|
Heere
bigynneth the Reves Tale
At TRUMPYNGTOUN, nat fer fro Cantebrigge,
Ther gooth a brook,
and over that a brigge,
Upon the whiche brook
ther stant a melle;
70 And this is verray sooth
that I yow telle.
A millere was ther
dwellynge many a day;
As any pecok he was
proud and gay.
Pipen he koude and
fisshe, and nettes beete,
And turne coppes,
and wel wrastle and sheete;
75 Ay by his belt he baar
a long panade,
And of a swerd ful
trenchant was the blade.
A joly poppere baar
he in his pouche;
Ther was no man, for
peril, dorste hym touche.
A Sheffeld thwitel
baar he in his hose.
80 Round was his face, and
camus was his nose;
As piled as an ape
was his skulle.
He was a market-betere
atte fulle.
Ther dorste no wight
hand upon hym legge,
That he ne swoor he
sholde anon abegge.
85 A theef he was for sothe
of corn and mele,
And that a sly, and
usaunt for to stele.
His name was hoote
deynous Symkyn.
A wyf he hadde, ycomen
of noble kyn;
The person of the
toun hir fader was.
90 With hire he yaf ful
many a panne of bras,
For that Symkyn sholde
in his blood allye.
She was yfostred in
a nonnerye;
For Symkyn wolde no
wyf, as he sayde,
But she were wel ynorissed
and a mayde,
95 To saven his estaat of
yomanrye.
And she was proud,
and peert as is a pye.
A ful fair sighte
was it upon hem two;
On halydayes biforn
hire wolde he go
With his typet wound
aboute his heed,
100 And she cam after in
a gyte of reed;
And Symkyn hadde hosen
of the same.
Ther dorste no wight
clepen hire but 'dame';
Was noon so hardy
that went by the weye
That with hire dorste
rage or ones pleye,
105 But if he wolde be slayn
of Symkyn
With panade, or with
knyf, or boidekyn.
For jalous folk ben
perilous everemo;
Algate they wolde
hire wyves wenden so.
And eek, for she was
somdel smoterlich,
110 She was as digne as
water in a dich,
And ful of hoker and
of bisemare.
Hir thoughte that
a lady sholde hire spare,
What for hire kynrede
and hir nortelrie
That she hadde lerned
in the nonnerie.
115
A doghter hadde they bitwixe hem two
Of twenty yeer, withouten
any mo,
Savynge a child that
was of half yeer age;
In cradel it lay and
was a propre page.
This wenche thikke
and wel ygrowen was,
120 With kamus nose, and
eyen greye as glas,
With buttokes brode,
and brestes rounde and hye;
But right fair was
hire heer, I wol nat lye.
This person of the toun, for she was feir,
In purpos was to maken
hire his heir,
125 Bothe of his catel and
his mesuage,
And straunge he made
it of hir mariage.
His purpos was for
to bistowe hire hye
Into som worthy blood
of auncetrye;
For hooly chirches
good moot been despended
130 On hooly chirches blood,
that is descended.
Therfore he wolde
his hooly blood honoure
Though that he hooly
chirche sholde devoure.
Greet sokene hath his millere, out of doute,
With whete and malt
of al the land aboute;
135 And nameliche ther was
a greet collegge
Men clepen the Soler
Halle at Cantebregge;
Ther was hir whete
and eek hir malt ygrounde.
And on a day it happed,
in a stounde,
Sik lay the maunciple
on a maladye;
140 Men wenden wisly that
he sholde dye.
For which this millere
stal bothe mele and corn
And hundred tyme moore
than biforn;
For therbiforn he
stal but curteisly,
But now he was a theef
outrageously,
145 For which the wardeyn
chidde and made fare.
But therof sette the
millere nat a tare;
He cracketh boost,
and swoor it was nat so.
Thanne were ther yonge povre scolers two,
That dwelten in this
halle, of which I seye.
