The Tale
Whilom there was dwelling in Lombardy
A worthy knight, that born was at Pavie,
In which he liv’d in great prosperity;
And forty years a wifeless man was he,
And follow’d aye his bodily delight
On women, where as was his appetite,
As do these foolës that be seculeres.
And, when that he was passed sixty years,
Were it for holiness, or for dotáge,
I cannot say, but such a great coráge
Haddë this knight to be a wedded man,
That day and night he did all that he can
To espy where that he might wedded be;
Praying our Lord to grantë him, that he
Mightë once knowen of that blissful life
That is betwixt a husband and his wife,
And for to live under that holy bond
With which God firstë man and woman bond.
“None other life,” said he, “is worth a bean;
For wedlock is so easy, and so clean,
That in this world it is a paradise.”
Thus said this oldë knight, that was so wise.
And certainly, as sooth as God is king,
To take a wife it is a glorious thing,
And namely when a man is old and hoar,
Then is a wife the fruit of his treasór;
Then should he take a young wife and a fair,
On which he might engender him an heir,
And lead his life in joy and in solace;
Whereas these bachelors singen “Alas!”
When that they find any adversity
In love, which is but childish vanity.
And truëly it sits well to be so,
That bachelors have often pain and woe:
On brittle ground they build, and brittleness
They findë, when they weenë sickerness:
They live but as a bird or as a beast,
In liberty, and under no arrest;
Whereas a wedded man in his estate
Liveth a life blissful and ordinate,
Under the yoke of marriáge y-bound;
Well may his heart in joy and bliss abound.
For who can be so buxom as a wife?
Who is so true, and eke so áttentíve
To keep him, sick and whole, as is his make?
For weal or woe she will him not forsake:
She is not weary him to love and serve,
Though that he lie bedrid until he sterve.
And yet some clerkës say it is not so;
Of which he, Theophrast, is one of tho:
What force though Theophrast list for to lie?
“Takë no wife,” quoth he, “for husbandry,
As for to spare in household thy dispence;
A truë servant doth more diligence
Thy good to keep, than doth thine owen wife,
For she will claim a half part all her life.
And if that thou be sick, so God me save,
Thy very friendës, or a truë knave,
Will keep thee bet than she, that waiteth aye
After thy good, and hath done many a day.”
This sentence, and a hundred timës worse,
Writeth this man, there God his bonës curse.
But take no keep of all such vanity,
Defy Theóphrast, and hearken to me.
A wife is Goddë’s giftë verily;
All other manner giftës hardily,
As landës, rentës, pasture, or commúne,
Or mebles, all be giftës of fortúne,
That passen as a shadow on the wall:
But dread thou not, if plainly speak I shall,
A wife will last, and in thine house endure,
Well longer than thee list, paráventure.
Marriage is a full great sacrament;
He which that hath no wife, I hold him shent;
He liveth helpless, and all desolate
(I speak of folk in secular estate):
And hearken why—I say not this for nought—
That woman is for mannë’s help y-wrought.
The highë God, when he had Adam maked,
And saw him all alonë belly naked,
God of his greatë goodness saidë then,
Let us now make a help unto this man
Like to himself; and then he made him Eve.
Here may ye see, and hereby may ye preve,
That a wife is man’s help and his comfórt,
His paradise terrestre and his disport.
So buxom and so virtuous is she,
They mustë needës live in unity;
One flesh they be, and one blood, as I guess,
With but one heart in weal and in distress.
A wife? Ah! Saint Marý, ben’dicite,
How might a man have any adversity
That hath a wife? certes I cannot say
The bliss the which that is betwixt them tway,
There may no tongue it tell, or heartë think.
If he be poor, she helpeth him to swink;
She keeps his good, and wasteth never a deal;
All that her husband list, her liketh well;
She saith not onës Nay, when he saith Yea;
“Do this,” saith he; “All ready, Sir,” saith she.
O blissful order, wedlock precioús!
Thou art so merry, and eke so virtuous,
And so commended and approved eke,
That every man that holds him worth a leek
Upon his barë knees ought all his life
To thank his God, that him hath sent a wife;
Or ellës pray to God him for to send
A wife, to last unto his lifë’s end.
For then his life is set in sickerness,
He may not be deceived, as I guess,
So that he work after his wifë’s rede;
Then may he boldëly bear up his head,
They be so true, and therewithal so wise.
For which, if thou wilt worken as the wise,
Do alway so as women will thee rede.
Lo how that Jacob, as these clerkës read,
By good counsel of his mother Rebecc’
Boundë the kiddë’s skin about his neck;
For which his father’s benison he wan.
Lo Judith, as the story tellë can,
By good counsel she Goddë’s people kept,
And slew him, Holofernes, while he slept.
Lo Abigail, by good counsél, how she
Saved her husband Nabal, when that he
Should have been slain. And lo, Esther also
By counsel good deliver’d out of woe
The people of God, and made him, Mardoché,
Of Assuere enhanced for to be.
There is nothing in gree superlative
(As saith Senec) above a humble wife.
Suffer thy wifë’s tongue, as Cato bit;
She shall command, and thou shalt suffer it,
And yet she will obey of courtesy.
A wife is keeper of thine husbandry:
Well may the sickë man bewail and weep,
There as there is no wife the house to keep.
I warnë thee, if wisely thou wilt wirch,
Love well thy wife, as Christ loveth his church:
Thou lov’st thyself, if thou lovest thy wife.
No man hateth his flesh, but in his life
He fost’reth it; and therefore bid I thee
Cherish thy wife, or thou shalt never thé.
