The Monk's Prologue
The mery wordes of the Host to the Monk.
Whan ended was my tale of Melibee,
And of Prudence and hir benignitee,
Our hoste seyde, ‘as I am faithful man,
And by the precious corpus Madrian,
I hadde lever than a barel ale
That goode lief my wyf hadde herd this tale!
For she nis no-thing of swich pacience
As was this Melibeus wyf Prudence.
By goddes bones! whan I bete my knaves,
She bringth me forth the grete clobbed staves,
And cryeth, “slee the dogges everichoon,
And brek hem, bothe bak and every boon.”
And if that any neighebor of myne
Wol nat in chirche to my wyf enclyne,
Or be so hardy to hir to trespace,
Whan she comth hoom, she rampeth in my face,
And cryeth, “false coward, wreek thy wyf,
By corpus bones! I wol have thy knyf,
And thou shalt have my distaf and go spinne!”
Fro day to night right thus she wol biginne;—
“Allas!” she seith, “that ever I was shape
To wedde a milksop or a coward ape,
That wol be overlad with every wight!
Thou darst nat stonden by thy wyves right!”
This is my lyf, but-if that I wol fighte;
And out at dore anon I moot me dighte,
Or elles I am but lost, but-if that I
Be lyk a wilde leoun fool-hardy.
I woot wel she wol do me slee som day
Som neighebor, and thanne go my wey.
For I am perilous with knyf in honde,
Al be it that I dar nat hir withstonde,
For she is big in armes, by my feith,
That shal he finde, that hir misdooth or seith.
But lat us passe awey fro this matere.
My lord the Monk,’ quod he, ‘be mery of chere;
For ye shul telle a tale trewely.
Lo! Rouchestre stant heer faste by!
Ryd forth, myn owene lord, brek nat our game,
But, by my trouthe, I knowe nat your name,
Wher shal I calle yow my lord dan Iohn,
Or dan Thomas, or elles dan Albon?
Of what hous be ye, by your fader kin?
I vow to god, thou, hast a ful fair skin,
It is a gentil pasture ther thou goost;
Thou art nat lyk a penaunt or a goost.
Upon my feith, thou art som officer,
Som worthy sexteyn, or som celerer,
For by my fader soule, as to my doom,
Thou art a maister whan thou art at hoom;
No povre cloisterer, ne no novys,
But a governour, wyly and wys.
And therwithal of brawnes and of bones
A wel-faring persone for the nones.
I pray to god, yeve him confusioun
That first thee broghte un-to religioun;
Thou woldest han been a trede-foul aright.
Haddestow as greet a leve, as thou hast might
To parfourne al thy lust in engendrure,
Thou haddest bigeten many a creature.
Alas! why werestow so wyd a cope?
God yeve me sorwe! but, and I were a pope,
Not only thou, but every mighty man,
Thogh he were shorn ful hye upon his pan,
Sholde have a wyf; for al the world is lorn!
Religioun hath take up al the corn
Of treding, and we borel men ben shrimpes!
Of feble trees ther comen wrecched impes.
This maketh that our heires been so sclendre
And feble, that they may nat wel engendre.
This maketh that our wyves wol assaye
Religious folk, for ye may bettre paye
Of Venus payements than mowe we;
God woot, no lussheburghes payen ye!
But be nat wrooth, my lord, for that I pleye;
Ful ofte in game a sooth I have herd seye.’
This worthy monk took al in pacience,
And seyde, ‘I wol doon al my diligence,
As fer as souneth in-to honestee,
To telle yow a tale, or two, or three.
And if yow list to herkne hiderward,
I wol yow seyn the lyf of seint Edward;
Or elles first Tragedies wol I telle
Of whiche I have an hundred in my celle.
Tragedie is to seyn a certeyn storie,
As olde bokes maken us memorie,
Of him that stood in greet prosperitee
And is y-fallen out of heigh degree
Into miserie, and endeth wrecchedly.
And they ben versifyed comunly
Of six feet, which men clepe exametron.
In prose eek been endyted many oon,
And eek in metre, in many a sondry wyse.
Lo! this declaring oughte y-nough suffise.
