,
And make it as good silver, and as fine,
As there is any in your purse, or mine,
Or ellëswhere; and make it malleáble;
And ellës holdë me false and unable
Amongë folk for ever to appear.
I have a powder here that cost me dear,
Shall make all good, for it is cause of all
My conning, which that I you shewë shall.
Voidë your man, and let him be thereout;
And shut the doorë, while we be about
Our privity, that no man us espy,
While that we work in this philosophý.”
All, as he bade, fulfilled was in deed.
This ilkë servant right anon out yede,
And his master y-shut the door anon,
And to their labour speedily they gon.
This priest, at this cursed canón’s biddíng,
Upon the fire anon he set this thing,
And blew the fire, and busied him full fast.
And this canón into the croslet cast
A powder, I know not whereof it was
Y-made, either of chalk, either of glass,
Or somewhat ellës, was not worth a fly,
To blinden with this priest; and bade him hie
The coalës for to couchen all above
The croslet; “for, in token I thee love,”
Quoth this canón, “thine owen handës two
Shall work all thing that herë shall be do’.”
“Grand mercy,” quoth the priest, and was full glad,
And couch’d the coalës as the canon bade.
And while he busy was, this fiendly wretch,
This false canón (the foulë fiend him fetch),
Out of his bosom took a beechen coal,
In which full subtilly was made a hole,
And therein put was of silver limáile
An ounce, and stopped was withoutë fail
The hole with wax, to keep the limaile in.
And understandë, that this falsë gin
Was not made there, but it was made before;
And other thingës I shall tell you more,
Hereafterward, which that he with him brought;
Ere he came there, him to beguile he thought,
And so he did, ere that they went atwin;
Till he had turned him, could he not blin.
It doleth me, when that I of him speak;
On his falsehóod fain would I me awreak,
If I wist how, but he is here and there;
He is so variant, he abides nowhere.
But takë heed, Sirs, now for Goddë’s love.
He took his coal, of which I spake above,
And in his hand he bare it privily,
And while the priestë couched busily
The coalës, as I toldë you ere this,
This canon saidë, “Friend, ye do amiss;
This is not couched as it ought to be,
But soon I shall amenden it,” quoth he.
“Now let me meddle therewith but a while,
For of you have I pity, by Saint Gile.
Ye be right hot, I see well how ye sweat;
Have here a cloth, and wipe away the wet.”
And whilë that the priestë wip’d his face,
This canon took his coal—with sorry grace—
And layed it above on the midwárd
Of the croslet, and blew well afterward,
Till that the coals begannë fast to brenn.
“Now give us drinkë,” quoth this canon then,
“And swithe all shall be well, I undertake.
Sittë we down, and let us merry make.”
And whennë that this canon’s beechen coal
Was burnt, all the limáile out of the hole
Into the crossëlet anon fell down;
And so it mustë needës, by reasoún,
Since it above so even couched was;
But thereof wist the priest no thing, alas!
He deemed all the coals alikë good,
For of the sleight he nothing understood.
And when this alchemister saw his time,
“Rise up, Sir Priest,” quoth he, “and stand by me;
And, for I wot well ingot have ye none,
Go, walkë forth, and bring me a chalk stone;
For I will make it of the samë shape
That is an ingot, if I may have hap.
Bring eke with you a bowl, or else a pan,
Full of watér, and ye shall well see than
How that our business shall hap and preve.
And yet, for ye shall have no misbelieve
Nor wrong conceit of me, in your absénce,
I willë not be out of your presénce,
But go with you, and come with you again.”
The chamber-doorë, shortly for to sayn,
They opened and shut, and went their way,
And forth with them they carried the key;
And came again without any delay.
Why should I tarry all the longë day?
He took the chalk, and shap’d it in the wise
Of an ingot, as I shall you devise;
I say, he took out of his owen sleeve
A teine of silver (evil may he cheve!)
Which that ne was but a just ounce of weight.
And takë heed now of his cursed sleight;
He shap’d his ingot, in length and in brede
Of this teinë, withouten any drede,
So slily, that the priest it not espied;
And in his sleeve again he gan it hide;
And from the fire he took up his mattére,
And in th’ ingot put it with merry cheer;
And in the water-vessel he it cast,
When that him list, and bade the priest as fast
Look what there is; “Put in thine hand and grope;
There shalt thou findë silver, as I hope.”
What, devil of hellë! should it ellës be?
Shaving of silver, silver is, pardie.
He put his hand in, and took up a teine
Of silver fine; and glad in every vein
Was this priest, when he saw that it was so.
“Goddë’s blessing, and his mother’s also,
And allë hallows’, have ye, Sir Canón!”