150 Testif they were, and
lusty for to pleye,
And oonly for hire
myrthe and revelrye,
Upon the wardeyn bisily
they crye
To yeve hem leve,
but a litel stounde,
To goon to mille and
seen hir corn ygrounde;
155 And hardily they dorste
leye hir nekke
The millere sholde
not stele hem half a pekke
Of corn by sleighte,
ne by force hem reve;
And at the laste the
wardeyn yaf hem leve.
John highte that oon,
and Aleyn highte that oother;
160 Of o toun were they
born, that highte Strother,
Fer in the north,
I kan nat telle where.
This Aleyn maketh redy al his gere,
And on an hors the
sak he caste anon.
Forth goth Aleyn the
clerk, and also John,
165 With good swerd and
with bokeler by hir syde.
John knew the wey,
- hem nedede no gyde, -
And at the mille the
sak adoun he layth.
Aleyn spak first,
"Al hayl, Symond, y-fayth!
Hou fares thy faire
doghter and thy wyf?"
170
"Aleyn, welcome," quod Symkyn, "by my lyf!
And John also, how
now, what do ye heer?"
"Symond," quod John, "by God, nede has na peer.
Hym boes serve hymself
that has na swayn,
Or elles he is a fool,
as clerkes sayn.
175 Oure manciple, I hope
he wil be deed,
Swa werkes ay the
wanges in his heed;
And forthy is I come,
and eek Alayn,
To grynde oure corn
and carie it ham agayn;
I pray yow spede us
heythen that ye may."
180
"It shal be doon," quod Symkyn, "by my fay!
What wol ye doon whil
that is in hande?"
"By God, right by the hopur wil I stande,"
Quod John, "and se
howgates the corn gas in.
Yet saugh I nevere,
by my fader kyn,
185 How that the hopur wagges
til and fra."
Aleyn answerde, "John, and wiltow swa?
Thanne wil I be bynethe,
by my croun,
And se how that the
mele falles doun
Into the trough; that
sal be my disport.
190 For John, y-faith, I
may been of youre sort;
I is as ille a millere
as ar ye."
This millere smyled of hir nycetee,
And thoghte, "Al this
nys doon but for a wyle.
They wene that no
man may hem bigyle,
195 But by my thrift, yet
shal I blere hir ye,
For al the sleighte
in hir philosophye.
The moore queynte
crekes that they make,
The moore wol I stele
whan I take.
In stide of flour
yet wol I yeve hem bren.
200 'The gretteste clerkes
been noght wisest men,'
As whilom to the wolf
thus spak the mare.
Of al hir art ne counte
I noght a tare."
Out at the dore he gooth ful pryvely,
Whan that he saugh
his tyme, softely.
205 He looketh up and doun
til he hath founde
The clerkes hors,
ther as it stood ybounde
Bihynde the mille,
under a levesel;
And to the hors he
goth hym faire and wel;
He strepeth of the
brydel right anon.
210 And whan the hors was
laus, he gynneth gon
Toward the fen, ther
wilde mares renne,
And forth with 'wehee,'
thurgh thikke and thurgh thenne
This millere gooth agayn, no word he seyde,
But dooth his note,
and with the clerkes pleyde,
215 Til that hir corn was
faire and weel ygrounde.
And whan the mele
is sakked and ybounde,
This John goth out
and fynt his hors away,
And gan to crie "Harrow!"
and "Weylaway!
Oure hors is lorn,
Alayn, for Goddes banes,
220 Step on thy feet! Com
of man, man, al atanes!
Allas, our wardeyn
has his palfrey lorn."
This Aleyn al forgat,
bothe mele and corn;
Al was out of his
mynde his housbonderie.
"What, whilk way is
he geen?" he gan to crie.
225
The wyf cam lepynge inward with a ren.
She seyde, "Allas!
youre hors goth to the fen
With wilde mares,
as faste as he may go.
Unthank come on his
hand that boond hym so,
And he that bettre
sholde han knyt the reyne!"
230
"Allas," quod John, "Aleyn, for Cristes peyne,
Lay doun thy swerd,
and I wil myn alswa.
I is ful wight, God
waat, as is a raa;
By Goddes herte, he
sal nat scape us bathe!
Why ne had thow pit
the capul in the lathe?