Husband and wife, what so men jape or play,
Of worldly folk holdë the sicker way;
They be so knit there may no harm betide,
And namëly upon the wifë’s side.
For which this January, of whom I told,
Consider’d hath within his dayës old,
The lusty life, the virtuous quiét,
That is in marriágë honey-sweet.
And for his friends upon a day he sent
To tell them the effect of his intent.
With facë sad, his tale he hath them told:
He saidë, “Friendës, I am hoar and old,
And almost (God wot) on my pittë’s brink,
Upon my soulë somewhat must I think.
I have my body foolishly dispended,
Blessed be God that it shall be amended;
For I will be certáin a wedded man,
And that anon in all the haste I can,
Unto some maiden, fair and tender of age;
I pray you shapë for my marriáge
All suddenly, for I will not abide:
And I will fond to éspy, on my side,
To whom I may be wedded hastily.
But forasmuch as ye be more than I,
Ye shallë rather such a thing espy
Than I, and where me best were to ally.
But one thing warn I you, my friendës dear,
I will none old wife have in no mannére:
She shall not passë sixteen year certáin.
Old fish and youngë flesh would I have fain.
Better,” quoth he, “a pike than a pickerel,
And better than old beef is tender veal.
I will no woman thirty year of age,
It is but beanëstraw and great foráge.
And eke these oldë widows (God it wot)
They connë so much craft on Wadë’s boat,
So muchë brookë harm when that them lest,
That with them should I never live in rest.
For sundry schoolës makë subtle clerkës;
Woman of many schoolës half a clerk is.
But certainly a young thing men may guy,
Right as men may warm wax with handës ply.
Wherefore I say you plainly in a clause,
I will none old wife have, right for this cause.
For if so were I haddë such mischance,
That I in her could havë no pleasance,
Then should I lead my life in avoutrie,
And go straight to the devil when I die.
Nor children should I none upon her getten:
Yet were me lever houndës had me eaten
Than that mine heritagë shouldë fall
In strangë hands: and this I tell you all.
I doubtë not I know the causë why
Men shouldë wed: and farthermore know I
There speaketh many a man of marriáge
That knows no more of it than doth my page,
For what causes a man should take a wife.
If he ne may not livë chaste his life,
Take him a wife with great devotión,
Because of lawful procreatión
Of children, to th’ honoúr of God above,
And not only for paramour or love;
And for they shouldë lechery eschew,
And yield their debtë when that it is due:
Or for that each of them should help the other
In mischief, as a sister shall the brother,
And live in chastity full holily.
But, Sirës, by your leave, that am not I,
For, God be thanked, I dare make avaunt,
I feel my limbës stark and suffisant
To do all that a man belongeth to:
I wot myselfë best what I may do.
Though I be hoar, I fare as doth a tree,
That blossoms ere the fruit y-waxen be;
The blossomy tree is neither dry nor dead;
I feel me now here hoar but on my head.
Mine heart and all my limbës are as green
As laurel through the year is for to seen.
And, since that ye have heard all mine intent,
I pray you to my will ye would assent.”
Diversë men diversëly him told
Of marriáge many examples old;
Some blamed it, some praised it, certáin;
But at the lastë, shortly for to sayn
(As all day falleth altercatión
Betwixtë friends in disputatión),
There fell a strife betwixt his brethren two,
Of which that one was callëd Placebo,
Justinus soothly callëd was that other.
Placebo said; “O January, brother,
Full little need have ye, my lord so dear,
Counsel to ask of any that is here:
But that ye be so full of sapience,
That you not liketh, for your high prudénce,
To waivë from the word of Solomon.
This word said he unto us every one;
Work allë thing by counsel—thus said he—
And thennë shalt thou not repentë thee.
But though that Solomon spake such a word,
Mine owen dearë brother and my lord,
So wisly God my soulë bring at rest,
I hold your owen counsel is the best.
For, brother mine, take of me this motive;
I have now been a court-man all my life,
And, God it wot, though I unworthy be,
I havë standen in full great degree
Aboutë lordës of full high estate;
Yet had I ne’er with none of them debate;
I never them contráried truëly.
I know well that my lord can more than I;
What that he saith I hold it firm and stable,
I say the same, or else a thing sembláble.
A full great fool is any counsellor
That serveth any lord of high honoúr,
That dare presume, or onës thinken it;
That his counsel should pass his lordë’s wit.
Nay, lordës be no foolës by my fay.
Ye have yourselfë shewed here to-day
So high senténce, so holily and well,
That I consent, and cónfirm every deal
Your wordës all, and your opinioún.
By God, there is no man in all this town
Nor in Itále, could better have y-said:
Christ holds him of this counsel well apaid.
And truëly it is a high couráge
Of any man that stopen is in age,
To take a young wife, by my father’s kin;
Your heartë hangeth on a jolly pin.
Do now in this matter right as you lest,
For finally I hold it for the best.”
Justinus, that aye stillë sat and heard,
Right in this wise to Placebo answér’d.
“Now, brother mine, be patient I pray,
Since ye have said, and hearken what I say.
Senec, among his other wordës wise,
Saith, that a man ought him right well advise,
To whom he gives his hand or his chattél.
And since I ought advisë me right well
To whom I give my good away from me,
Well more I ought advisë me, pardie,
To whom I give my body: for alway
I warn you well it is no childë’s play
To take a wife without advisëment.
Men must inquirë (this is mine assent)
Whe’er she be wise, or sober, or dronkelew,
Or proud, or any other ways a shrew,
A chidester, or a waster of thy good,
Or rich or poor; or else a man is wood.
