Sir Thopas
Here biginneth Chaucers Tale of Thopas.
Listeth, lordes, in good entent,
And I wol telle verrayment
Of mirthe and of solas;
Al of a knyght was fair and gent
In bataille and in tourneyment,
His name was sir Thopas.
Y-born he was in fer contree,
In Flaundres, al biyonde the see,
At Popering, in the place;
His fader was a man ful free,
And lord he was of that contree,
As it was goddes grace.
Sir Thopas wex a doghty swayn,
Whyt was his face as payndemayn,
His lippes rede as rose;
His rode is lyk scarlet in grayn,
And I yow telle in good certayn,
He hadde a semely nose.
His heer, his berd was lyk saffroun,
That to his girdel raughte adoun;
His shoon of Cordewane.
Of Brugges were his hosen broun,
His robe was of ciclatoun,
That coste many a Iane.
He coude hunte at wilde deer,
And ryde an hauking for riveer,
With grey goshauk on honde;
Ther-to he was a good archeer,
Of wrastling was ther noon his peer,
Ther any ram shal stonde.
Ful many a mayde, bright in bour,
They moorne for him, paramour,
Whan hem were bet to slepe;
But he was chast and no lechour,
And sweet as is the bremble-flour
That bereth the rede hepe.
And so bifel up-on a day,
For sothe, as I yow telle may,
Sir Thopas wolde out ryde;
He worth upon his stede gray,
And in his honde a launcegay,
A long swerd by his syde.
He priketh thurgh a fair forest,
Ther-inne is many a wilde best,
Ye, bothe bukke and hare;
And, as he priketh north and est,
I telle it yow, him hadde almest
Bitid a sory care.
Ther springen herbes grete and smale,
The lycorys and cetewale,
And many a clowe-gilofre;
And notemuge to putte in ale,
Whether it be moyste or stale,
Or for to leye in cofre.
The briddes singe, it is no nay,
The sparhauk and the papeiay,
That Ioye it was to here;
The thrustelcok made eek his lay,
The wodedowve upon the spray
She sang ful loude and clere.
Sir Thopas fil in love-longinge
Al whan he herde the thrustel singe,
And priked as he were wood:
His faire stede in his prikinge
So swatte that men mighte him wringe,
His sydes were al blood.
Sir Thopas eek so wery was
For prikinge on the softe gras,
So fiers was his corage,
That doun he leyde him in that plas
To make his stede som solas,
And yaf him good forage.
‘O seinte Marie, benedicite!
What eyleth this love at me
To binde me so sore?
Me dremed al this night, pardee,
An elf-queen shal my lemman be,
And slepe under my gore.
An elf-queen wol I love, y-wis,
For in this world no womman is
Worthy to be my make
In toune;
Alle othere wommen I forsake,
And to an elf-queen I me take
By dale and eek by doune!’
In-to his sadel he clamb anoon,
And priketh over style and stoon
An elf-queen for tespye,
Til he so longe had riden and goon
That he fond, in a privee woon,
The contree of Fairye
So wilde;
For in that contree was ther noon
That to him dorste ryde or goon,
Neither wyf ne childe.
Til that ther cam a greet geaunt,
His name was sir Olifaunt,
A perilous man of dede;
He seyde, ‘child, by Termagaunt,
But-if thou prike out of myn haunt,
Anon I slee thy stede
With mace.
Heer is the queen of Fayërye,
With harpe and pype and simphonye
Dwelling in this place.’
The child seyde, ‘al-so mote I thee,
Tomorwe wol I mete thee
Whan I have myn armoure;
And yet I hope, par ma fay,
That thou shalt with this launcegay
Abyen it ful soure;
Thy mawe
Shal I percen, if I may,
Er it be fully pryme of day,
For heer thou shalt be slawe.’
Sir Thopas drow abak ful faste;
This geaunt at him stones caste
Out of a fel staf-slinge;
But faire escapeth child Thopas,
And al it was thurgh goddes gras,
And thurgh his fair beringe.
Yet listeth, lordes, to my tale
Merier than the nightingale,
For now I wol yow roune
How sir Thopas with sydes smale,
Priking over hil and dale,
Is come agayn to toune.
His merie men comanded he
To make him bothe game and glee,
For nedes moste he fighte
With a geaunt with hevedes three,
For paramour and Iolitee
Of oon that shoon ful brighte.