235 Ilhayl! by God, Alayn,
thou is a fonne!"
Thise sely clerkes han ful faste yronne
Toward the fen, bothe
Aleyn and eek John.
And whan the millere saugh that they were gon,
He half a busshel
of hir flour hath take,
240 And bad his wyf go knede
it in a cake.
He seyde, "I trowe
the clerkes were aferd
Yet kan a millere
make a clerkes berd,
For al his art; now
lat hem goon hir weye!
Lo, wher he gooth!
ye, lat the children pleye.
245 They gete hym nat so
lightly, by my croun."
Thise sely clerkes rennen up and doun
With 'Keep! keep!
stand! stand! jossa, warderere,
Ga whistle thou, and
I shal kepe hym heere!'
But shortly, til that
it was verray nyght,
250 They koude nat, though
they dide al hir myght,
Hir capul cacche,
he ran alwey so faste,
Til in a dych they
caughte hym atte laste.
Wery and weet, as beest is in the reyn,
Comth sely John, and
with him comth Aleyn.
255 "Allas," quod John,
"the day that I was born!
Now are we dryve til
hethyng and til scorn.
Oure corn is stoln,
men wil us fooles calle,
Bathe the wardeyn
and oure felawes alle,
And namely the millere,
weylaway!"
260
Thus pleyneth John as he gooth by the way
Toward the mille,
and Bayard in his hond.
The millere sittynge
by the fyr he fond,
For it was nyght,
and forther myghte they noght;
But for the love of
God they hym bisoght
265 Of herberwe and of ese,
as for hir peny.
The millere seyde agayn, "If ther be eny,
Swich as it is, yet
shal ye have youre part.
Myn hous is streit,
but ye han lerned art;
Ye konne by arguments
make a place
270 A myle brood of twenty
foot of space.
Lat se now if this
place may suffise,
Or make it rowm with
speche, as is your gise."
"Now, Symond," seyde John, "by seint Cutberd,
Ay is thou myrie,
and this is faire answerd.
275 I have herd seyd, 'Man
sal taa of twa thynges
Slyk as he fyndes,
or taa slyk as he brynges.'
But specially I pray
thee, hooste deere,
Get us som mete and
drynke, and make us cheere,
And we wil payen trewely
atte fulle.
280 With empty hand men
may na haukes tulle;
Loo, heere oure silver,
redy for to spende."
This millere into toun his doghter sende
For ale and breed,
and rosted hem a goos,
And booned hire hors,
it sholde namoore go loos;
285 And in his owene chambre
hem made a bed,
With sheetes and with
chalons faire yspred,
Noght from his owene
bed ten foot or twelve.
His doghter hadde
a bed, al by hirselve,
Right in the same
chambre by and by.
290 It myghte be no bet,
and cause why?
Ther was no roumer
herberwe in the place.
They soupen and they
speke, hem to solace,
And drynken evere
strong ale atte beste.
Aboute mydnyght wente
they to reste.
295
Wel hath this millere vernysshed his heed;
Ful pale he was for
dronken, and nat reed.
He yexeth, and he
speketh thurgh the nose
As he were on the
quakke, or on the pose.
To bedde he goth,
and with hym goth his wyf.
300 As any jay she light
was and jolyf,
So was hir joly whistle
wel ywet.
The cradel at hir
beddes feet is set,
To rokken, and to
yeve the child to sowke.
And whan that dronken
al was in the crowke,
305 To bedde wente the doghter
right anon;
To bedde goth Aleyn
and also John;
Ther nas na moore,
- hem nebede no dwale.
This millere hath
so wisely bibbed ale
That as an hors he
fnorteth in his sleep,
310 Ne of his tayl bihynde
he took no keep.
His wyf bar hym a
burdon, a ful strong;
Men myghte hir rowtyng
heere two furlong;
The wenche rowteth
eek, par compaignye.
Aleyn the clerk, that herde this melodye,
315 He poked John, and seyde,
"Slepestow?
Herdestow evere slyk
a sang er now?
Lo, swilk a complyn
is ymel hem alle,
A wilde fyr upon thair
bodyes falle!