Albeit so, that no man findë shall
None in this world, that trotteth whole in all,
No man, nor beast, such as men can devise,
But nathehess it ought enough suffice
With any wife, if so were that she had
More goodë thewës than her vices bad:
And all this asketh leisure to inquére.
For, God it wot, I have wept many a tear
Full privily, since I have had a wife.
Praise whoso will a wedded mannë’s life,
Certes, I find in it but cost and care,
And observánces of all blisses bare.
And yet, God wot, my neighëbours about,
And namëly of women many a rout,
Say that I have the mostë steadfast wife,
And eke the meekest one, that beareth life.
But I know best where wringeth me my shoe,
Ye may for me right as you likë do.
Advisë you, ye be a man of age,
How that ye enter into marriáge;
And namely with a young wife and a fair.
By him that made water, fire, earth, air,
The youngest man that is in all this rout
Is busy enough to bringen it about
To have his wife alonë, trustë me:
Ye shall not please her fully yearës three,
This is to say, to do her full pleasánce.
A wife asketh full many an observánce.
I pray you that ye be not evil apaid.”
“Well,” quoth this January, “and hast thou said?
Straw for thy Senec, and for thy provérbs,
I countë not a pannier full of herbs
Of schoolë termës; wiser men than thou,
As thou hast heard, assented here right now
To my purpose: Placebo, what say ye?”
“I say it is a cursed man,” quoth he,
“That letteth matrimony, sickerly.”
And with that word they rise up suddenly,
And be assented fully, that he should
Be wedded when him list, and where he would.
High fantasy and curious business
From day to day gan in the soul impress
Of January about his marriáge
Many a fair shape, and many a fair viságe
There passed through his heartë night by night.
As whoso took a mirror polish’d bright,
And set it in a common market-place,
Then should he see many a figure pace
By his mirrór; and in the samë wise
Gan January in his thought devise
Of maidens, which that dweltë him beside:
He wistë not where that he might abide.
For if that one had beauty in her face,
Another stood so in the people’s grace
For her sadness and her benignity,
That of the people greatest voice had she:
And some were rich and had a baddë name.
But natheless, betwixt earnest and game,
He at the last appointed him on one,
And let all others from his heartë gon,
And chose her of his own authority;
For love is blind all day, and may not see.
And when that he was into bed y-brought,
He pourtray’d in his heart and in his thought
Her freshë beauty, and her agë tender,
Her middle small, her armës long and slender,
Her wisë governance, her gentleness,
Her womanly bearíng, and her sadnéss.
And when that he on her was condescended,
He thought his choicë might not be amended;
For when that he himself concluded had,
He thought each other mannë’s wit so bad,
That impossíble it werë to reply
Against his choice; this was his fantasy.
His friendës sent he to, at his instánce,
And prayed them to do him that pleasánce,
That hastily they would unto him come;
He would abridge their labour all and some:
Needed no more for them to go nor ride,
He was appointed where he would abide.
Placebo came, and eke his friendës soon,
And alderfirst he bade them all a boon,
That none of them no arguments would make
Against the purpose that he had y-take:
Which purpose was pleasánt to God, said he,
And very ground of his prosperity.
He said, there was a maiden in the town,
Which that of beauty haddë great renown;
All were it so she were of small degree,
Sufficed him her youth and her beautý;
Which maid, he said, he would have to his wife,
To lead in ease and holiness his life;
And thanked God, that he might have her all,
That no wight with his blissë partë shall;
And prayed them to labour in this need,
And shape that he failë not to speed:
For then, he said, his spirit was at ease.
“Then is,” quoth he, “nothing may me displease,
Save one thing pricketh in my conscience,
The which I will rehearse in your presénce.
I have,” quoth he, “heard said, full yore ago,
There may no man have perfect blisses two,
This is to say, on earth and eke in heaven.
For though he keep him from the sinnës seven,
And eke from every branch of thilkë tree,
Yet is there so perfect felicity,
And so great ease and lust, in marriáge,
That ev’r I am aghast, now in mine age
That I shall head now so merry a life,
So delicate, withoutë woe or strife,
That I shall have mine heav’n on earthë here.
For since that very heav’n is bought so dear,
With tribulatión and great penánce,
How should I then, living in such pleasánce
As allë wedded men do with their wivës,
Come to the bliss where Christ etern on live is?
This is my dread; and ye, my brethren tway,
Assoilë me this question, I you pray.”
Justinus, which that hated his follý,
Answér’d anon right in his japery;
And, for he would his longë tale abridge,
He wouldë no authority allege,
But saidë; “Sir, so there be none obstácle
Other than this, God of his high mirácle,
And of his mercy, may so for you wirch,
That, ere ye have your rights of holy church,
Ye may repent of wedded mannë’s life,
In which ye say there is no woe nor strife:
And ellës God forbid, but if he sent
A wedded man his grace him to repent
Well often, rather than a single man.
And therefore, Sir, the bestë rede I can,
Despair you not, but have in your memóry,
Paráventure she may be your purgatóry;
She may be Goddë’s means, and Goddë’s whip;
And then your soul shall up to heaven skip
Swifter than doth an arrow from a bow.
I hope to God hereafter ye shall know
That there is none so great felicity
In marriáge, nor ever more shall be,
That you shall let of your salvatión;
So that ye use, as skill is and reasón,
The lustës of your wife attemperly,
And that ye please her not too amorously,
And that ye keep you eke from other sin.
My tale is done, for my wit is but thin.
Be not aghast hereof, my brother dear,
But let us waden out of this mattére,
The Wife of Bath, if ye have understand,
Of marriáge, which ye have now in hand,
Declared hath full well in little space;
Fare ye now well, God have you in his grace.”
