The Tale
In Armoric’, that called is Bretagne,
There was a knight, that lov’d and did his pain
To serve a lady in his bestë wise;
And many a labour, many a great emprise,
He for his lady wrought, ere she were won:
For she was one the fairest under sun,
And eke thereto come of so high kindréd,
That well unnethës durst this knight, for dread,
Tell her his woe, his pain, and his distress.
But, at the last, she for his worthiness,
And namëly for his meek obeisánce,
Hath such a pity caught of his penánce,
That privily she fell of his accord
To take him for her husband and her lord
(Of such lordship as men have o’er their wives);
And, for to lead the more in bliss their lives,
Of his free will he swore her as a knight,
That never in all his life he day nor night
Should take upon himself no mastery
Against her will, nor kithe her jealousy,
But her obey, and follow her will in all,
As any lover to his lady shall;
Save that the name of sovereignëty
That would he have, for shame of his degree.
She thanked him, and with full great humbléss
She saidë; “Sir, since of your gentleness
Ye proffer me to have so large a reign,
Ne wouldë God never betwixt us twain,
As in my guilt, were either war or strife:
Sir, I will be your humble truë wife,
Have here my troth, till that my heartë brest.”
Thus be they both in quiet and in rest.
For one thing, Sirës, safely dare I say,
That friends ever each other must obey,
If they will longë hold in company.
Love will not be constrain’d by mastery.
When mast’ry comes, the god of love anon
Beateth his wings, and, farewell, he is gone.
Love is a thing as any spirit free.
Women of kind desirë liberty,
And not to be constrained as a thrall;
And so do men, if soothly I say shall.
Look who that is most patiént in love,
He is at his advantage all above.
Patience is a high virtúe certáin,
For it vanquísheth, as these clerkës sayn,
Thingës that rigour never should attain.
For every word men may not chide or plain.
Learnë to suffer, or, so may I go,
Ye shall it learn whether ye will or no.
For in this world certáin no wight there is,
That he not doth or saith sometimes amiss.
Ire, or sicknéss, or constellatión,
Wine, woe, or changing of complexión,
Causeth full oft to do amiss or speaken:
On every wrong a man may not be wreaken.
After the timë must be temperance
To every wight that can of governance.
And therefore hath this worthy wisë knight
(To live in easë) suff’rance her behight;
And she to him full wisly gan to swear
That never should there be default in her.
Here may men see a humble wife accord;
Thus hath she ta’en her servant and her lord,
Servant in love, and lord in marriáge.
Then was he both in lordship and servage?
Servage? nay, but in lordship all above,
Since he had both his lady and his love:
His lady certes, and his wife also,
The which that law of love accordeth to.
And when he was in this prosperity,
Home with his wife he went to his country,
Not far from Penmark, where his dwelling was,
And there he liv’d in bliss and in solace.
Who couldë tell, but he had wedded be,
The joy, the ease, and the prosperity,
That is betwixt a husband and his wife?
A year and more lasted this blissful life,
Till that this knight, of whom I spakë thus,
That of Cairrud was call’d Arviragus,
Shope him to go and dwell a year or twain
In Engleland, that call’d was eke Britáin,
To seek in armës worship and honoúr
(For all his lust he set in such laboúr);
And dwelled there two years; the book saith thus.
Now will I stint of this Arviragus,
And speak I will of Dorigen his wife,
That lov’d her husband as her heartë’s life.
For his abséncë weepeth she and siketh,
As do these noble wivës when them liketh;
She mourneth, waketh, waileth, fasteth, plaineth;
Desire of his presénce her so distraineth,
That all this widë world she set at nought.
Her friendës, which that knew her heavy thought,
Comfórtë her in all that ever they may;
They preachë her, they tell her night and day,
That causëless she slays herself, alas!
And every comfort possible in this case
They do to her, with all their business,
And all to make her leave her heaviness.
By process, as ye knowen every one,
Men may so longë graven in a stone,
Till some figúre therein imprinted be:
So long have they comfórted her, till she
Received hath, by hope and by reasón,
Th’ imprinting of their consolatión,
Through which her greatë sorrow gan assuage;
She may not always duren in such rage.
And eke Arviragus, in all this care,
Hath sent his letters home of his welfare,
And that he will come hastily again,
Or ellës had this sorrow her hearty-slain.