Wha herkned evere
slyk a ferly thyng?
320 Ye, they sal have the
flour of il endyng.
This lange nyght ther
tydes me na reste;
But yet, nafors, al
sal be for the beste.
For, John," seyde
he, "als evere moot I thryve,
If that I may, yon
wenche wil I swyve.
325 Som esement has lawe
yshapen us;
For, John, ther is
a lawe that says thus,
That gif a man in
a point be agreved,
That in another he
sal be reveled.
Oure corn is stoln,
sothly, it is na nay,
330 And we han had an il
fit al this day;
And syn I sal have
neen amendement
Agayn my los, I will
have esement.
By Goddes sale, it
sal neen other bee!"
This John answerde, "Alayn, avyse thee!
335 The millere is a perilous
man, "he seyde,
"And gif that he out
of his sleep abreyde,
He myghte doon us
bathe a vileynye."
Aleyn answerde, "I counte hym nat a flye."
And up he rist, and
by the wenche he crepte.
340 This wenche lay uprighte,
and faste slepte,
Til he so ny was,
er she myghte espie,
That it had been to
late for to crie,
And shortly for to
seyn, they were aton.
Now pley, Aleyn, for
I wol speke of John.
345
This John lith stille a furlong wey or two,
And to hymself he
maketh routhe and wo.
"Allas!" quod he,
"this is a wikked jape;
Now may I seyn that
I is but an ape.
Yet has my felawe
somwhat for his harm;
350 He has the milleres
doghter in his arm.
He auntred hym, and
has his nedes sped,
And I lye as a draf-sak
in my bed;
And when this jape
is tald another day,
I sal been halde a
daf, a cokenay!
355 I wil arise and auntre
it, by my fayth!
'Unhardy is unseely,'
thus men sayth."
And up he roos, and
softely he wente
Unto the cradel, and
in his hand it hente,
And baar it softe
unto his beddes feet.
360
Soon after this the wyf hir rowtyng leet,
And gan awake, and
wente hire out to pisse,
And cam agayn, and
gan hir cradel mysse
And groped heer and
ther, but she found noon.
"Allas!" quod she,
"I hadde almoost mysgoon;
365 I hadde almoost goon
to the clerkes bed.
Ey, benedicite! thanne
hadde I foule ysped."
And forth she gooth
til she the cradel fond.
She gropeth alwey
forther with hir hond,
And foond the bed,
and thoghte noght but good,
370 By cause that the cradel
by it stood,
And nyste wher she
was, for it was derk;
But faire and wel
she creep in to the clerk,
And lith ful stille,
and wolde han caught a sleep.
Withinne a while this
John the clerk up leep,
375 And on this goode wyf
he leith on soore.
So myrie a fit ne
hadde she nat ful yoore;
He priketh harde and
depe as he were mad.
This joly lyf han
thise two clerkes lad
Til that the thridde
cok bigan to synge.
380
Aleyn wax wery in the dawenynge,
For he had swonken
al the longe nyght,
And seyde, "Fare weel,
Malyne, sweete wight!
The day is come, I
may no lenger byde;
But everemo, wher
so I go or ryde,
385 I is thyn awen clerk,
swa have I seel!"
"Now, deere lemman," quod she, "go, far weel!
But er thow go, o
thyng I wol thee telle:
Whan that thou wendest
homward by the melle,
Right at the entre
of the dore bihynde
390 Thou shalt a cake of
half a busshel fynde
That was ymaked of
thyn owene mele,
Which that I heelp
my sire for to stele.
And, goode lemman,
God thee save and kepe!"
And with that word
almoost she gan to wepe.
395
Aleyn up rist, and thoughte, "Er that it dawe
I wol crepen in by
my felawe,"
And fond the cradel
with his hand anon.
"By God," thoughte
he, al wrang I have mysgon.
Myn heed is toty of
my swynk to-nyght,
400 That makes me that I
ga nat aright.
I woot wel by the
cradel I have mysgo;
Heere lith the millere
and his wyf also."
And forth he goth,
a twenty devel way,
Unto the bed ther
as the millere lay.
