The Manciple’s Prologue
Here folweth the Prologe of the Maunciples Tale.
Wite ye nat wher ther stant a litel toun
Which that y-cleped is Bob-up-and-doun,
Under the Blee, in Caunterbury weye?
Ther gan our hoste for to Iape and pleye,
And seyde, ‘sirs, what! Dun is in the myre!
Is ther no man, for preyere ne for hyre,
That wol awake our felawe heer bihinde?
A theef mighte him ful lightly robbe and binde.
See how he nappeth! see, for cokkes bones,
As he wol falle from his hors at ones.
Is that a cook of Londoun, with meschaunce?
Do him come forth, he knoweth his penaunce,
For he shal telle a tale, by my fey!
Al-though it be nat worth a botel hey.
Awake, thou cook,’ quod he, ‘god yeve thee sorwe,
What eyleth thee to slepe by the morwe?
Hastow had fleen al night, or artow dronke,
Or hastow with som quene al night y-swonke,
So that thou mayst nat holden up thyn heed?’
This cook, that was ful pale and no-thing reed,
Seyde to our host, ‘so god my soule blesse,
As ther is falle on me swich hevinesse,
Noot I nat why, that me were lever slepe
Than the beste galoun wyn in Chepe.’
‘Wel,’ quod the maunciple, ‘if it may doon ese
To thee, sir cook, and to no wight displese
Which that heer rydeth in this companye,
And that our host wol, of his curteisye,
I wol as now excuse thee of thy tale;
For, in good feith, thy visage is ful pale,
Thyn yën daswen eek, as that me thinketh,
And wel I woot, thy breeth ful soure stinketh,
That sheweth wel thou art not wel disposed;
Of me, certein, thou shalt nat been y-glosed.
Se how he ganeth, lo, this dronken wight,
As though he wolde us swolwe anon-right.
Hold cloos thy mouth, man, by thy fader kin!
The devel of helle sette his foot ther-in!
Thy cursed breeth infecte wol us alle;
Fy, stinking swyn, fy! foule moot thee falle!
A! taketh heed, sirs, of this lusty man.
Now, swete sir, wol ye Iusten atte fan?
Ther-to me thinketh ye been wel y-shape!
I trowe that ye dronken han wyn ape,
And that is whan men pleyen with a straw.’
And with this speche the cook wex wrooth and wraw,
And on the maunciple he gan nodde faste
For lakke of speche, and doun the hors him caste,
Wher as he lay, til that men up him took;
This was a fayr chivachee of a cook!
Allas! he nadde holde him by his ladel!
And, er that he agayn were in his sadel,
Ther was greet showving bothe to and fro,
To lifte him up, and muchel care and wo,
So unweldy was this sory palled gost.
And to the maunciple thanne spak our host,
‘By-cause drink hath dominacioun
Upon this man, by my savacioun
I trowe he lewedly wolde telle his tale.
For, were it wyn, or old or moysty ale,
That he hath dronke, he speketh in his nose,
And sneseth faste, and eek he hath the pose.
He hath also to do more than y-nough
To kepe him and his capel out of slough;
And, if he falle from his capel eft-sone,
Than shul we alle have y-nough to done,
In lifting up his hevy dronken cors.
Telle on thy tale, of him make I no fors.
But yet, maunciple, in feith thou art to nyce,
Thus openly repreve him of his vyce.
Another day he wol, peraventure,
Reclayme thee, and bringe thee to lure;
I mene, he speke wol of smale thinges,
As for to pinchen at thy rekeninges,
That wer not honeste, if it cam to preef.’
‘No,’ quod the maunciple, ‘that were a greet mescheef!
So mighte he lightly bringe me in the snare.
Yet hadde I lever payen for the mare
Which he rit on, than he sholde with me stryve;
I wol nat wratthe him, al-so mote I thryve!
That that I spak, I seyde it in my bourde;
And wite ye what? I have heer, in a gourde,
A draught of wyn, ye, of a rype grape,
And right anon ye shul seen a good Iape.
This cook shal drinke ther-of, if I may;
Up peyne of deeth, he wol nat seye me nay!’
And certeinly, to tellen as it was,
Of this vessel the cook drank faste, allas!
What neded him? he drank y-nough biforn.
And whan he hadde pouped in this horn,
To the maunciple he took the gourde agayn;
And of that drinke the cook was wonder fayn,
And thanked him in swich wyse as he coude.
Than gan our host to laughen wonder loude,
And seyde, ‘I see wel, it is necessarie,
Wher that we goon, good drink we with us carie;
For that wol turne rancour and disese
Tacord and love, and many a wrong apese.
O thou Bachus, y-blessed be thy name,
That so canst turnen ernest in-to game!