‘Do come,’ he seyde, ‘my minstrales,
And gestours, for to tellen tales
Anon in myn arminge;
Of romances that been royales,
Of popes and of cardinales,
And eek of love-lykinge.’
They fette him first the swete wyn,
And mede eek in a maselyn,
And royal spicerye
Of gingebreed that was ful fyn,
And lycorys, and eek comyn,
With sugre that is so trye.
He dide next his whyte lere
Of clooth of lake fyn and clere
A breech and eek a sherte;
And next his sherte an aketoun,
And over that an habergeoun
For percinge of his herte;
And over that a fyn hauberk,
Was al y-wroght of Iewes werk,
Ful strong it was of plate;
And over that his cote-armour
As whyt as is a lily-flour,
In which he wol debate.
His sheeld was al of gold so reed,
And ther-in was a bores heed,
A charbocle bisyde;
And there he swoor, on ale and breed,
How that ‘the geaunt shal be deed,
Bityde what bityde!’
His Iambeux were of quirboilly,
His swerdes shethe of yvory,
His helm of laton bright;
His sadel was of rewel-boon,
His brydel as the sonne shoon,
Or as the mone light.
His spere was of fyn ciprees,
That bodeth werre, and no-thing pees,
The heed ful sharpe y-grounde;
His stede was al dappel-gray,
It gooth an ambel in the way
Ful softely and rounde
In londe.
Lo, lordes myne, heer is a fit!
If ye wol any more of it,
To telle it wol I fonde.
..
[The Second Fit.]
..
Now hold your mouth, par charitee,
Bothe knight and lady free,
And herkneth to my spelle;
Of bataille and of chivalry,
And of ladyes love-drury
Anon I wol yow telle.
Men speke of romances of prys,
Of Horn child and of Ypotys,
Of Bevis and sir Gy,
Of sir Libeux and Pleyn-damour;
But sir Thopas, he bereth the flour
Of royal chivalry.
His gode stede al he bistrood,
And forth upon his wey he glood
As sparkle out of the bronde;
Up-on his crest he bar a tour,
And ther-in stiked a lily-flour,
God shilde his cors fro shonde!
And for he was a knight auntrous,
He nolde slepen in non hous,
But liggen in his hode;
His brighte helm was his wonger,
And by him baiteth his dextrer
Of herbes fyne and gode.
Him-self drank water of the wel,
As did the knight sir Percivel,
So worthy under wede,
Til on a day——
Here the Host stinteth Chaucer of his Tale of Thopas.
Here beginneth Chaucer’s Tale of Thopas.
Listeth, lords, in good intent,
And I will tell veryment
Of mirth and of solace;
All of a knight was fair and gent
In battle and in tournament,
His name was sir Thopas.
Y-born he was in far country,
In Flanders, all beyond the sea,
At Poperinge, in the place;
His father was a man full free,
And lord he was of that country,
As it was god’s grace.
Sir Thopas was a doughty swain,
White was his face as pandemain,
His lips red as rose;
His rode is like scarlet in grain,
And I you tell in good certain,
He had a seemly nose.
His hair, his beard was like saffron,
That to his girdle raught a-down;
His shoen of Cordovan.
Of Bruges were his hosen brown,
His robe was of ciclatoun,
That cost many a jane.
He could hunt at wild deer,
And ride an hawking for river,
With grey goshawk on hand;
Thereto he was a good archer,
Of wrestling was there none his peer,
There any ram shall stand.
Full many a maid, bright in bower,
They mourn for him, paramour,
When ’em were bet to sleep;
But he was chaste and no lecher,
And sweet as is the bramble flower
That beareth the red hip.
And so befell upon a day,
For sooth, as I you tell may,
Sir Thopas would out ride;
He worth upon his steed grey,
And in his hand a lancegay,
A long sword by his side.
He pricketh through a fair forest,
Therein is many a wild beast,
Yea, both buck and hare;
And as he pricketh north and east,
I tell it you, him had almost
Betide a sorry care.
There springen herbs great and small,
The liquorice and the setwall,
And many a clove-gillyflower;
And nutmeg to put in ale,
Whether it be moist or stale,
Or for to lay in coffer.
The birds sing, it is no nay,
The sparr’hawk and the popinjay,
That joy it was to hear;
The thrushel-cock made eke his lay,
The wood-dove upon the spray
She sang full loud and clear.