405 He wende have cropen
by his felawe John,
And by the millere
in the creep anon,
And caughte hym by
the nekke, and softe he spak.
He seyde, "Thou John,
thou swynes-heed, awak,
For Cristes saule,
and heer a noble game.
410 For by that lord called
is seint Jame,
As I have thries in
this shorte nyght
Swyved the milleres
doghter bolt upright,
Whil thow hast, as
a coward, been agast."
"Ye, false harlot," quod the millere, "hast?
415 A, false traitor! false
clerk!" quod he,
Tow shalt be deed,
by Goddes dignitee!
Who dorste be so boold
to disparage
My doghter, that is
come of swich lynage?'
And by the throte-bolle
he caughte Alayn,
420 And he hente hym despitously
agayn,
And on the nose he
smoot hym with his fest.
Doun ran the blody
streem upon his brest;
And in the floor,
with nose and mouth tobroke,
They walwe as doon
two pigges in a poke;
425 And up they goon, and
doun agayn anon,
Til that the millere
sporned at a stoon,
And doun he fil bakward
upon his wyf,
That wiste no thyng
of this nyce stryf;
For she was falle
aslepe a lite wight
430 With John the clerk,
that waked hadde al nyght,
And with the fal out
of hir sleep she breyde.
"Help! hooly croys
of Bromeholm," she seyde,
'In manus tuas! Lord,
to thee I calle!
Awak, Symond! The
feend is on me falle.
435 Myn herte is broken;
help! I nam but deed
Ther lyth oon upon
my wombe and on myn heed.
Help. Symkyn, for
the false clerkes fighte!"
This John stirte up as faste as ever he myghte,
And graspeth by the
walles to and fro,
440 To fynde a staf; and
she stirte up also,
And knew the estres
bet than dide this John,
And by the wal a staf
she foond anon,
And saugh a litel
shymeryng of a light,
For at an hole in
shoon the moone bright;
445 And by that light she
saugh hem bothe two,
But sikerly she nyste
who was who,
But as she saugh a
whit thyng in hir ye.
And whan she gan this
white espye,
She wende the clerk
hadde wered a volupeer,
450 And with the staf she
drow ay neer and neer,
And wende han hit
this Aleyn at the fulle,
And smoot the millere
on the pyled skulle,
That doun he gooth,
and cride, "Harrow! I dye!"
Thise clerkes beete
hym weel and lete hym lye;
455 And greythen hem, and
tooke hir hors anon,
And eek hire mele,
and on hir wey they gon.
And at the mille yet
they tooke hir cake
Of half a busshel
flour, ful wel ybake.
Thus is the proude millere wel ybete,
460 And hath ylost the gryndynge
of the whete,
And payed for the
soper everideel
Of Aleyn and of John,
that bette hym weel.
His wyf is swyved,
and his doghter als.
Lo, swich it is a
millere to be fals!
465 And therfore this proverbe
is seyd ful sooth,
'Hym thar nat wene
wel that yvele dooth';
A gylour shal hymself
bigyled be.
And God, that sitteth
heighte in magestee,
Save al this compaignye,
grete and smale!
470 Thus have I quyt the
Millere in my tale.
Heere is ended the Reves
Tale |
Here begins the Reeve's
Tale
At Trumpington, not far from
Cambridge town,
There is a bridge wherethrough
a brook runs down,
Upon the side of which brook
stands a mill;
And this is very truth that
now I tell.
A miller dwelt there, many
and many a day;
As any peacock he was proud
and gay.
He could mend nets, and
he could fish, and flute,
Drink and turn cups, and
wrestle well, and shoot;
And in his leathern belt
he did parade
A cutlass with a long trenchant
blade.
A pretty dagger had he in
his pouch;
There was no man who durst
this man to touch.
A Sheffield whittler bore
he in his hose;
Round was his face and turned-up
was his nose.
As bald as any ape's head
was his skull;
He was a market-swaggerer
to the full.
There durst no man a hand
on him to lay,
Because he swore he'd make
the beggar pay.