Her friendës saw her sorrow gin to slake,
And prayed her on knees for Goddë’s sake
To come and roamen in their company,
Away to drive her darkë fantasy;
And finally she granted that request,
For well she saw that it was for the best.
Now stood her castle fastë by the sea,
And often with her friendës walked she,
Her to disport upon the bank on high,
There as many a ship and bargë sigh,
Sailing their courses, where them list to go.
But then was that a parcel of her woe,
For to herself full oft, “Alas!” said she,
“Is there no ship, of so many as I see,
Will bringë home my lord? then were my heart
All warish’d of this bitter painë’s smart.”
Another timë would she sit and think,
And cast her eyen downward from the brink;
But when she saw the grisly rockës blake,
For very fear so would her heartë quake,
That on her feet she might her not sustene:
Then would she sit adown upon the green,
And piteously into the sea behold,
And say right thus, with careful sikës cold:
“Eternal God! that through thy purveyánce
Leadest this world by certain governance,
In idle, as men say, ye nothing make;
But, Lord, these grisly fiendly rockës blake,
That seem rather a foul confusión
Of work, than any fair creatión
Of such a perfect wisë God and stable,
Why have ye wrought this work unreasonáble?
For by this work, north, south, or west, or east,
There is not foster’d man, nor bird, nor beast:
It doth no good, to my wit, but annoyeth.
See ye not, Lord, how mankind it destroyeth?
A hundred thousand bodies of mankind
Have rockës slain, all be they not in mind;
Which mankind is so fair part of thy work,
Thou madest it like to thine owen mark.
Then seemed it ye had a great cherté
Toward mankind; but how then may it be
That ye such meanës make it to destroy?
Which meanës do no good, but ever annoy.
I wot well, clerkës will say as them lest,
By arguments, that all is for the best,
Although I can the causes not y-know;
But thilkë God that made the wind to blow,
As keep my lord, this is my conclusión:
To clerks leave I all disputatión:
But would to God that all these rockës blake
Were sunken into hellë for his sake!
These rockës slay mine heartë for the fear.”
Thus would she say, with many a piteous tear.
Her friendës saw that it was no disport
To roamë by the sea, but discomfórt,
And shope them for to playë somewhere else.
They leadë her by rivers and by wells,
And eke in other places delectábles;
They dancen, and they play at chess and tables.
So on a day, right in the morning-tide,
Unto a garden that was there beside,
In which that they had made their ordinance
Of victual, and of other purveyánce,
They go and play them all the longë day:
And this was on the sixth morrow of May,
Which May had painted with his softë show’rs
This garden full of leavës and of flow’rs:
And craft of mannë’s hand so curiously
Arrayed had this garden truëly,
That never was there garden of such price,
But if it were the very Paradise.
Th’ odoúr of flowers, and the freshë sight,
Would havë maked any heartë light
That e’er was born, but if too great sicknéss
Or too great sorrow held it in distress;
So full it was of beauty and pleasánce.
And after dinner they began to dance
And sing also, save Dorigen alone,
Who made alway her cómplaint and her moan,
For she saw not him on the dancë go
That was her husband, and her love also;
But natheless she must a time abide,
And with good hopë let her sorrow slide.
Upon this dance, amongë other men,
Danced a squiër before Dorigen,
That fresher was, and jollier of array,
As to my doom, than is the month of May.
He sang and danced, passing any man
That is or was since that the world began;
Therewith he was, if men should him descrive,
One of the bestë faring men alive,
Young, strong, and virtuous, and rich, and wise,
And well belov’d, and holden in great price.
And, shortly if the sooth I tellë shall,
Unweeting of this Dorigen at all,
This lusty squiër, servant to Venús,
Which that y-called was Aurelius,
Had lov’d her best of any creatúre
Two year and more, as was his áventúre;
But never durst he tell her his grievánce;
Withoutë cup he drank all his penánce.
He was despaired, nothing durst he say,
Save in his songës somewhat would he wray
His woe, as in a general cómplainíng;
He said, he lov’d, and was belov’d nothing.
Of suchë matter made he many lays,
Songës, complaintës, roundels, virëlays;
How that he durstë not his sorrow tell,
But languished, as doth a Fury in hell;
And die he must, he said, as did Echo
For Narcissus, that durst not tell her woe.