And with this word this Justin’ and his brother
Have ta’en their leave, and each of them of other.
And when they saw that it must needës be,
They wroughtë so, by sleight and wise treatý,
That she, this maiden, which that Maius hight,
As hastily as ever that she might,
Shall wedded be unto this Januáry.
I trow it were too longë you to tarry,
If I told you of every script and band
By which she was feoffed in his hand;
Or for to reckon of her rich array.
But finally y-comen is the day
That to the churchë bothë be they went,
For to receive the holy sacrament,
Forth came the priest, with stole about his neck,
And bade her be like Sarah and Rebecc’
In wisdom and in truth of marriáge;
And said his orisons, as is uságe,
And crouched them, and bade God should them bless,
And made all sicker enough with holiness.
Thus be they wedded with solemnity;
And at the feastë sat both he and she,
With other worthy folk, upon the dais.
All full of joy and bliss is the paláce,
And full of instruments, and of vitáille,
The mostë dainteous of all Itále.
Before them stood such instruments of soun’,
That Orpheus, nor of Thebes Amphioún,
Ne madë never such a melody.
At every course came in loud minstrelsy,
That never Joab trumped for to hear,
Nor he, Theodomas, yet half so clear
At Thebes, when the city was in doubt.
Bacchus the wine them skinked all about.
And Venus laughed upon every wight
(For January was become her knight,
And wouldë both assayë his couráge
In liberty, and eke in marriáge),
And with her firebrand in her hand about
Danced before the bride and all the rout.
And certainly I dare right well say this,
Hyméneus, that god of wedding is,
Saw never his life so merry a wedded man.
Hold thou thy peace, thou poet Marcian,
That writest us that ilkë wedding merry
Of her Philology and him Mercúry,
And of the songës that the Muses sung;
Too small is both thy pen, and eke thy tongue,
For to describen of this marriáge.
When tender youth hath wedded stooping age,
There is such mirth that it may not be writ;
Assay it yourëself, then may ye wit
If that I lie or no in this mattére.
Maius, that sat with so benign a cheer,
Her to behold it seemed faërie;
Queen Esther never look’d with such an eye
On Assuere, so meek a look had she;
I may you not devise all her beauty;
But thus much of her beauty tell I may,
That she was hike the bright morrow of May
Full filled of all beauty and pleasánce.
This January is ravish’d in a trance,
At every time he looked in her face;
But in his heart he gan her to menace,
That he that night in armës would her strain
Harder than ever Paris did Heléne.
But natheless yet had he great pitý
That thilkë night offendë her must he,
And thought, “Alas, O tender creatúre,
Now wouldë God ye mightë well endure
All my couráge, it is so sharp and keen;
I am aghast ye shall it not sustene.
But God forbid that I did all my might.
Now wouldë God that it were waxen night,
And that the night would lasten evermo’.
I would that all this people were y-go.”
And finally he did all his laboúr,
As he best mightë, saving his honoúr,
To haste them from the meat in subtle wise.
The timë came that reason was to rise;
And after that men dance, and drinkë fast,
And spices all about the house they cast,
And full of joy and bliss is every man,
All but a squire, that hightë Damian,
Who carv’d before the knight full many a day;
He was so ravish’d on his lady May,
That for the very pain he was nigh wood;
Almost he swelt and swooned where he stood,
So sore had Venus hurt him with her brand,
As that she bare it dancing in her hand.
And to his bed he went him hastily;
No more of him as at this time speak I;
But there I let him weep enough and plain,
Till freshë May will rue upon his pain.
O perilous fire, that in the bedstraw breedeth!
O foe familiar, that his service bedeth!
O servant traitor, O false homely hewe,
Like to the adder in bosom shy untrue,
God shield us allë from your acquaintánce!
O January, drunken in pleasánce
Of marriage, see how thy Damian,
Thine owen squier and thy boren man,
Intendeth for to do thee villainy:
God grantë thee thine homely foe t’ espy.
For in this world is no worse pestilence
Than homely foe, all day in thy presénce.
Performed hath the sun his arc diurn,
No longer may the body of him sojourn
On the horizon, in that latitude:
Night with his mantle, that is dark and rude,
Gan overspread the hemisphere about:
For which departed is this lusty rout
From January, with thank on every side.
Home to their houses lustily they ride,
Where as they do their thingës as them lest,
And when they see their time they go to rest.
Soon after that this hasty Januáry
Will go to bed, he will no longer tarry.
He drankë hippocras, clarre, and vernage
Of spices hot, to increase his couráge;
And many a lectuary had he full fine,
Such as the cursed monk Dan Constantine
Hath written in his book de Coitu;
To eat them all he would nothing eschew:
And to his privy friendës thus said he:
“For Goddë’s love, as soon as it may be,
Let voiden all this house in courteous wise.”
And they have done right as he will devise.
Men drinken, and the travers draw anon;
The bride is brought to bed as still as stone;
And when the bed was with the priest y-bless’d,
Out of the chamber every wight him dress’d,
And January hath fast in arms y-take
His freshë May, his paradise, his make.
He lulled her, he kissed her full oft;
With thickë bristles of his beard unsoft,
Like to the skin of houndfish, sharp as brere
(For he was shav’n all new in his mannére),
He rubbed her upon her tender face,
And saidë thus; “Alas! I must trespace
To you, my spouse, and you greatly offend,
Ere timë come that I will down descend.
But natheless consider this,” quoth he,
“There is no workman, whatsoe’er he be,
That may both workë well and hastily:
This will be done at leisure perfectly.