A thief he was, forsooth,
of corn and meal,
And sly at that, accustomed
well to steal.
His name was known as arrogant
Simpkin.
A wife he had who came of
gentle kin;
The parson of the town her
father was.
With her he gave full many
a pan of brass,
To insure that Simpkin with
his blood ally.
She had been bred up in
a nunnery;
For Simpkin would not have
a wife, he said,
Save she were educated and
a maid
To keep up his estate of
yeomanry.
And she was proud and bold
as is a pie.
A handsome sight it was
to see those two;
On holy days before her
he would go
With a broad tippet bound
about his head;
And she came after in a
skirt of red,
While Simpkin's hose were
dyed to match that same.
There durst no man to call
her aught but dame;
Nor was there one so hardy,
in the way,
As durst flirt with her
or attempt to play,
Unless he would be slain
by this Simpkin
With cutlass or with knife
or with bodkin.
For jealous folk are dangerous,
you know,
At least they'd have their
wives to think them so.
Besides, because she was
a dirty bitch,
She was as high as water
in a ditch;
And full of scorn and full
of back-biting.
She thought a lady should
be quite willing
To greet her for her kin
and culture, she
Having been brought up in
that nunnery.
A daughter had they got between the two,
Of twenty years, and no
more children, no,
Save a boy baby that was
six months old;
It lay in cradle and was
strong and bold.
This girl right stout and
well developed was,
With nose tip-tilted and
eyes blue as glass,
With buttocks broad, and
round breasts full and high,
But golden was her hair,
I will not lie.
The parson of the town, since she was fair,
Was purposeful to make of
her his heir,
Both of his chattels and
of his estate,
But all this hinged upon
a proper mate.
He was resolved that he'd
bestow her high
Into some blood of worthy
ancestry;
For Holy Church's goods
must be expended
On Holy Church's blood,
as it's descended.
Therefore he'd honour thus
his holy blood,
Though Holy Church itself
became his food.
Large tolls this miller took, beyond a doubt,
With wheat and malt from
all the lands about;
Of which I'd specify among
them all
A Cambridge college known
as Soler Hall;
He ground their wheat and
all their malt he ground.
And on a day it happened,
as they found,
The manciple got such a
malady
That all men surely thought
that he should die.
Whereon this miller stole
both flour and wheat
A hundredfold more than
he used to cheat;
For theretofore he stole
but cautiously,
But now he was a thief outrageously,
At which the warden scolded
and raised hell;
The miller snapped his fingers,
truth to tell,
And cracked his brags and
swore it wasn't so.
There were two poor young
clerks, whose names I know,
That dwelt within this Hall
whereof I say.
Willful they were and lusty,
full of play,
And (all for mirth and to
make reverly)
After the warden eagerly
did they cry
To give them leave, at least
for this one round,
To go to mill and see their
produce ground;
And stoutly they proclaimed
they'd bet their neck
The miller should not steal
one half a peck
Of grain, by trick, nor
yet by force should thieve;
And at the last the warden
gave them leave.
John was the one and Alain
was that other;
In one town were they born,
and that called Strother,
Far in the north, I cannot
tell you where.
This Alain, he made ready all his gear,
And on a horse loaded the
sack anon.
Forth went Alain the clerk,
and also John,
With good sword and with
buckler at their side.
John knew the way and didn't
need a guide,
And at the mill he dropped
the sack of grain.
"Ah, Simon, hail, good morn,"
first spoke Alain.
"How fares it with your
fair daughter and wife?"
"Alain! Welcome," said Simpkin, "by my life,
And John also. How now?
What do you here?"
"Simon," said John, "by God, need makes no peer;
He must himself serve who's
no servant, eh?
Or else he's but a fool,
as all clerks say.
Our manciple- I hope he'll
soon be dead,
So aching are the grinders
in his head-
And therefore am I come
here with Alain
To grind our corn and carry
it home again;
I pray you speed us thither,
as you may."
"It shall be done," said
Simpkin, "by my fay.
What will you do the while
it is in hand?"
"By God, right by the hopper will I stand,"
Said John, "and see just
how the corn goes in;
I never have seen, by my
father's kin,
Just how the hopper waggles
to and fro."