In other manner than ye hear me say,
He durstë not to her his woe bewray,
Save that paráventure sometimes at dances,
Where youngë folkë keep their óbservánces,
It may well be he looked on her face
In such a wise, as man that asketh grace,
But nothing wistë she of his intent.
Nath’less it happen’d, ere they thennës went,
Becausë that he was her neighëbour,
And was a man of worship and honoúr,
And she had knowen him of timë yore,
They fell in speech, and forth aye more and more
Unto his purpose drew Aurelius;
And when he saw his time, he saidë thus:
“Madam,” quoth he, “by God that this world made,
So that I wist it might your heartë glade,
I would, that day that your Arviragus
Went over sea, that I, Aurelius,
Had gone where I should never come again;
For well I wot my service is in vain.
My guerdon is but bursting of mine heart.
Madamë, rue upon my painë’s smart,
For with a word ye may me slay or save.
Here at your feet God would that I were grave.
I havë now no leisure more to say:
Have mercy, sweet, or you will do me dey.”
She gan to look upon Aurelius;
“Is this your will,” quoth she, “and say ye thus?
Ne’er erst,” quoth she, “I wistë what ye meant:
But now, Aurelius, I know your intent.
By thilkë God that gave me soul and life,
Never shall I be an untruë wife
In word nor work, as far as I have wit;
I will be his to whom that I am knit;
Take this for final answer as of me.”
But after that in play thus saidë she.
“Aurelius,” quoth she, “by high God above,
Yet will I grantë you to be your love
(Since I you see so piteously complain);
Lookë, what day that endëlong Bretágne
Ye remove all the rockës, stone by stone,
That they not lettë ship nor boat to gon,
I say, when ye have made this coast so clean
Of rockës, that there is no stonë seen,
Then will I love you best of any man;
Have here my troth, in all that ever I can;
For well I wot that it shall ne’er betide.
Let such follý out of your heartë glide.
What dainty should a man have in his life
For to go love another mannë’s wife,
That hath her body when that ever him liketh?”
Aurelius full often sorë siketh;
“Is there none other grace in you?” quoth he,
“No, by that Lord,” quoth she, “that maked me.”
Woe was Aurelius when that he this heard,
And with a sorrowful heart he thus answér’d.
“Madame,” quoth he, “this were an impossíble.
Then must I die of sudden death horríble.”
And with that word he turned him anon.
Then came her other friends many a one,
And in the alleys roamed up and down,
And nothing wist of this conclusión,
But suddenly began to revel new,
Till that the brightë sun had lost his hue,
For th’ horizón had reft the sun his light
(This is as much to say as it was night);
And home they go in mirth and in solace;
Save only wretch’d Aurelius, alas!
He to his house is gone with sorrowful heart.
He said, he may not from his death astart.
Him seemed, that he felt his heartë cold.
Up to the heav’n his handës gan he hold,
And on his kneës bare he set him down.
And in his raving said his orisoún.
For very woe out of his wit he braid;
He wist not what he spake, but thus he said;
With piteous heart his plaint hath he begun
Unto the gods, and first unto the Sun.
He said; “Apollo God and governoúr
Of every plantë, herbë, tree, and flow’r,
That giv’st, after thy declinatión,
To each of them his time and his seasón,
As thine herberow changeth low and high;
Lord Phoebus! cast thy merciable eye
On wretch’d Aurelius, which that am but lorn.
Lo, lord, my lady hath my death y-sworn,
Withoutë guilt, but thy benignity
Upon my deadly heart have some pitý.
For well I wot, Lord Phoebus, if you lest,
Ye may me helpë, save my lady, best.
Now vouchësafe, that I may you devise
How that I may be holp, and in what wise.
Your blissful sister, Lucina the sheen,
That of the sea is chief goddéss and queen—
Though Neptunus have deity in the sea,
Yet emperess abovë him is she;—
Ye know well, lord, that, right as her desire
Is to be quick’d and lighted of your fire,
For which she followeth you full busily,
Right so the sea desireth naturally
To follow her, as she that is goddéss
Both in the sea and rivers more and less.
Wherefore, Lord Phoebus, this is my request,
Do this mirácle, or do mine heartë brest;
That now, next at this oppositión,
Which in the sign shall be of the Lión,
As prayë her so great a flood to bring,
That five fathóm at least it overspring
The highest rock in Armoric’ Bretágne,
And let this flood endurë yearës twain:
Then certes to my lady may I say,
“Holdë your hest, the rockës be away.”