Now herkneth, if yow lyketh for to here;
But first I yow biseke in this matere,
Though I by ordre telle nat thise thinges,
Be it of popes, emperours, or kinges,
After hir ages, as men writen finde,
But telle hem som bifore and som bihinde,
As it now comth un-to my remembraunce;
Have me excused of myn ignoraunce.'
Explicit.
The merry words of the Host to the Monk.
When ended was my tale of Melibee,
And of Prudence and her benignity,
Our host said, “as I am faithful man,
And by the precious corpus Madrian,
I had liefer than a barrel ale
That good lief my wife had heard this tale!
For she is nothing of such patience
As was this Melibeus’ wife Prudence.
By god’s bones! when I beat my knaves,
She bringeth me forth the great clubbed staves,
And crieth, ‘slay the dogs everich one,
And break ’em, both back and every bone!’
And if that any neighbour of mine
Will not in church to my wife incline,
Or be so hardy to her to trespass,
When she cometh home, she rampeth in my face,
And crieth, ‘false coward, reck’ thy wife!
By corpus bones! I will have thy knife,
And thou shalt have my distaff and go spin!’
From day to night right thus she will begin;—
‘Alas!’ she saith ‘that ever I was shape
To wed a milksop or a coward ape,
That will be overled with every wight!
Thou darest not standen by thy wife’s right!’
This is my life, but if that I will fight;
And out at door anon I mote me dight,
Or else I am but lost, but if that I
Be like a wild lion fool-hardy.
I wot well she will do me slay some day
Some neighbour, and then go my way;
For I am perilous with knife in hand,
Albeit that I dare not her withstand,
For she is big in arms, by my faith,
That shall he find, that her misdoeth or saith.
But let us pass away from this matter.
My lord the Monk,” quoth he, “be merry of cheer,
For ye shall tell a tale truly.
Lo! Rochester stand here fast by!
Ride forth, mine own lord, break not our game,
But, by my truth, I know not your name,
Whe’er shall I call you my lord dan John,
Or dan Thomas, or else dan Albon?
Of what house be ye, by your father kin?
I vow to god, thou, hast a full fair skin,
It is a gentil pasture there thou goest;
Thou art not like a penant or a ghost:
Upon my faith, thou art some officer,
Some worthy sexton, or some cellarer,
For by my father soul, as to my doom,
Thou art a master when thou art at home;
No povre cloisterer, ne no novice,
But a governor, wily and wise.
And therewithal of brawns and of bones
A well faring parson for the nones.
I pray to god, give him confusion
That first thee brought unto religion;
Thou wouldst have been a tread-fowl a-right.
Hadst thou as great a leave, as thou hast might
To perform all thy lust in engendure,
Thou hadest begeten full many a creature.
Alas! why wearest thou so wide a cope?
God give me sorrow! but, and I were a pope,
Not only thou, but every mighty man,
Though he were shorn full high upon his pan,
Should have a wife; for all the world is lorn!
Religion hath take up all the corn
Of treading, and we borrel men be shrimps!
Of feeble trees there comen wretched imps,
This maketh that our heirs be so slender
And feeble, that they may not well engender.
This maketh that our wives will assay
Religious folk, for ye may better pay
Of Venus payments than may we;
God wot, no lushburgs payen ye!
But be not wroth, my lord, though that I play;
Full oft in game a sooth I have heard say.”
This worthy monk took all in patience,
And said, “I will do all my diligence,
As far as soundeth into honesty,
To tell you a tale, or two, or three.
And if you list to harken hitherward,
I will you sayn the life of saint Edward;
Or else first Tragedies will I tell,
Of which I have an hundred in my cell.
Tragedy is to sayn a certain story,
As old books maken us memory,
Of him that stood in great prosperity
And is y-fallen out of high degree
Into misery, and endeth wretchedly.
And they been versified commonly
Of six feet, which men cleped hexametron.
In prose eke be indited many one,
And eke in metre, in many a sundry wise.
Lo! this declaring ought enough suffice.
Now harkneth, if you liketh for to hear;
But first I you beseech in this matter,
Though I by order tell not these things,
Be it of popes, emperors, or kings,
After their ages, as men written find,
But tellen ’em some before and some behind,
As it now cometh unto my remembrance;
Have me excused of mine ignorance.”
Explicit.
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