Alain replied: "Well, John, and will you so?
Then will I get beneath
it, by my crown,
To see there how the meal
comes sifting down
Into the trough; and that
shall be my sport.
For, John, in faith, I must
be of your sort;
I am as bad a miller as
you be."
The miller smiled at this, their delicacy,
And thought: "All this is
done but for a wile;
They think there is no man
may them beguile;
But, by my thrift, I will
yet blear their eyes,
For all the tricks in their
philosophies.
The more odd tricks and
stratagems they make,
The more I'll steal when
I begin to take.
In place of flour I'll give
them only bran.
'The greatest clerk is not
the wisest man,'
As once unto the grey wolf
said the mare.
But all their arts- I rate
them not a tare."
Out of the door he went, then, secretly,
When he had seen his chance,
and quietly;
He looked up and looked
down, until he found
The clerks' horse where
it stood, securely bound.
Behind the mill, under an
arbour green;
And to the horse he went,
then, all unseen;
He took the bridle off him
and anon,
When the said horse was
free, why he was gone
Toward the fen, for wild
mares ran therein,
And with a neigh he went,
through thick and thin.
This miller straight went back and no word said,
But did his business and
with these clerks played,
Until their corn was fairly,
fully ground.
But when the flour was sacked
and the ears bound,
This John went out, to find
his horse away,
And so he cried: "Hello!"
and "Weladay!
Our horse is lost! Alain,
for Jesus' bones
Get to your feet, come out,
man, now, at once!
Alas, our warden's palfrey's
lost and lorn!"
This Alain forgot all, both
flour and corn,
Clean out of mind was all
his husbandry,
"What? Which way did he
go?" began to cry.
The wife came bounding from the house, and then
She said: "Alas! Your horse
went to the fen,
With the wild mares, as
fast as he could go.
A curse light on the hand
that tied him so,
And him that better should
have knotted rein!"
"Alas!" quoth John, "Alain, for Jesus' pain,
Lay off your sword, and
I will mine also;
I am as fleet, God knows,
as is a roe;
By God's heart, he shall
not escape us both!
Why didn't you put him in
the barn? My oath!
Bad luck, by God, Alain,
you are a fool!"
These foolish clerks began to run and roll
Toward the marshes, both
Alain and John.
And when the miller saw that they were gone,
He half a bushel of their
flour did take
And bade his wife go knead
it and bread make.
He said: "I think those
clerks some trickery feared;
Yet can a miller match a
clerkling's beard,
For all his learning; let
them go their way.
Look where they go, yea,
let the children play,
They'll catch him not so
readily, by my crown!"
Those simple clerks went running up and down
With "Look out! Halt! Halt!
here! 'Ware the rear!
Go whistle, you, and I will
watch him here!"
But briefly, till it came
to utter night
They could not, though they
put forth all their might,
That stallion catch, he
always ran so fast,
Till in a ditch they trapped
him at the last.
Weary and wet, as beast is in the rain,
Came foolish John and with
him came Alain.
"Alas," said John, "the
day that I was born!
Now are we bound toward
mockery and scorn.
Our corn is stolen, folk
will call us fools,
The warden and the fellows
at the schools,
And specially this miller.
Weladay!"
Thus John complained as he went on his way
Toward the mill, with Bayard
once more bound.
The miller sitting by the
fire he found,
For it was night, and farther
could they not;
But, for the love of God,
they him besought
For shelter and for supper,
for their penny.
The miller said to them: "If there be any,
Such as it is, why you shall
have your part.
My house is small, but you
have learned your art;
You can, by metaphysics,
make a place
A full mile wide in twenty
feet of space.
Let us see now if this place
will suffice,
Or make more room with speech,
by some device."
"Now, Simon," said John, "by Saint Cuthbert's beard,
You're always merry and
have well answered.
As I've heard, man shall
take one of two things:
Such as he finds, or take
such as he brings.
But specially, I pray you,
mine host dear,
Give us some meat and drink
and some good cheer,
And we will pay you, truly,
to the full.