Lord Phoebus, this mirácle do for me,
Pray her she go no faster course than ye;
I say this, “pray your sister that she go
No faster course than ye these yearës two:
Then shall she be even at full alway,
And spring-flood lastë bothë night and day.
And but she vouchësafe in such mannére
To grantë me my sov’reign lady dear,
Pray her to sink every rock adown
Into her owen darkë regioún
Under the ground, where Pluto dwelleth in
Or nevermore shall I my lady win.
Thy temple in Delphos will I barefoot seek.
Lord Phoebus! see the tearës on my cheek
And on my pain have some compassioún.”
And with that word in sorrow he fell down,
And longë time he lay forth in a trance.
His brother, which that knew of his penánce,
Up caught him, and to bed he hath him brought,
Despaired in this torment and this thought
Let I this woeful creatúrë lie;
Choose he for me whe’er he will live or die.
Arviragus with health and great honoúr
(As he that was of chivalry the flow’r)
Is comë home, and other worthy men.
Oh, blissful art thou now, thou Dorigen!
Thou hast thy lusty husband in thine arms,
The freshë knight, the worthy man of arms,
That loveth thee as his own heartë’s life:
Nothing list him to be imaginatif
If any wight had spoke, while he was out,
To her of love; he had of that no doubt;
He not intended to no such mattére,
But danced, jousted, and made merry cheer.
And thus in joy and bliss I let them dwell,
And of the sick Aurelius will I tell.
In languor and in torment furious
Two year and more lay wretch’d Aurelius,
Ere any foot on earth he mightë gon;
Nor comfort in this timë had he none,
Save of his brother, which that was a clerk.
He knew of all this woe and all this work;
For to none other creatúre certáin
Of this matter he durst no wordë sayn;
Under his breast he bare it more secré
Than e’er did Pamphilus for Galatee.
His breast was whole withoutë for to seen,
But in his heart aye was the arrow keen,
And well ye know that of a sursanure
In surgery is perilous the cure,
But men might touch the arrow or come thereby.
His brother wept and wailed privily,
Till at the last him fell in rémembránce,
That while he was at Orleans in France—
As youngë clerkës, that be likerous
To readen artës that be curious,
Seeken in every halk and every hern
Particular sciénces for to learn—
He him remember’d, that upon a day
At Orleans in study a book he say
Of magic natural, which his felláw,
That was that time a bachelor of law,
All were he there to learn another craft,
Had privily upon his desk y-laft;
Which book spake much of operatións
Touching the eight and-twenty mansións
That longë to the Moon, and such follý
As in our dayës is not worth a fly;
For holy church’s faith, in our believe,
Us suff’reth none illusión to grieve.
And when this book was in his rémembránce,
Anon for joy his heart began to dance,
And to himself he saidë privily;
“My brother shall be warish’d hastily:
For I am sicker that there be sciénces,
By which men makë divers apparences,
Such as these subtle tregetourës play.
For oft at feastës have I well heard say,
That tregetours, within a hallë large,
Have made come in a water and a barge,
And in the hallë rowen up and down.
Sometimes hath seemed come a grim lioún,
And sometimes flowers spring as in a mead;
Sometimes a vine, and grapës white and red;
Sometimes a castle all of lime and stone;
And, when them liked, voided it anon:
Thus seemed it to every mannë’s sight.
Now then conclude I thus; if that I might
At Orleans some oldë fellow find,
That hath these Moonë’s mansións in mind,
Or other magic natural above,
He should well make my brother have his love.
For with an áppearánce a clerk may make,
To mannë’s sight, that all the rockës blake
Of Brétagne werë voided every one,
And shippës by the brinkë come and gon,
And in such form endure a day or two;
Then were my brother warish’d of his woe,
Then must she needës holdë her behest,
Or ellës he shall shame her at the least.”
Why should I make a longer tale of this?
Unto his brother’s bed he comen is,
And such comfórt he gave him, for to gon
To Orleans, that he upstart anon,
And on his way forth-ward then is he fare,
In hope for to be lissed of his care.
When they were come almost to that citý,
But if it were a two furlong or three,
A young clerk roaming by himself they met,
Which that in Latin thriftily them gret.
