Introduction to the Man of Law's Tale
The wordes of the Hoost to the companye.
Our Hoste sey wel that the brighte sonne
The ark of his artificial day had ronne
The fourthe part, and half an houre, and more;
And though he were not depe expert in lore,
He wiste it was the eightetethe day
Of April, that is messager to May;
And sey wel that the shadwe of every tree
Was as in lengthe the same quantitee
That was the body erect that caused it.
And therfor by the shadwe he took his wit
That Phebus, which that shoon so clere and brighte,
Degrees was fyve and fourty clombe on highte;
And for that day, as in that latitude,
It was ten of the clokke, he gan conclude,
And sodeynly he plighte his hors aboute.
‘Lordinges,’ quod he, ‘I warne yow, al this route,
The fourthe party of this day is goon;
Now, for the love of god and of seint Iohn,
Leseth no tyme, as ferforth as ye may;
Lordinges, the tyme wasteth night and day,
And steleth from us, what prively slepinge,
And what thurgh necligence in our wakinge,
As dooth the streem, that turneth never agayn,
Descending fro the montaigne in-to playn.
Wel can Senek, and many a philosophre
Biwailen tyme, more than gold in cofre.
“For los of catel may recovered be,
But los of tyme shendeth us,” quod he.
It wol nat come agayn, with-outen drede,
Na more than wol Malkins maydenhede,
Whan she hath lost it in hir wantownesse;
Lat us nat moulen thus in ydelnesse.
Sir man of lawe,’ quod he, ‘so have ye blis,
Tel us a tale anon, as forward is;
Ye been submitted thurgh your free assent
To stonde in this cas at my Iugement.
Acquiteth yow, and holdeth your biheste,
Than have ye doon your devoir atte leste.’
‘Hoste,’ quod he, ‘depardieux ich assente,
To breke forward is not myn entente.
Biheste is dette, and I wol holde fayn
Al my biheste; I can no better seyn.
For swich lawe as man yeveth another wight,
He sholde him-selven usen it by right;
Thus wol our text; but natheles certeyn
I can right now no thrifty tale seyn,
But Chaucer, though he can but lewedly
On metres and on ryming craftily,
Hath seyd hem in swich English as he can
Of olde tyme, as knoweth many a man.
And if he have not seyd hem, leve brother,
In o book, he hath seyd hem in another.
For he hath told of loveres up and doun
Mo than Ovyde made of mencioun
In his Epistelles, that been ful olde.
What sholde I tellen hem, sin they ben tolde?
In youthe he made of Ceys and Alcion,
And sithen hath he spoke of everichon,
Thise noble wyves and thise loveres eke.
Who-so that wol his large volume seke
Cleped the Seintes Legende of Cupyde,
Ther may he seen the large woundes wyde
Of Lucresse, and of Babilan Tisbee;
The swerd of Dido for the false Enee;
The tree of Phillis for hir Demophon;
The pleinte of Dianire and Hermion,
Of Adriane and of Isiphilee;
The bareyne yle stonding in the see;
The dreynte Leander for his Erro;
The teres of Eleyne, and eek the wo
Of Brixseyde, and of thee, Ladomëa;
The crueltee of thee, queen Medëa,
Thy litel children hanging by the hals
For thy Iason, that was of love so fals!
O Ypermistra, Penelopee, Alceste,
Your wyfhod he comendeth with the beste!
But certeinly no word ne wryteth he
Of thilke wikke ensample of Canacee,
That lovede hir owne brother sinfully;
Of swiche cursed stories I sey ‘fy’;
Or elles of Tyro Apollonius,
How that the cursed king Antiochus
Birafte his doghter of hir maydenhede,
That is so horrible a tale for to rede,
Whan he hir threw up-on the pavement.
And therfor he, of ful avysement,
Nolde never wryte in none of his sermouns
Of swiche unkinde abhominaciouns,
Ne I wol noon reherse, if that I may.
But of my tale how shal I doon this day?