Sir Thopas fell in love longing
All when he heard the thrushel sing,
And pricked as he were wood:
His fair steed in his pricking
So swat that men might him wring,
His sides were all blood.
Sir Thopas eke so weary was
For pricking on the soft grass,
So fierce was his courage,
That down he laid him in that place
To make his steed some solace,
And gave him good forage.
“O saint Mary, benedicite!
What aileth this love at me
To bind me so sore?
Me dreamed all this night, pardee,
An elf-queen shall my leman be
And sleep under my gore.
An elf-queen will I love, y-wis,
For in this world no woman is
Worthy to be my make
In town;
All other women I forsake,
And to an elf queen I me take
By dale and eke by down!”
Into his saddle he climb anon,
And pricketh over stile and stone
An elf-queen for t’espy,
Till he so long had ridden and gone
That he found, in a privee wone,
The country of Fairy
So wild;
For in that country was there none
That to him durst ride or gon,
Neither wife ne child.
Till that there came a great giant,
His name was sir Oliphant,
A perilous man of deed,
He said, “child, by Termagant,
But if thou prick out of mine haunt,
Anon I slay thy steed
With mace.
Here is the queen of Fairy,
With harp and pipe and symphony,
Dwelling in this place.”
The child said, “also must I thee,
Tomorrow will I meet thee
When I have mine armour;
And yet I hope, par ma fay,
That thou shalt with this lancegay
A-buyen it full sour;
Thy maw
Shall I piercen, if I may,
For here thou shalt be slew.”
Sir Thopas drew a-back full fast;
The giant at him stones cast
Out of a fell staff-sling;
But fair escapeth child Thopas,
And all it was through god’s grace,
And through his fair bearing.
Yet listeth, lords, to my tale
Merrier than the nightingale,
For now I will you roun
How sir Thopas with sides small,
Pricking over hill and dale,
Is come again to town.
His merry men commanded he
To make him both game and glee,
For needs must he fight
With a giant with heads three,
For paramour and jollity
Of one that shone full bright.
“Do come,” he said, “my minstrels,
And jesters, for to tellen tales
Anon in mine arming;
Of romances that been royals,
Of popes and of cardinals,
And eke of love-liking.”
They fed him first the sweet wine,
And royal spicery
Of gingerbread that was full fine,
Of liquorice, and eke cumin,
With sugar that is so try.
He did next his white leer
Of cloth of lake fine and clear,
A breech and eke a shirt;
And next his shirt an acton,
And over that an habergeon
For piercing of his heart;
And over that a fine hauberk,
Was all y-wrought of Jews’ work,
Full strong it was of plate;
And over that his coat-armour
As white as is a lily flower,
In which he will debate.
His shield was all of gold so red,
And therein was a boar’s head,
A carbuncle beside;
And there he swore, on ale and bread,
How that “the giant shall be dead,
Betide what betide!”
His jambeau were of cuir-bouilli,
His sword’s sheath of ivory,
His helm of latten bright;
His saddle was of ruel-bone,
His bridle as the sun shone,
Or as the moonlight.
His spear was of fine cypress,
That bodeth war, and nothing peace,
The head full sharp y-ground;
His steed was all dapple grey,
It goeth an amble in the way
Full softly and round
In land.
Lo, lords mine, here is a fit!
If ye will any more of it,
To tell it will I found.
..
[The Second Fit.]
..
Now hold your mouth, par charity,
Both knight and lady free,
And harkneth to my spell;
Of battle and of chivalry,
And of ladies love-drury
Anon I will you tell.
Men speak of romances of price,
Of Horn child and of Ypotys,
Of Bevis and sir Guy,
Of sir Libeaus and Plaindamour;
But sir Thopas, he beareth the flower
Of royal chivalry.
His good steed all he bestrode,
And forth upon his way he glowed
As sparkle out of the brand;
Upon his crest he bear a tower,
And therein sticked a lily flower,
God shield his course from shend!
And for he was a knight adventurous,
He nould sleepen in none house,
But lien in his hood;
His bright helm was his wanger,
And by him baiteth his dextrer
Of herbs fine and good.
Himself drank water of the well,
As did the knight sir Percival,
So worthy under wed,
Till on a day——
Here the Host stinteth Chaucer of his Tale of Thopas.