And after that he said a wondrous thing;
“I know,” quoth he, “the cause of your comíng;”
And ere they farther any footë went,
He told them all that was in their intent.
The Breton clerk him asked of felláws
The which he haddë known in oldë daws,
And he answér’d him that they deadë were,
For which he wept full often many a tear.
Down off his horse Aurelius light anon,
And forth with this magician is be gone
Home to his house, and made him well at ease;
Them lacked no vitáil that might them please.
So well-array’d a house as there was one,
Aurelius in his life saw never none.
He shewed him, ere they went to suppére,
Forestës, parkës, full of wildë deer.
There saw he hartës with their hornës high,
The greatest that were ever seen with eye.
He saw of them an hundred slain with hounds,
And some with arrows bleed of bitter wounds.
He saw, when voided were the wildë deer,
These falconers upon a fair rivére,
That with their hawkës have the heron slain.
Then saw he knightës jousting in a plain.
And after this he did him such pleasánce,
That he him shew’d his lady on a dance,
In which himselfë danced, as him thought.
And when this master, that this magic wrought,
Saw it was time, he clapp’d his handës two,
And farewell, all the revel is y-go.
And yet remov’d they never out of the house,
While they saw all the sightës marvelloús;
But in his study, where his bookës be,
They sattë still, and no wight but they three.
To him this master called his squiér,
And said him thus, “May we go to suppér?
Almost an hour it is, I undertake,
Since I you bade our supper for to make,
When that these worthy men wentë with me
Into my study, where my bookës be.”
“Sir,” quoth this squiër, “when it liketh you.
It is all ready, though ye will right now.”
“Go we then sup,” quoth he, “as for the best;
These amorous folk some time must have rest.”
At after supper fell they in treatý
What summë should this master’s guerdon be,
To remove all the rockës of Bretágne,
And eke from Gironde to the mouth of Seine.
He made it strange, and swore, so God him save,
Less than a thousand pound he would not have,
Nor gladly for that sum he would not gon.
Aurelius with blissful heart anon
Answered thus; “Fie on a thousand pound!
This widë world, which that men say is round,
I would it give, if I were lord of it.
This bargain is full-driv’n, for we be knit;
Ye shall be payed truly by my troth.
But lookë, for no negligence or sloth,
Ye tarry us here no longer than to-morrow.”
“Nay,” quoth the clerk, “have here my faith to borrow.”
To bed is gone Aurelius when him lest,
And well-nigh all that night he had his rest,
What for his labour, and his hope of bliss,
His woeful heart of penance had a liss.
Upon the morrow, when that it was day,
Unto Bretágne they took the rightë way,
Aurelius and this magicián beside,
And be descended where they would abide:
And this was, as the bookës me remember,
The coldë frosty season of December.
Phoebus wax’d old, and huëd like latoun,
That in his hotë declinatioún
Shone as the burned gold, with streamës bright;
But now in Capricorn adown he light,
Where as he shone full pale, I dare well sayn.
The bitter frostës, with the sleet and rain,
Destroyed have the green in every yard.
Janus sits by the fire with double beard,
And drinketh of his bugle horn the wine:
Before him stands the brawn of tusked swine,
And “nowel” crieth every lusty man.
Aurelius, in all that ev’r he can,
Did to his master cheer and reverence,
And prayed him to do his diligence
To bringë him out of his painë’s smart,
Or with a sword that he would slit his heart.
This subtle clerk such ruth had on this man,
That night and day he sped him, that he can,
To wait a time of his conclusión;
This is to say, to make illusión,
By such an áppearánce of jugglery
(I know no termës of astrology),
That she and every wight should ween and say,
That of Bretágne the rockës were away,
Or else they werë sunken under ground.
So at the last he hath a timë found
To make his japës and his wretchedness
Of such a superstitious cursedness.
His tables Toletanës forth he brought,
Full well corrected, that there lacked nought,
Neither his collect, nor his expanse years,
Neither his rootës, nor his other gears,
As be his centres, and his arguments,
And his proportional conveniénts
For his equatións in everything.
And by his eightë spheres in his workíng,
He knew full well how far Alnath was shove
From the head of that fix’d Aries above,
That in the ninthë sphere consider’d is.
Full subtilly he calcul’d all this.