Saidë this priest, “and I their malison
But, an’ ye vouchësafe to teachë me
This noble craft and this subtilitý,
I will be yours in all that ever I may.”
Quoth the canón, “Yet will I make assay
The second time, that ye may takë heed,
And be expert of this, and, in your need,
Another day assay in mine absénce
This discipline, and this crafty sciénce.
Let take another ouncë,” quoth he tho,
“Of quicksilver, withoutë wordës mo’,
And do therewith as ye have done ere this
With that other, which that now silver is.”
The priest him busied, all that e’er he can,
To do as this canón, this cursed man,
Commanded him, and fast he blew the fire
For to come to th’ effect of his desire.
And this canón right in the meanëwhile
All ready was this priest eft to beguile,
and, for a countenance, in his handë bare
An hollow stickë (take keep and beware);
In th’ end of which an ouncë and no more
Of silver limaile put was, as before
Was in his coal, and stopped with wax well
For to keep in his limaile every deal.
And while this priest was in his business,
This canon with his stickë gan him dress
To him anon, and his powder cast in,
As he did erst (the devil out of his skin
Him turn, I pray to God, for his falsehéad,
For he was ever false in thought and deed),
And with his stick, above the crossëlet,
That was ordained with that falsë get,
He stirr’d the coalës, till relentë gan
The wax against the fire, as every man,
But he a fool be, knows well it must need.
And all that in the stickë was out yede,
And in the croslet hastily it fell.
Now, goodë Sirs, what will ye bet than well?
When that this priest was thus beguil’d again,
Supposing naught but truthë, sooth to sayn,
He was so glad, that I can not express
In no mannére his mirth and his gladnéss;
And to the canon he proffér’d eftsoon
Body and good. “Yea,” quoth the canon soon,
“Though poor I be, crafty thou shalt me find;
I warn thee well, yet is there more behind.
Is any copper here within?” said he.
“Yea, Sir,” the priestë said, “I trow there be.”
“Ellës go buy us some, and that as swithë.
Now, goodë Sir, go forth thy way and hie thee.”
He went his way, and with the copper came,
And this canón it in his handës name,
And of that copper weighed out an ounce.
Too simple is my tonguë to pronounce,
As minister of my wit, the doubleness
Of this canon, root of all cursedness.
He friendly seem’d to them that knew him not;
But he was fiendly, both in work and thought.
It wearieth me to tell of his falsenéss;
And natheless yet will I it express,
To that intent men may beware thereby,
And for none other causë truëly.
He put this copper in the crossëlet,
And on the fire as swithe he hath it set,
And cast in powder, and made the priest to blow,
And in his working for to stoopë low,
As he did erst, and all was but a jape;
Right as him list the priest he made his ape.
And afterward in the ingot he it cast,
And in the pan he put it at the last
Of water, and in he put his own hand;
And in his sleeve, as ye beforëhand
Heardë me tell, he had a silver teine;
He silly took it out, this cursed heine
(Unweeting this priest of his falsë craft),
And in the pannë’s bottom he it laft.
And in the water rumbleth to and fro,
And wondrous privily took up alsó
The copper teine (not knowing thilkë priest),
And hid it, and him hentë by the breast,
And to him spake, and thus said in his game;
“Stoop now adown; by God, ye be to blame;
Helpë me now, as I did you whilére;
Put in your hand, and lookë what is there.”
This priest took up this silver teine anon;
And thennë said the canon, “Let us gon,
With these three teinës which that we have wrought,
To some goldsmith, and weet if they be aught:
For, by my faith, I would not for my hood
But if they werë silver fine and good,
And that as swithe well proved shall it be.”
Unto the goldsmith with these teinës three
They went anon, and put them in assay
To fire and hammer; might no man say nay,
But that they weren as they ought to be.
This sotted priest, who gladder was than he?
Was never bird gladder against the day;
Nor nightingale in the season of May
Was never none, that better list to sing;
Nor lady lustier in carolling,
Or for to speak of love and womanhead;
Nor knight in arms to do a hardy deed,
To standen in grace of his lady dear,
Than had this priest this craftë for to lear;
And to the canon thus he spake and said;
“For love of God, that for us allë died,
And as I may deserve it unto you,
What shall this réceipt costë? tell me now.”
“By our Lady,” quoth this canon, “it is dear.
I warn you well, that, save I and a frere,
In Engleland there can no man it make.”
“No force,” quoth he; “now, Sir, for Goddë’s sake,
What shall I pay? tellë me, I you pray.”
“Y-wis,” quoth he, “it is full dear, I say.
Sir, at one word, if that you list it have,
Ye shall pay forty pound, so God me save;
And n’ere the friendship that ye did ere this
To me, ye shouldë payë more, y-wis.”