It is no force how longë that we play;
In true wedlock coupled be we tway;
And blessed be the yoke that we be in,
For in our actës may there be no sin.
A man may do no sinnë with his wife,
Nor hurt himselfë with his owen knife;
For we have leave to play us by the law.”
Thus labour’d he, till that the day gan daw,
And then he took a sop in fine clarré,
And upright in his beddë then sat he.
And after that he sang full loud and clear,
And kiss’d his wife, and madë wanton cheer.
He was all coltish, full of ragerie
And full of jargon as a flecked pie.
The slackë skin about his neckë shaked,
While that he sang, so chanted he and craked.
But God wot what that May thought in her heart,
When she him saw up sitting in his shirt
In his nightcap, and with his neckë lean:
She praised not his playing worth a bean.
Then said he thus; “My restë will I take
Now day is come, I may no longer wake;
And down he laid his head and slept till prime.
And afterward, when that he saw his time,
Up rosë January, but freshë May
Heldë her chamber till the fourthë day,
As usage is of wivës for the best.
For every labour some time must have rest,
Or ellës longë may he not endure;
This is to say, no life of creature,
Be it of fish, or bird, or beast, or man.
Now will I speak of woeful Damian,
That languisheth for love, as ye shall hear;
Therefore I speak to him in this mannére.
I say. “O silly Damian, alas!
Answér to this demand, as in this case,
How shalt thou to thy lady, freshë May,
Tellë thy woe? She will alway say nay;
Eke if thou speak, she will thy woe bewray;
God be thine help, I can no better say.
This sickë Damian in Venus’ fire
So burned that he diëd for desire;
For which he put his life in áventure,
No longer might he in this wise endure;
But privily a penner gan he borrow,
And in a letter wrote he all his sorrow,
In manner of a cómplaint or a lay,
Unto his fairë freshë lady May.
And in a purse of silk, hung on his shirt,
He hath it put, and laid it at his heart.
The moonë, that at noon was thilkë day
That January had wedded freshë May,
In ten of Taure, was into Cancer glided;
So long had Maius in her chamber abided,
As custom is unto these nobles all.
A bridë shall not eaten in the hall
Till dayës four, or three days at the least,
Y-passed be; then let her go to feast.
The fourthë day complete from noon to noon,
When that the highë massë was y-done,
In hallë sat this January, and May,
As fresh as is the brightë summer’s day.
And so befell, how that this goodë man
Remember’d him upon this Damian.
And saidë; “Saint Marý, how may this be,
That Damian attendeth not to me?
Is he aye sick? or how may this betide?”
His squiërs, which that stoodë there beside,
Excused him, because of his sickness,
Which letted him to do his business:
None other causë mightë make him tarry.
“That me forthinketh,” quoth this January,
“He is a gentle squiër, by my truth;
If that he died, it were great harm and ruth.
He is as wise, as díscreet, and secré,
As any man I know of his degree,
And thereto manly and eke serviceáble,
And for to be a thrifty man right able.
But after meat, as soon as ever I may
I will myself visit him, and eke May,
To do him all the comfort that I can.”
And for that word him blessed every man,
That of his bounty and his gentleness
He wouldë so comfórten in sickness
His squiër, for it was a gentle deed.
“Dame,” quoth this January, “take good heed,
At after meat, ye with your women all
(When that ye be in chamb’r out of this hall),
That all ye go to see this Damian:
Do him disport, he is a gentle man;
And tellë him that I will him visíte,
Have I nothing but rested me a lite:
And speed you fastë, for I will abide
Till that ye sleepë fastë by my side.”
And with that word he gan unto him call
A squiër, that was marshal of his hall,
And told him certain thingës that he wo’ld.
This freshë May hath straight her way y-hold,
With all her women, unto Damian.
Down by his beddë’s sidë sat she than,
Comfórting him as goodly as she may.
This Damian, when that his time he say,
In secret wise his purse, and eke his bill,
In which that he y-written had his will,
Hath put into her hand withoutë more,
Save that he sighed wondrous deep and sore,
And softëly to her right thus said he:
“Mercy, and that ye not discover me:
For I am dead if that this thing be kid.”
The pursë hath she in her bosom hid,
And went her way; ye get no more of me;
But unto January come is she,
That on his beddë’s sidë sat full soft.
He took her, and he kissed her full oft,
And laid him down to sleep, and that anon.
She feigned her as that she mustë gon
There as ye know that every wight must need;
And when she of this bill had taken heed,
She rent it all to cloutës at the last,
And in the privy softëly it cast.
Who studieth now but fairë freshë May?
Adown by oldë January she lay,
That sleptë, till the cough had him awaked:
Anon he pray’d her strippë her all naked,
He would of her, he said, have some pleasánce;
And said her clothës did him incumbránce.
And she obey’d him, be her lefe or loth.
But, lest that precious folk be with me wroth,
How that he wrought I dare not to you tell,
Or whether she thought it paradise or hell;
But there I let them worken in their wise
Till evensong ring, and they must arise.
Were it by destiny, or áventure,
Were it by influence, or by natúre,
Or constellation, that in such estate
The heaven stood at that time fortunate
As for to put a bill of Venus’ works
(For allë thing hath time, as say these clerks),
To any woman for to get her love,
I cannot say; but greatë God above,
That knoweth that none act is causëless,
He deem of all, for I will hold my peace.
But sooth is this, how that this freshë May
Hath taken such impressión that day
Of pity on this sickë Damian,
That from her heartë she not drivë can
The remembráncë for to do him ease.
“Certain,” thought she, “whom that this thing displease
I reckë not, for here I him assure,
To love him best of any creature,
Though he no morë haddë than his shirt.”
