The Canon’s Yeoman’s Prologue
The prologe of the Chanons Yemannes Tale.
Whan ended was the lyf of seint Cecyle,
Er we had riden fully fyve myle,
At Boghton under Blee us gan atake
A man, that clothed was in clothes blake,
And undernethe he hadde a whyt surplys.
His hakeney, that was al pomely grys,
So swatte, that it wonder was to see;
It semed he had priked myles three.
The hors eek that his yeman rood upon
So swatte, that unnethe mighte it gon.
Aboute the peytrel stood the foom ful hye,
He was of fome al flekked as a pye.
A male tweyfold on his croper lay,
It semed that he caried lyte array.
Al light for somer rood this worthy man,
And in myn herte wondren I bigan
What that he was, til that I understood
How that his cloke was sowed to his hood;
For which, when I had longe avysed me,
I demed him som chanon for to be.
His hat heng at his bak doun by a laas,
For he had riden more than trot or paas;
He had ay priked lyk as he were wood.
A clote-leef he hadde under his hood
For swoot, and for to kepe his heed from hete.
But it was Ioye for to seen him swete!
His forheed dropped as a stillatorie,
Were ful of plantain and of paritorie.
And whan that he was come, he gan to crye,
‘God save,’ quod he, ‘this Ioly companye!
Faste have I priked,’ quod he, ‘for your sake,
By-cause that I wolde yow atake,
To ryden in this mery companye.’
His yeman eek was ful of curteisye,
And seyde, ‘sires, now in the morwe-tyde
Out of your hostelrye I saugh you ryde,
And warned heer my lord and my soverayn,
Which that to ryden with yow is ful fayn,
For his desport; he loveth daliaunce.’
‘Freend, for thy warning god yeve thee good chaunce,’
Than seyde our host, ‘for certes, it wolde seme
Thy lord were wys, and so I may wel deme;
He is ful Iocund also, dar I leye.
Can he oght telle a mery tale or tweye,
With which he glade may this companye?’
‘Who, sire? my lord? ye, ye, withouten lye,
He can of murthe, and eek of Iolitee
Nat but ynough; also sir, trusteth me,
And ye him knewe as wel as do I,
Ye wolde wondre how wel and craftily
He coude werke, and that in sondry wyse.
He hath take on him many a greet empryse,
Which were ful hard for any that is here
To bringe aboute, but they of him it lere.
As homely as he rit amonges yow,
If ye him knewe, it wolde be for your prow;
Ye wolde nat forgoon his aqueyntaunce
For mochel good, I dar leye in balaunce
Al that I have in my possessioun.
He is a man of heigh discrecioun,
I warne you wel, he is a passing man.’
Wel,’ quod our host, ‘I pray thee, tel me than,
Is he a clerk, or noon? tel what he is.’
‘Nay, he is gretter than a clerk, y-wis,’
Seyde this yeman, ‘and in wordes fewe,
Host, of his craft som-what I wol yow shewe.
I seye, my lord can swich subtilitee—
(But al his craft ye may nat wite at me;
And som-what helpe I yet to his werking)—
That al this ground on which we been ryding,
Til that we come to Caunterbury toun,
He coude al clene turne it up-so-doun,
And pave it al of silver and of gold.’
And whan this yeman hadde thus y-told
Unto our host, he seyde, ‘benedicite!
This thing is wonder merveillous to me,
Sin that thy lord is of so heigh prudence,
By-cause of which men sholde him reverence,
That of his worship rekketh he so lyte;
His oversloppe nis nat worth a myte,
As in effect, to him, so mote I go!
It is al baudy and to-tore also.
Why is thy lord so sluttish, I thee preye,
And is of power better cloth to beye,
If that his dede accorde with thy speche?
Telle me that, and that I thee biseche.’
‘Why?’ quod this yeman, ‘wherto axe ye me?
God help me so, for he shal never thee!
(But I wol nat avowe that I seye,
And therfor kepe it secree, I yow preye).
He is to wys, in feith, as I bileve;
That that is overdoon, it wol nat preve
Aright, as clerkes seyn, it is a vyce.
Wherfor in that I holde him lewed and nyce.
For whan a man hath over-greet a wit,
Ful oft him happeth to misusen it;
So dooth my lord, and that me greveth sore.
God it amende, I can sey yow na-more.’
‘Ther-of no fors, good yeman,’ quod our host;
‘Sin of the conning of thy lord thou wost,
Tel how he dooth, I pray thee hertely,
Sin that he is so crafty and so sly.
Wher dwellen ye, if it to telle be?’