This priest the sum of forty pound anon
Of nobles fet, and took them every one
To this canón, for this ilkë receipt.
All his workíng was but fraud and deceit.
“Sir Priest,” he said, “I keep to have no los
Of my craft, for I would it were kept close;
And as ye lovë me, keep it secré:
For if men knewen all my subtletý,
By God, they wouldë have so great envý
To me, because of my philosophý,
I should be dead, there were no other way.”
“God it forbid,” quoth the priest, “what ye say.
Yet had I lever spenden all the good
Which that I have (and ellës were I wood),
Than that ye shouldë fall in such mischíef.”
“For your good will, Sir, have ye right good prefe,”
Quoth the canon; “and farewell, grand mercý.”
He went his way, and never the priest him sey
After that day; and when that this priest should
Maken assay, at such time as he would,
Of this receipt, farewell! it would not be.
Lo, thus bejaped and beguil’d was he;
Thus madë he his introductión
To bringë folk to their destructión.
Consider, Sirs, how that in each estate
Betwixtë men and gold there is debate,
So farforth that unnethës is there none.
This multiplying blint so many a one,
That in good faith I trowë that it be
The causë greatest of such scarcity.
These philosóphers speak so mistily
In this craft, that men cannot come thereby,
For any wit that men have how-a-days.
They may well chatter, as do thesë jays,
And in their termës set their lust and pain,
But to their purpose shall they ne’er attain.
A man may lightly learn, if he have aught,
To multiply, and bring his good to naught.
Lo, such a lucre is in this lusty game;
A mannë’s mirth it will turn all to grame,
And empty also great and heavy purses,
And makë folkë for to purchase curses
Of them that have thereto their good y-lent.
Oh, fy for shamë! they that have been brent,
Alas! can they not flee the firë’s heat?
Ye that it use, I rede that ye it lete,
Lest ye lose all; for better than never is late;
Never to thrivë, were too long a date.
Though ye prowl aye, ye shall it never find;
Ye be as bold as is Bayard the blind,
That blunders forth, and peril casteth none;
He is as bold to run against a stone,
As for to go beside it in the way:
So farë ye that multiply, I say.
If that your eyen cannot see aright,
Look that your mindë lackë not his sight.
For though you look never so broad, and stare,
Ye shall not win a mite on that chaffare,
But wasten all that ye may rape and renn.
Withdraw the fire, lest it too fastë brenn;
Meddle no morë with that art, I mean;
For if ye do, your thrift is gone full clean.
And right as swithe I will you tellë here
What philosóphers say in this mattére.
Lo, thus saith Arnold of the newë town,
As his Rosáry maketh mentioún,
He saith right thus, withouten any lie;
“There may no man mercúry mortify,
But it be with his brother’s knowledging.”
Lo, how that he, which firstë said this thing,
Of philosóphers father was, Hermés;
He saith, how that the dragon doubtëless
He dieth not, but if that he be slain
With his brother. And this is for to sayn,
By the dragón, Mercúry, and none other,
He understood, and Brimstone by his brother,
That out of Sol and Luna were y-draw.
“And therefore,” said he, “take heed to my saw.
Let no man busy him this art to seech,
But if that he th’ intentión and speech
Of philosóphers understandë can;
And if he do, he is a lewëd man.
For this sciénce and this conning,” quoth he,
“Is of the secret of secrets pardie.”
Also there was a disciple of Plató,
That on a timë said his master to,
As his book, Senior, will bear witnéss,
And this was his demand in soothfastness:
“Tell me the name of thilkë privy stone.”
And Plato answer’d unto him anon;
“Takë the stone that Titanos men name.”
“Which is that?” quoth he. “Magnesia is the same,”
Saidë Plató. “Yea, Sir, and is it thus?
This is ignotum per ignotius.
What is Magnesia, good Sir, I pray?”
“It is a water that is made, I say,
Of th’ elementës fourë,” quoth Plató.
“Tell me the rootë, good Sir,” quoth he tho,
“Of that watér, if that it be your will.”
“Nay, nay,” quoth Plato, “certain that I n’ill.
The philosóphers sworn were every one,
That they should not discover it to none,
Nor in no book it write in no mannére;
For unto God it is so lefe and dear,
That he will not that it discover’d be,
But where it liketh to his deity
Man for to inspire, and eke for to defend
Whom that he liketh; lo, this is the end.”
Then thus conclude I, since that God of heaven
Will not that thesë philosóphers neven
How that a man shall come unto this stone,
I rede as for the best to let it gon.
For whoso maketh God his adversáry,
As for to work any thing in contráry
Of his will, certes never shall he thrive,
Though that he multiply term of his live.
And there a point; for ended is my tale.
God send ev’ry good man boot of his bale.