Lo, pity runneth soon in gentle heart.
Here may ye see, how excellent franchise
In women is when they them narrow advise.
Some tyrant is—as there be many a one—
That hath a heart as hard as any stone,
Which would have let him sterven in the place
Well rather than have granted him her grace;
And then rejoicen in her cruel pride.
And reckon not to be a homicide.
This gentle May, full filled of pitý,
Right of her hand a letter maked she,
In which she granted him her very grace;
There lacked nought, but only day and place,
Where that she might unto his lust suffice:
For it shall be right as he will devise.
And when she saw her time upon a day
To visit this Damían went this May,
And subtilly this letter down she thrust
Under his pillow, read it if him lust.
She took him by the hand, and hard him twist’
So secretly, that no wight of it wist,
And bade him be all whole; and forth she went
To January, when he for her sent.
Up rosë Damian the nextë morrow,
All passed was his sickness and his sorrow.
He combed him, he proined him and picked,
He did all that unto his lady liked;
And eke to January he went as low
As ever did a doggë for the bow.
He is so pleasant unto every man
(For craft is all, whoso that do it can),
Every wight is fain to speak him good;
And fully in his lady’s grace he stood.
Thus leave I Damian about his need,
And in my talë forth I will proceed.
Some clerkës holdë that felicitý
Stands in delight; and therefore certain he,
This noble January, with all his might
In honest wise as longeth to a knight,
Shope him to livë full deliciously:
His housing, his array, as honestly
To his degree was maked as a king’s.
Amongës other of his honest things
He had a garden wallëd all with stone;
So fair a garden wot I nowhere none.
For out of doubt I verily suppose
That he that wrote the Romance of the Rose
Could not of it the beauty well devise;
Nor Priapus mightë not well suffice,
Though he be god of gardens, for to tell
The beauty of the garden, and the well
That stood under a laurel always green.
Full often time he, Pluto, and his queen
Proserpina, and all their faërie,
Disported them and madë melody
About that well, and danced, as men told.
This noble knight, this January old,
Such dainty had in it to walk and play,
That he would suffer no wight to bear the key,
Save he himself, for of the small wickét
He bare always of silver a clikét,
With which, when that him list, he it unshet.
And when that he would pay his wifë’s debt,
In summer season, thither would he go,
And May his wife, and no wight but they two;
And thingës which that were not done in bed,
He in the garden them perform’d and sped.
And in this wisë many a merry day
Lived this January and fresh May,
But worldly joy may not always endure
To January, nor to no creatúre.
O sudden hap! O thou fortúne unstable!
Like to the scorpión so deceiváble,
That fhatt’rest with thy head when thou wilt sting;
Thy tail is death, through thine envenoming.
O brittle joy! O sweetë poison quaint!
O monster, that so subtilly canst paint
Thy giftës, under hue of steadfastness,
That thou deceivest bothë more and less!
Why hast thou January thus deceiv’d,
That haddest him for thy full friend receiv’d?
And now thou hast bereft him both his eyen,
For sorrow of which desireth he to dien.
Alas! this noble January free,
Amid his lust and his prosperity
Is waxen blind, and that all suddenly.
He weeped and he wailed piteously;
And therewithal the fire of jealousy
(Lest that his wife should fall in some follý)
So burnt his heartë, that he wouldë fain,
That some man bothë him and her had slain;
For neither after his death, nor in his life,
Ne would he that she were no love nor wife,
But ever live as widow in clothës black,
Sole as the turtle that hath lost her make.
But at the last, after a month or tway,
His sorrow gan assuagë, sooth to say.
For, when he wist it might none other be,
He patiently took his adversity:
Save out of doubtë he may not foregon
That he was jealous evermore-in-one:
Which jealousy was so outrageoús,
That neither in hall, nor in none other house,
Nor in none other place never the mo’
He wouldë suffer her to ride or go,
But if that he had hand on her alway.
For which full often weptë freshë May,
That loved Damian so burningly
That she must either dien suddenly,
Or ellës she must have him as her lest:
She waited when her heartë wouldë brest.
Upon that other sidë Damian
Becomen is the sorrowfullest man
That ever was; for neither night nor day
He mightë speak a word to freshë May,
As to his purpose, of no such mattére,
But if that January must it hear,
That had a hand upon her evermo’.
But natheless, by writing to and fro,
And privy signës, wist he what she meant,
And she knew eke the fine of his intent.
O January, what might it thee avail,
Though thou might see as far as shippës sail?
For as good is it blind deceiv’d to be,
As be deceived when a man may see.
Lo, Argus, which that had a hundred eyen,
For all that ever he could pore or pryen,
Yet was he blent; and, God wot, so be mo’,
That weenë wisly that it be not so:
Pass over is an ease, I say no more.
This freshë May, of which I spakë yore,
In warm wax hath imprinted the clikét
That January bare of the small wickét
By which into his garden oft he went;
And Damian, that knew all her intent,
The cliket counterfeited privily;
There is no more to say, but hastily
Some wonder by this cliket shall betide,
Which ye shall hearen, if ye will abide.
O noble Ovid, sooth say’st thou, God wot,
What sleight is it, if love be long and hot,
That he’ll not find it out in some mannére?
By Pyramus and Thisbe may men lear;
Though they were kept full long and strait o’er all,
They be accorded, rowning through a wall,
Where no wight could have found out such a sleight.
But now to purpose; ere that dayës eight
Were passed of the month of July, fill
That January caught so great a will,
Through egging of his wife, him for to play
In his gardén, and no wight but they tway,
That in a morning to this May said he:
“Rise up, my wife, my love, my lady free;
The turtle’s voice is heard, mine owen sweet;
The winter is gone, with all his rainës weet.