When he had found his firstë mansión,
He knew the remnant by proportión;
And knew the rising of his moonë well,
And in whose face, and term, and every deal;
And knew full well the moonë’s mansión
Accordant to his operatión;
And knew also his other observánces,
For such illusións and such meschances,
As heathen folk used in thilkë days.
For which no longer made he delays;
But through his magic, for a day or tway,
It seemed all the rockës were away.
Aurelius, which yet despaired is
Whe’er he shall have his love, or fare amiss,
Awaited night and day on this mirácle:
And when he knew that there was none obstácle,
That voided were these rockës every one,
Down at his master’s feet he fell anon,
And said; “I, woeful wretch’d Aurelius,
Thank you, my Lord, and lady mine Venús,
That me have holpen from my carës cold.”
And to the temple his way forth hath he hold’,
Where as he knew he should his lady see.
And when he saw his time, anon right he
With dreadful heart and with full humble cheer
Saluteth hath his sovereign lady dear.
“My rightful Lady,” quoth this woeful man,
“Whom I most dread, and love as I best can,
And lothest were of all this world displease,
Were ’t not that I for you have such disease,
That I must die here at your foot anon,
Nought would I tell how me is woebegone.
But certes either must I die or plain;
Ye slay me guiltëless for very pain.
But of my death though that ye have no ruth,
Advisë you, ere that ye break your truth:
Repentë you, for thilkë God above,
Ere ye me slay because that I you love.
For, Madame, well ye wot what ye have hight;
Not that I challenge anything of right
Of you, my sovereign lady, but of grace:
But in a garden yond’, in such a place,
Ye wot right well what ye behightë me,
And in mine hand your trothë plighted ye,
To love me best; God wot ye saidë so,
Albeit that I unworthy am thereto;
Madame, I speak it for th’ honoúr of you,
More than to save my heartë’s life right now;
I have done so as ye commanded me,
And if ye vouchësafe, ye may go see.
Do as you list, have your behest in mind,
For, quick or dead, right there ye shall me find;
In you lies all to do me live or dey;
But well I wot the rockës be away.”
He took his leave, and she astonish’d stood;
In all her face was not one drop of blood:
She never ween’d t’ have come in such a trap.
“Alas!” quoth she, “that ever this should hap!
For ween’d I ne’er, by possibility,
That such a monster or marváil might be;
It is against the process of natúre.”
And home she went a sorrowful creatúre;
For very fear unnethës may she go.
She weeped, wailed, all a day or two,
And swooned, that it ruthë was to see:
But why it was, to no wight toldë she,
For out of town was gone Arviragus.
But to herself she spake, and saidë thus,
With facë pale, and full sorrowful cheer,
In her complaint, as ye shall after hear.
“Alas!” quoth she, “on thee, Fortúne, I plain,
That unware hast me wrapped in thy chain,
From which to scapë, wot I no succoúr,
Save only death, or ellës dishonoúr;
One of these two behoveth me to choose.
But natheless, yet had I lever lose
My life, than of my body havë shame,
Or know myselfë false, or lose my name;
And with my death I may be quit y-wis.
Hath there not many a noble wife, ere this,
And many a maiden, slain herself, alas!
Rather than with her body do trespass?
Yes, certes; lo, these stories bear witnéss.
When thirty tyrants full of cursedness
Had slain Phidon in Athens at the feast,
They cómmanded his daughters to arrest,
And bringë them before them, in despite,
All naked, to fulfil their foul delight;
And in their father’s blood they made them dance
Upon the pavement—God give them mischance.
For which these woeful maidens, full of dread,
Rather than they would lose their maidenhead,
They privily be start into a well,
And drowned themselves, as the bookës tell.
They of Messenë let inquire and seek
Of Lacedaemon fifty maidens eke,
On which they wouldë do their lechery:
But there was none of all that company
That was not slain, and with a glad intent
Chose rather for to die, than to assent
To be oppressed of her maidenhead.
Why should I then to dien be in dread?
Lo, eke the tyrant Aristoclides,
That lov’d a maiden hight Stimphalides,
When that her father slain was on a night,
Unto Diana’s temple went she right,
And hent the image in her handës two,
From which imáge she wouldë never go;
No wight her handës might off it arace,
Till she was slain right in the selfë place.
Now since that maidens haddë such despite
To be defouled with man’s foul delight,
Well ought a wife rather herself to slé,
Than be defouled, as it thinketh me.