Me were looth be lykned, doutelees,
To Muses that men clepe Pierides—
Metamorphoseos wot what I mene:—
But nathelees, I recche noght a bene
Though I come after him with hawe-bake;
I speke in prose, and lat him rymes make.’
And with that word he, with a sobre chere,
Bigan his tale, as ye shal after here.
The words of the Host to the company.
Our Host say well that the bright sun
The arc of his artificial day had run
The fourth part, and half an hour, and more;
And though he were not deep expert in lore,
He wist it was the eighteenth day
Of April, that is messenger to May;
And say well that the shadow of every tree
Was as in length the same quantity
That was the body erect that caused it.
And therefore by the shadow he took his wit
That Phoebus, which that shone so clear and bright,
Degrees was five and forty clomb on height,
And for that day, as in that latitude,
It was ten of the clock, he ’gan conclude,
And suddenly he plight his horse about.
“Lordings,” quoth he, “I warn you, all this rout,
The fourth part of this day is gone;
Now, for the love of god and of saint John,
Loseth no time, as far-forth as ye may;
Lordings, the time wasteth night and day,
And stealeth from us, what privily sleeping,
And what through negligence in our waking,
As doth the stream, that turneth never again,
Descending from the mountain into plain.
Well can Seneca, and many a philosopher
Bewailen time, more than gold in coffer;
‘For loss of chattel may recovered be,
But loss of time shendeth us,’ quoth he.
It will not come again, withouten dread,
No more than will Malkin’s maidenhead,
When she hath lost it in her wantonness.
Let us not moulen thus in idleness.
Sir, Man of Law,” quoth he, “so have ye bliss,
Tell us a tale anon, as foreward is;
Ye been submitted through your free assent
To standen in this case at my judgement.
Acquitteth you, and holdeth your behest,
Then have ye done your devoir at least.”
“Host,” quoth he, “depardieu I assent;
To break foreward is not mine intent.
Behest is debt, and I will hold fain
All my behest; I can no better sayn.
For such law as man giveth another wight,
He should himself usen it by right.
Thus will our text; but natheless certain
I can right now no thrifty tale sayn;
But Chaucer, though he can but lewdly
On metres and on rhyming craftily,
Hath said ’em in such English as he can
Of old time, as knoweth many a man.
And if he have not said ’em, lief brother,
In one book, he hath said ’em in another.
For he hath told of lovers up and down
More than Ovid made of mention
In his Epistles, that been full old.
What should I tellen ’em, since they been told?
In youth he made of Ceÿx and Alcyone,
And sithen hath he spoke of everich one,
These noble wives and these lovers eke.
Whoso that will his large volume seek
Cleped the Saints Legend of Cupid,
There may he see the large wounds wide
Of Lucretia, and of Babylon’s Thisbe,
The sword of Dido for the false Aenee;
The tree of Phyllis for her Demophon;
The ’plaint of Dejanira and Hermion,
Of Ariadne, and of Hypsipyle;
The barren isle standing in the sea;
The drowned Leander for his Hero;
The tears of Helen, and eke the woe
Of Briseis, and of thee, Laodamia;
The cruelty of thee, queen Medea,
Thy little children hanging by the halse,
For thy Jason, that was of love so false!
O Hypermnestra, Penelope, Alcest,
Your wifehood he commendeth with the best!
But certainly no word ne writeth he
Of thilk wick example of Canace,
That loved her own brother sinfully;
Of such cursed stories I say “fie”;
Or else of Tyro’s Apollonius,
How that the cursed king Antiochus
Bereft his daughter of her maidenhead,
That is so horrible a tale for to rede,
When he her threw upon the pavement.
And therefore he, of full advisement,
Nould never write in none of his sermons
Of such unkind abominations,
Ne I will none rehearse, if that I may.
But of my tale how shall I do this day?
Me were loath be likened, doubtless,
To Muses that men clepe Pierides—
Metamorphosis wot what I mean:—
But natheless, I reach not a bean
Though I come after him with hawbake;
I speak in prose, and let him rhymes make.”
And with that word he, with a sober cheer,
Began his tale, as ye shall after hear.