Come forth now with thine eyen columbine.
Well fairer be thy breasts than any wine.
The garden is enclosed all about;
Come forth, my whitë spouse; for, out of doubt,
Thou hast me wounded in mine heart, O wife:
No spot in thee was e’er in all thy life.
Come forth, and let us taken our disport;
I choose thee for my wife and my comfórt.”
Such oldë lewëd wordës used he.
On Damian a signë madë she,
That he should go beforë with his cliket.
This Damian then hath opened the wicket,
And in he start, and that in such mannére
That no wight might him either see or hear;
And still he sat under a bush. Anon
This January, as blind as is a stone,
With Maius in his hand, and no wight mo’,
Into this freshë garden is y-go,
And clapped to the wicket suddenly.
“Now, wife,” quoth he, “here is but thou and I;
Thou art the creature that I bestë love:
For, by that Lord that sits in heav’n above,
Lever I had to dien on a knife,
Than thee offendë, dearë truë wife.
For Goddë’s sakë, think how I thee chees,
Not for no covetisë doubtëless,
But only for the love I had to thee.
And though that I be old, and may not see,
Be to me true, and I will tell you why.
Certes three thingës shall ye win thereby:
First, love of Christ, and to yourself honoúr,
And all mine heritagë, town and tow’r.
I give it you, make charters as you lest;
This shall be done to-morrow ere sun rest,
So wisly God my soulë bring to bliss!
I pray you, on this covenant me kiss.
And though that I be jealous, wite me not;
Ye be so deep imprinted in my thought,
That when that I consider your beautý,
And therewithal th’ unlikely eld of me,
I may not, certes, though I shouldë die,
Forbear to be out of your company,
For very love; this is withoutë doubt:
Now kiss me, wife, and let us roam about.”
This freshë May, when she these wordës heard,
Benignëly to January answér’d;
But first and forward she began to weep:
“I have,” quoth she, “a soulë for to keep
As well as ye, and also mine honoúr,
And of my wifehood thilkë tender flow’r
Which that I have assured in your hond,
When that the priest to you my body bond:
Wherefore I will answer in this mannére,
With leave of you mine owen lord so dear.
I pray to God, that never dawn the day
That I ne sterve, as foul as woman may,
If e’er I do unto my kin that shame,
Or ellës I impairë so my name,
That I be false; and if I do that lack,
Do strippë me, and put me in a sack,
And in the nextë river do me drench:
I am a gentle woman, and no wench.
Why speak ye thus? but men be e’er untrue,
And women have reproof of you aye new.
Ye know none other dalliance, I believe,
But speak to us of untrust and repreve.”
And with that word she saw where Damian
Sat in the bush, and coughë she began;
And with her finger signë madë she,
That Damian should climb upon a tree
That charged was with fruit; and up he went:
For verily he knew all her intent,
And every signë that she couldë make,
Better than January her own make.
For in a letter she had told him all
Of this mattér, how that he workë shall.
And thus I leave him sitting in the perry,
And January and May roaming full merry.
Bright was the day, and blue the firmament;
Phoebus of gold his streamës down had sent
To gladden every flow’r with his warmnéss;
He was that time in Geminis, I guess,
But little from his declinatión
Of Cancer, Jovë’s exaltatión.
And so befell, in that bright morning-tide,
That in the garden, on the farther side,
Pluto, that is the king of Faërie,
And many a lady in his company
Following his wife, the queen Proserpina—
Which that he ravished out of Ethna,
While that she gather’d flowers in the mead
(In Claudian ye may the story read,
How in his grisly chariot he her fet)—
This king of Faërie adown him set
Upon a bank of turfës fresh and green,
And right anon thus said he to his queen.
“My wife,” quoth he, “there may no wight say nay—
Experience so proves it every day—
The treason which that woman doth to man.
Ten hundred thousand stories tell I can
Notáble of your untruth and brittleness.
O Solomon, richest of all richéss,
Full fill’d of sapience and worldly glory,
Full worthy be thy wordës of memóry
To every wight that wit and reason can.
Thus praised he yet the bounté of man:
‘Among a thousand men yet found I one,
But of all women found I never none.’
Thus said this king, that knew your wickedness;
And Jesus, Filius Sirach, as I guess,
He spake of you but seldom reverénce.
A wildë fire and córrupt pestilence
So fall upon your bodies yet tonight!
Ne see ye not this honourable knight?
Because, alas! that he is blind and old,
His owen man shall makë him cuckóld.
Lo, where he sits, the lechour, in the tree.
Now will I granten, of my majesty,
Unto this oldë blindë worthy knight,
That he shall have again his eyen sight,
When that his wife will do him villainy;
Then shall be knowen all her harlotry,
Both in reproof of her and other mo’.”
“Yea, Sir,” quoth Proserpine, “and will ye so?
Now by my mother Ceres’ soul I swear
That I shall give her suffisant answér,
And allë women after, for her sake;
That though they be in any guilt y-take,
With facë bold they shall themselves excuse,
And bear them down that wouldë them accuse.
For lack of answer, none of them shall dien.
All had ye seen a thing with both your eyen,
Yet shall we visage it so hardily,
And weep, and swear, and chidë subtilly,
That ye shall be as lewëd as be geese.
What recketh me of your authorities?
I wot well that this Jew, this Solomon,
Found of us women foolës many one:
But though that he foundë no good womán,
Yet there hath found many another man
Women full good, and true, and virtuoús;
Witness on them that dwelt in Christë’s house;
With martyrdom they proved their constánce.