‘In the suburbes of a toun,’ quod he,
‘Lurkinge in hernes and in lanes blinde,
Wher-as thise robbours and thise theves by kinde
Holden hir privee fereful residence,
As they that dar nat shewen hir presence;
So faren we, if I shal seye the sothe.’
‘Now,’ quod our host, ‘yit lat me talke to the;
Why artow so discoloured of thy face?’
‘Peter!’ quod he, ‘god yeve it harde grace,
I am so used in the fyr to blowe,
That it hath chaunged my colour, I trowe.
I am nat wont in no mirour to prye,
But swinke sore and lerne multiplye.
We blondren ever and pouren in the fyr,
And for al that we fayle of our desyr,
For ever we lakken our conclusioun.
To mochel folk we doon illusioun,
And borwe gold, be it a pound or two,
Or ten, or twelve, or many sommes mo,
And make hem wenen, at the leeste weye,
That of a pound we coude make tweye!
Yet is it fals, but ay we han good hope
It for to doon, and after it we grope.
But that science is so fer us biforn,
We mowen nat, al-though we hadde it sworn,
It overtake, it slit awey so faste;
It wol us maken beggers atte laste.’
Whyl this yeman was thus in his talking,
This chanoun drough him neer, and herde al thing
Which this yeman spak, for suspecioun
Of mennes speche ever hadde this chanoun.
For Catoun seith, that he that gilty is
Demeth al thing be spoke of him, y-wis.
That was the cause he gan so ny him drawe
To his yeman, to herknen al his sawe.
And thus he seyde un-to his yeman tho,
‘Hold thou thy pees, and spek no wordes mo,
For if thou do, thou shalt it dere abye;
Thou sclaundrest me heer in this companye,
And eek discoverest that thou sholdest hyde.’
‘Ye,’ quod our host, ‘telle on, what so bityde;
Of al his threting rekke nat a myte!’
‘In feith,’ quod he, ‘namore I do but lyte.’
And whan this chanon saugh it wolde nat be,
But his yeman wolde telle his privetee,
He fledde awey for verray sorwe and shame.
‘A!’ quod the yeman, ‘heer shal aryse game,
Al that I can anon now wol I telle.
Sin he is goon, the foule feend him quelle!
For never her-after wol I with him mete
For peny ne for pound, I yow bihete!
He that me broghte first unto that game,
Er that he dye, sorwe have he and shame!
For it is ernest to me, by my feith;
That fele I wel, what so any man seith.
And yet, for al my smert and al my grief,
For al my sorwe, labour, and meschief,
I coude never leve it in no wyse.
Now wolde god my wit mighte suffyse
To tellen al that longeth to that art!
But natheles yow wol I tellen part;
Sin that my lord is gon, I wol nat spare;
Swich thing as that I knowe, I wol declare.—
Here endeth the Prologe of the Chanouns Yemannes Tale.
The prologue of the Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale.
When ended was the life of saint Cecile,
Ere we had ridden fully five mile,
At Boughton under Blean us ’gan a-take
A man, that clothed was in clothes black,
And underneath he had a white surplice.
His hackney, that was all pommely gris,
So swat, that it wonder was to see;
It seemed he had pricked miles three.
The horse eke that his yeoman rode upon
So swat, that unneth might it gon.
About the peytral stood the foam full high,
He was of foam all flecked as a ’pie.
A mail twayfold on his crupper lay;
It seemed that he carried lite array.
All light for summer rode this worthy man,
And in mine heart wonderen I began
What that he was, till that I understood
How that his cloak was sewed to his hood;
For which, when I had long advised me,
I deemed him some canon for to be.
His hat hung at his back down by a lace,
For he had ridden more than trot or pace;
He had aye pricked like as he were wood.
A clote-leaf he had under his hood
For sweat, and for to keep his head from heat.
But it was joy for to see him sweat!
His forehead dropped as a stillatory,
Were full of plantain and of pellitory.
And when that he was come, he ’gan to cry,
“God save,” quoth he, “this jolly company!
Fast have I pricked,” quoth he, “for your sake,
By cause that I would you a-take,
To riden in this merry company.”
His yeoman eke was full of courtesy,
And said, “sires, now in the morrow-tide
Out of your hostelry I saw you ride,
And warned here my lord and my sovereign,
Which that to riden with you is full fain,
For his disport; he loveth dalliance.”
“Friend, for thy warning god give thee good chance,”
Then said our host, “for certes, it would seem
Thy lord were wise, and so I may well deem;
He is full jocund also, dare I lay.
Can he ought tell a merry tale or tway,
Which that he glad may this company?”
“Who, sire? my lord? yea, yea, withouten lie,
He can of mirth, and eke of jollity
Not but enough; also, sir, trusteth me,
And ye him knew as well as do I,
Ye would wonder how well and craftily
He could work, and that in sundry wise.