Worship and thank be to thy deitee!
Of that matere ye gete na-more of me.
Tel on thy tale, maunciple, I thee preye.’
‘Wel, sir,’ quod he, ‘now herkneth what I seye.'
Thus endeth the Prologe of the Manciple.
Here followeth the Prologue of the Manciple’s Tale.
Wit ye not where there stand a little town
Which that y-cleped is Bob-up-and-down,
Under the Blean, in Canterbury way?
There ’gan our host for to jape and play,
And said, “sirs, what! Dun is in the mire!
Is there no man, for prayer ne for hire,
That will awake our fellow here behind?
A thief might him lightly rob and bind.
See how he nappeth! see, for cocks’ bones,
That he will fall from his horse at once.
Is that a cook of London, with mischance?
Do him come forth, he knoweth his penance,
For he shall tell a tale, by my fay!
Although it be not worth a bottle hay.
“Awake, thou cook,” quoth he, “god give thee sorrow,
What aileth thee to sleep by the morrow?
Hast thou had fleas all night, or art thou drunk?
Or hast thou with some queen all night y-swunk,
So that thou mayest not holden up thine head?”
This cook, that was full pale and nothing red,
Said to our host, “so god my soul bless,
As there is fall on me such heaviness,
Not I not why, that me were liefer sleep,
Than the best gallon wine in Cheap.”
“Well,” quoth the manciple, “if it may do ease
To thee, sir cook, and to no wight displease,
Which that here rideth in this company,
And that our host will, of his courtesy,
I will as now excuse thee of thy tale;
For, in good faith, thy visage is full pale,
Thine eyen dazen eke, as that me thinketh,
And well I wot, thy breath full sour stinketh,
That showeth well thou art not well disposed;
Of me, certain, thou shalt not be y-glozed.
See how he yawneth, lo, this drunken wight,
As though he would swallow us anonright.
Hold close thy mouth, man, by thy father kin!
The devil of hell set his foot therein!
Thy cursed breath infect will us all;
Fie, stinking swine, fie! foul mote thee fall!
A! taketh heed, sirs, of this lusty man.
Now, sweet sir, will ye jousten at fan?
Thereto me thinketh ye been well y-shape!
I trow that ye drunken have wine ape,
And that is when men playen with a straw.”
And with this speech the cook wax wroth and raw,
And on the manciple he ’gan nod fast
For lack of speech, and down the horse him cast,
Where as he lay, till that men him up took;
This was a fair chivachy of a cook!
Alas, he nad hold him by his ladle!
And, ere that he again were in the saddle,
There was great shoving both to and fro,
To lift him up, and much care and woe,
So unwieldy was this sorry pallid ghost.
And to the manciple then spake our host:
“By cause drink hath domination
Upon this man, by my salvation
I trow he lewdly would tell his tale.
For, were it wine, or old or moisty ale
That he hath drunk, he speaketh in his nose,
And sneezeth fast, and eke he hath the pose.
He hath also to do more than enough
To keepen him and his capul out of the slough;
And if he fall from his capul eftsoon,
Then shall we all have enough to do,
In lifting up his heavy drunken corpse.
Tell on thy tale; of him make I no force.
But yet, manciple, in faith thou art too nice,
Thus openly reprieve him of his vice.
Another day he will, peradventure,
Reclaim thee and bring thee to lure;
I mean, he spake well of small things,
As for to pinchen at thy reckonings,
That were not honest, if it came to proof.”
“No,” quoth the manciple, “that were a great mischief!
So might he lightly bring me in the snare.
Yet had I liefer payen for the mare
Which he rid on, then he should with me strive;
I will not wrath him, all so mote I thrive!
That that I speak, I said it in my bawd.
And wit ye what? I have here, in a gourd,
A draught of wine, yea, of a ripe grape,
And right anon ye shall see a good jape.
This cook shall drink thereof, if I may;
Up pain of death, he will not say me nay!”
And certainly, to tellen as it was,
Of this vessel the cook drank fast, alas!
What needed him? he drank enough beforn.
And when he had piped in this horn,
To the manciple he took the gourd again;
And of that drink the cook was wonder fain,
And thanked him in such wise as he could.
Then ’gan our host to laughen wonder loud,
And said, “I see well, it is necessary,
Where that we go, good drink with us carry;
For that will turn rancour and dis-ease
T’accord and love, and many a wrong appease.
O thou Bacchus, y-blessed be thy name,
That so canst turnen earnest into game!
Worship and thank be to thy deity!
Of that matter ye get no more of me.
Tell on thy tale, manciple, I thee pray.”
“Well, sir,” quoth he, “now harkneth what I say.”
Thus endeth the Prologue of the Manciple.