What shall I say of Hasdrubalë’s wife,
That at Carthage bereft herself of life?
For, when she saw the Romans win the town,
She took her children all, and skipt adown
Into the fire, and rather chose to die,
Than any Roman did her villainý.
Hath not Lucretia slain herself, alas!
At Romë, when that she oppressed was
Of Tarquin? for her thought it was a shame
To livë, when she haddë lost her name.
The seven maidens of Milesie also
Have slain themselves for very dread and woe,
Rather than folk of Gaul them should oppress.
More than a thousand stories, as I guess,
Could I now tell as touching this mattére.
When Abradate was slain, his wife so dear
Herselfë slew, and let her blood to glide
In Abradatë’s woundës, deep and wide,
And said, ‘My body at the leastë way
There shall no wight defoul, if that I may.’
Why should I more examples hereof sayn?
Since that so many have themselvës slain,
Well rather than they would defouled be,
I will conclude that it is bet for me
To slay myself, than be defouled thus.
I will be true unto Arviragus,
Or ellës slay myself in some mannére,
As did Demotionë’s daughter dear,
Because she wouldë not defouled be.
O Sedasus, it is full great pitý
To readë how thy daughters died, alas!
That slew themselves for suchë manner cas.
As great a pity was it, or well more,
The Theban maiden, that for Nicanór
Herselfë slew, right for such manner woe.
Another Theban maiden did right so;
For one of Macedon had her oppress’d,
She with her death her maidenhead redress’d.
What shall I say of Niceratus’ wife,
That for such case bereft herself her life?
How true was eke to Alcibiades
His love, that for to dien rather chese,
Than for to suffer his body unburied be?
Lo, what a wife was Alcesté?” quoth she.
“What saith Homér of good Penelope?
All Greecë knoweth of her chastity.
Pardie, of Laodamía is written thus,
That when at Troy was slain Protesilaus,
No longer would she live after his day.
The same of noble Porcia tell I may;
Withoutë Brutus couldë she not live,
To whom she did all whole her heartë give.
The perfect wifehood of Artemisie
Honoúred is throughout all Barbarie.
O Teuta queen, thy wifely chastitý
To allë wivës may a mirror be.”
Thus plained Dorigen a day or tway,
Purposing ever that she wouldë dey;
But natheless upon the thirdë night
Home came Arviragus, the worthy knight,
And asked her why that she wept so sore.
And she gan weepen ever longer more.
“Alas,” quoth she, “that ever I was born!
Thus have I said,” quoth she; “thus have I sworn.”
And told him all, as ye have heard before:
It needeth not rehearse it you no more.
This husband with glad cheer, in friendly wise,
Answér’d and said, as I shall you devise.
“Is there aught ellës, Dorigen, but this?”
“Nay, nay,” quoth she, “God help me so, as wis
This is too much, an’ it were Goddë’s will.”
“Yea, wife,” quoth he, “let sleepë what is still,
It may be well par’venture yet to-day.
Ye shall your trothë holdë, by my fay.
For, God so wisly have mercý on me,
I had well lever sticked for to be,
For very lovë which I to you have,
But if ye should your trothë keep and save.
Truth is the highest thing that man may keep.”
But with that word he burst anon to weep,
And said; “I you forbid, on pain of death,
That never, while you lasteth life or breath,
To no wight tell ye this misáventúre;
As I may best, I will my woe endure,
Nor make no countenance of heaviness,
That folk of you may deemë harm, or guess.”
And forth he call’d a squiër and a maid.
“Go forth anon with Dorigen,” he said,
“And bringë her to such a place anon.”
They take their leave, and on their way they gon:
But they not wistë why she thither went;
He would to no wight tellë his intent.
This squiër, which that hight Aurelius,
On Dorigen that was so amorous,
Of áventúrë happen’d her to meet
Amid the town, right in the quickest street,
As she was bound to go the way forthright
Toward the garden, there as she had hight.
And he was to the garden-ward also;
For well he spiëd when she wouldë go
Out of her house, to any manner place;
But thus they met, of áventúre or grace,
And he saluted her with glad intent,
And asked of her whitherward she went.
And she answered, half as she were mad,
“Unto the garden, as my husband bade,
My trothë for to hold, alas! alas!”