He hath take on him many a great enterprise,
Which were full hard for any that is here
To bring about, but they of him it lere.
As homely as he rid amongst you,
If ye him knew, it would be for your prow;
Ye would not forgone his acquaintance
For much good, I dare lay in balance
All that I have in possession.
He is a man of high discretion;
I warn you well, he is a ’passing man.”
“Well,” quoth our host, “I pray thee, tell me then,
Is he a clerk, or none? tell what he is.”
“Nay, he is greater than a clerk, y-wis.”
Said this yeoman, “and in words few,
Host, of his craft somewhat I will you show.
I say, my lord can such subtlety—
(But all his craft ye may not wite at me;
And somewhat help I yet to his working)—
That all this ground on which we been riding,
Till that we come to Canterbury town,
He could all clean turn it up-so-down,
And pave it all of silver and of gold.”
And when this yeoman had this tale y-told
Unto our host, he said, “benedicite!
This thing is wonder marvellous to me,
Since that thy lord is of so high prudence,
By cause of which men should him reverence,
That of his worship recketh he so lite;
His overslop nis not worth a mite,
As in effect, to him, so mote I go!
It is all bawdy and to-tore also.
Why is thy lord so sluttish, I thee pray,
And is of power better cloth to buy,
If that his deed accord with thy speech?
Tell me that, and that I thee beseech.”
“Why,” quoth this yeoman, “whereto ask ye me?
God help me so, for he shall never thee!
(But I will not avow that I say,
And therefore keep it secree, I you pray).
He is too wise, in faith, as I believe;
That that is overdone, it will not prove
A-right, as clerks sayn; it is a vice.
Wherefore in that I hold him lewd and nice.
For when a man hath over-great a wit,
Full oft him happeth to misusen it;
So doth my lord, and that me grieveth sore.
God it amend! I can say you no more.”
“Thereof no force, good yeoman,” quoth our host;
“Since of the cunning of thy lord thou wist,
Tell how he doeth, I pray thee heartily,
Since that he is so crafty and so sly.
Where dwell ye, if it to tell be?”
“In the suburbs of a town,” quoth he,
“Lurking in hirnes and in lanes blind,
Whereas these robbers and these thieves by kind
Holden their privy fearful residence,
As they that dare not showen their presence;
So faren we, if I shall say the sooth.”
“Now,” quoth our host, “yet let me talk to thee;
Why art thou so discoloured of thy face?”
“Peter!” quoth he, “god give it hard grace,
I am so used in the fire to blow,
That it hath changed my colour, I trow.
I nam not wont in the mirror to pry,
But swink sore and learn multiply.
We blunderen ever and pore in the fire,
And for all that we fail of our desire,
For ever we lacken our conclusion.
To much folk we done illusion,
And borrow gold, be it a pound or two,
Or ten, or twelve, or many sums mo’,
And make ’em weenen, at the least way,
That of a pound we could make tway!
Yet it is false, but aye we have good hope
It for to do, and after it we grope.
But that science is so far us beforn,
We mayen not, although we had it sworn,
It overtake, it slides away so fast;
It will us maken beggars at last.”
While this yeoman was thus in his talking,
This canon drew him near, and heard all thing
Which this yeoman spake, for suspicion
Of men’s speech ever had this canon.
For Cato saith, that he that guilty is
Deemeth all thing be spoke of him, y-wis.
That was the cause he ’gan so nigh him draw
To his yeoman, to harkeneth all his saw.
And thus he said unto his yeoman tho,
“Hold thou thy peace and speak no words mo’,
For if thou do, thou shalt it dear abye;
Thou slanderest me here in this company,
And eke discoverest that thou shouldest hide.”
“Yea,” quoth our host, “tell on, what so betide;
Of all his threatening reck’ not a mite!”
“In faith,” quoth he, “no more I do but lite.”
And when this canon saw it would not be,
But his yeoman would tell his privity,
He fled away for very sorrow and shame.
“A!” quoth the yeoman, “here shall arise game,
All that I can anon now will I tell.
Since he is gone, the foul fiend him kill!
For never hereafter will I with him meet
For penny ne pound, I you behete.
He that me brought first unto that game,
Ere that he die, sorrow have he and shame!
For it is earnest to me, by my faith;
That feel I well, what so any man saith.
And yet, for all my smart and all my grief,
For all my sorrow, labour, and mischief,
I could never leave it in no wise.
Now would god my wit might suffice
To tellen all that longeth to that art!
But natheless you will I tellen part;
Since that my lord is gone, I will not spare;
Such thing as that I know, I will declare.—
Here endeth the Prologue of the Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale.