The Roman gestës makë remembránce
Of many a very truë wife also.
But, Sirë, be not wroth, albeit so,
Though that he said he found no good womán,
I pray you take the sentence of the man:
He meant thus, that in sovereign bounté
Is none but God, no, neither he nor she.
Hey, for the very God that is but one,
Why makë ye so much of Solomon?
What though he made a temple, Goddë’s house?
What though he werë rich and glorioús?
So made he eke a temple of false goddës;
How might he do a thing that more forbode is?
Pardie, as fair as ye his name emplaster,
He was a lechour, and an idolaster,
And in his eld he very God forsook.
And if that God had not (as saith the book)
Spared him for his father’s sake, he should
Have lost his regnë rather than he would.
I settë not, of all the villainy
That he of women wrote, a butterfly.
I am a woman, needës must I speak,
Or ellës swell until mine heartë break.
For since he said that we be jangleresses,
As ever may I brookë whole my tresses,
I shall not spare for no courtesy
To speak him harm, that said us villainy.”
“Dame,” quoth this Pluto, “be no longer wroth;
I give it up: but, since I swore mine oath
That I would grant to him his sight again,
My word shall stand, that warn I you certáin:
I am a king, it sits me not to lie.”
“And I,” quoth she, “am queen of Faërie.
Her answer she shall have, I undertake,
Let us no morë wordës of it make.
Forsooth, I will no longer you contráry.”
Now let us turn again to January,
That in the garden with his fairë May
Singeth well merrier than the popinjay:
“You love I best, and shall, and other none.”
So long about the alleys is he gone,
Till he was comë to that ilkë perry,
Where as this Damian sattë full merry
On high, among the freshë leavës green.
This freshë May, that is so bright and sheen,
Gan for to sigh, and said, “Alas my side!
Now, Sir,” quoth she, “for aught that may betide,
I must have of the pearës that I see,
Or I must die, so sorë longeth me
To eaten of the smallë pearës green;
Help, for her love that is of heaven queen!
I tell you well, a woman in my plight
May have to fruit so great an appetite,
That she may dien, but she of it have.”
“Alas!” quoth he, “that I had here a knave
That couldë climb; alas! alas!” quoth he,
“For I am blind.” “Yea, Sir, no force,” quoth she;
“But would ye vouchësafe, for Goddë’s sake,
The perry in your armës for to take
(For well I wot that ye mistrustë me),
Then would I climbë well enough,” quoth she,
“So I my foot might set upon your back.”
“Certes,” said he, “therein shall be no lack,
Might I you helpë with mine heartë’s blood.”
He stooped down, and on his back she stood,
And caught her by a twist, and up she go’th.
(Ladies, I pray you that ye be not wroth,
I cannot glose, I am a rudë man):
And suddenly anon this Damian
Gan pullen up the smock, and in he throng.
And when that Pluto saw this greatë wrong,
To January he gave again his sight,
And made him see as well as ever he might.
And when he thus had caught his sight again,
Was never man of anything so fain:
But on his wife his thought was evermo’.
Up to the tree he cast his eyen two,
And saw how Damian his wife had dress’d,
In such mannére, it may not be express’d,
But if I wouldë speak uncourteously.
And up he gave a roaring and a cry,
As doth the mother when the child shall die;
“Out! help! alas! harow!” he gan to cry;
“O strongë, lady, stowre! what doest thou?”
And she answered: “Sir, what aileth you?
Have patience and reason in your mind,
I have you help’d on both your eyen blind.
On peril of my soul, I shall not lien,
As me was taught to helpë with your eyen,
Was nothing better for to make you see,
Than struggle with a man upon a tree:
God wot, I did it in full good intent.”
“Struggle!” quoth he, “yea, algate in it went.
God give you both one shamë’s death to dien!
He swived thee; I saw it with mine eyen;
And ellës be I hanged by the halse.”
“Then is,” quoth she, “my medicine all false;
For certainly, if that ye mightë see,
Ye would not say these wordës unto me.
Ye have some glimpsing, and no perfect sight.”
“I see,” quoth he, “as well as ever I might,
(Thanked be God!) with both mine eyen two,
And by my faith me thought he did thee so.”
“Ye maze, ye mazë, goodë Sir,” quoth she;
“This thank have I for I have made you see:
Alas!” quoth she, “that e’er I was so kind.”
“Now, Dame,” quoth he, “let all pass out of mind;
Come down, my lefe, and if I have missaid,
God help me so, as I am evil apaid.
But, by my father’s soul, I ween’d have seen
How that this Damian had by thee lain,
And that thy smock had lain upon his breast.”
“Yea, Sir,” quoth she, “ye may ween as ye lest:
But, Sir, a man that wakes out of his sleep,
He may not suddenly well takë keep
Upon a thing, nor see it perfectly,
Till that he be adawed verily.
Right so a man, that long hath blind y-be,
He may not suddenly so well y-see,
First when his sight is newë come again,
As he that hath a day or two y-seen.
Till that your sight establish’d be a while,
There may full many a sightë you beguile.
Beware, I pray you, for, by heaven’s king,
Full many a man weeneth to see a thing,
And it is all another than it seemeth;
He which that misconceiveth oft misdeemeth.”
And with that word she leapt down from the tree.
This January, who is glad but he?
He kissed her, and clipped her full oft,
And on her womb he stroked her full soft;
And to his palace home he hath her lad.
Now, goodë men, I pray you to be glad.
Thus endeth here my tale of Januáry,
God bless us, and his mother, Saintë Mary.