Aurelius gan to wonder on this case,
And in his heart had great compassión
Of her, and of her lamentatión,
And of Arviragus, the worthy knight,
That bade her hold all that she haddë hight;
So loth him was his wife should break her truth
And in his heart he caught of it great ruth,
Considering the best on every side,
That from his lust yet were him lever abide,
Than do so high a churlish wretchedness
Against franchise, and allë gentleness;
For which in fewë words he saidë thus;
“Madame, say to your lord Arviragus,
That since I see the greatë gentleness
Of him, and eke I see well your distress,
That him were lever have shame (and that were ruth)
Than ye to me should breakë thus your truth,
I had well lever aye to suffer woe,
Than to depart the love betwixt you two.
I you release, Madame, into your hond,
Quit ev’ry surëment and ev’ry bond,
That ye have made to me as herebeforn,
Since thilkë timë that ye werë born.
Have here my truth, I shall you ne’er repreve
Of no behest; and here I take my leave,
As of the truest and the bestë wife
That ever yet I knew in all my life.
But every wife beware of her behest;
On Dorigen remember at the least.
Thus can a squiër do a gentle deed,
As well as can a knight, withoutë drede.”
She thanked him upon her kneës bare,
And home unto her husband is she fare,
And told him all, as ye have heardë said;
And, trustë me, he was so well apaid,
That it were impossíble me to write.
Why should I longer of this case indite?
Arviragus and Dorigen his wife
In sov’reign blissë leddë forth their life;
Ne’er after was there anger them between;
He cherish’d her as though she were a queen,
And she was to him true for evermore;
Of these two folk ye get of me no more.
Aurelius, that his cost had all forlorn,
Cursed the time that ever he was born.
“Alas!” quoth he, “alas that I behight
Of pured gold a thousand pound of weight
To this philosopher! how shall I do?
I see no more, but that I am fordo.
Mine heritagë must I needës sell,
And be a beggar; here I will not dwell,
And shamen all my kindred in this place,
But I of him may gettë better grace.
But natheless I will of him assay
At certain dayës year by year to pay,
And thank him of his greatë courtesy.
My trothë will I keep, I will not lie.”
With heartë sore he went unto his coffer,
And broughtë gold unto this philosópher,
The value of five hundred pound, I guess,
And him beseeched, of his gentleness,
To grant him dayës of the remenant;
And said; “Master, I dare well make avaunt,
I failed never of my truth as yet.
For sickerly my debtë shall be quit
Towardës you how so that e’er I fare
To go a-begging in my kirtle bare:
But would ye vouchësafe, upon suretý,
Two year, or three, for to respitë me,
Then were I well, for ellës must I sell
Mine heritage; there is no more to tell.”
This philosópher soberly answér’d,
And saidë thus, when he these wordës heard;
“Have I not holden covenant to thee?”
“Yes, certes, well and truëly,” quoth he.
“Hast thou not had thy lady as thee liked?”
“No, no,” quoth he, and sorrowfully siked.
“What was the causë? tell me if thou can.”
Aurelius his tale anon began,
And told him all as ye have heard before,
It needeth not to you rehearse it more.
He said, “Arviragus of gentleness
Had lever die in sorrow and distress,
Than that his wife were of her trothë false.”
The sorrow of Dorigen he told him als’,
How loth her was to be a wicked wife,
And that she lever had lost that day her life;
And that her troth she swore through innocénce;
She ne’er erst had heard speak of apparence;
That made me have of her so great pitý,
And right as freely as he sent her to me,
As freely sent I her to him again:
This is all and some, there is no more to sayn.
The philosópher answer’d; “Levë brother,
Evereach of you did gently to the other;
Thou art a squiër, and he is a knight,
But God forbiddë, for his blissful might,
But if a clerk could do a gentle deed
As well as any of you, it is no drede.
Sir, I releasë thee thy thousand pound,
As thou right now were crept out of the ground,
Nor ever ere now haddest knowen me.
For, Sir, I will not take a penny of thee
For all my craft, nor naught for my travail;
Thou hast y-payed well for my vitáille;
It is enough; and farewell, have good day.”
And took his horse, and forth he went his way.
Lordings, this question would I askë now,
Which was the mostë free, as thinketh you?
Now tellë me, ere that ye farther wend.
I can no more, my tale is at an end.