With empty hand no man takes
hawk or gull;
Well, here's our silver,
ready to be spent."
This miller to the town his daughter sent
For ale and bread, and roasted
them a goose,
And tied their horse, that
it might not go loose;
And then in his own chamber
made a bed,
With sheets and with good
blankets fairly spread,
Not from his bed more than
twelve feet, or ten.
The daughter made her lone
bed near the men,
In the same chamber with
them, by and by;
It could not well be bettered,
and for why?
There was no larger room
in all the place.
They supped and talked,
and gained some small solace,
And drank strong ale, that
evening, of the best.
Then about midnight all
they went to rest.
Well had this miller varnished his bald head,
For pale he was with drinking,
and not red.
He hiccoughed and he mumbled
through his nose,
As he were chilled, with
humours lachrymose.
To bed he went, and with
him went his wife.
As any jay she was with
laughter rife,
So copiously was her gay
whistle wet.
The cradle near her bed's
foot-board was set,
Handy for rocking and for
giving suck.
And when they'd drunk up
all there was in crock,
To bed went miller's daughter,
and anon
To bed went Alain and to
bed went John.
There was no more; they
did not need a dwale.
This miller had so roundly
bibbed his ale
That, like a horse, he snorted
in his sleep,
While of his tail behind
he kept no keep.
His wife joined in his chorus,
and so strong,
Men might have heard her
snores a full furlong;
And the girl snored, as
well, for company.
Alain the clerk, who heard this melody,
He poked at John and said:
"Asleep? But how?
Did you hear ever such a
song ere now?
Lo, what a compline is among
them all!
Now may the wild-fire on
their bodies fall!
Who ever heard so outlandish
a thing?
But they shall have the
flour of ill ending.
Through this long night
there'll be for me no rest;
But never mind, 'twill all
be for the best.
For, John," said he, "so
may I ever thrive,
As, if I can, that very
wench I'll swive.
Some recompense the law
allows to us;
For, John, there is a statute
which says thus,
That if a man in one point
be aggrieved,
Yet in another shall he
be relieved.
Our corn is stolen, to that
there's no nay,
And we have had an evil
time this day.
But since I may not have
amending, now,
Against my loss I'll set
some fun- and how!
By God's great soul it shan't
be otherwise!"
This John replied: "Alain, let me advise.
The miller is a dangerous
man," he said,
"And if he be awakened,
I'm afraid
He may well do us both an
injury."
But Alain said: "I count him not a fly."
And up he rose and to the
girl he crept.
This wench lay on her back
and soundly slept,
Until he'd come so near,
ere she might spy,
It was too late to struggle,
then, or cry;
And, to be brief, these
two were soon alone.
Now play, Alain! For I will
speak of John.
This John lay still a quarter-hour, or so,
Pitied himself and wept
for all his woe.
"Alas," said he, "this is
a wicked jape!
Now may I say that I am
but an ape.
Yet has my friend, there,
something for his harm;
He has the miller's daughter
on his arm.
He ventured, and his pains
are now all fled,
While I lie like a sack
of chaff in bed;
And when this jape is told,
another day,
I shall be held an ass,
a milksop, yea!
I will arise and chance
it, by my fay!
'Unhardy is unhappy,' as
they say."
And up he rose, and softly
then he went
To find the cradle for expedient,
And bore it over to his
own foot-board.
Soon after this the wife no longer snored,
But woke and rose and went
outside to piss,
And came again and did the
cradle miss,
And groped round, here and
there, but found it not.
"Alas!" thought she, "my
way I have forgot.
I nearly found myself in
the clerks' bed.
Eh, ben'cite, but that were
wrong!" she said.
And on, until by cradle
she did stand.
And, groping a bit farther
with her hand,
She found the bed, and thought
of naught but good,
Because her baby's cradle
by it stood,;
And knew not where she was,
for it was dark;
But calmly then she crept
in by the clerk,
And lay right still, and
would have gone to sleep.
But presently this John
the clerk did leap,
And over on this goodwife
did he lie.
No such gay time she'd known
in years gone by.
He pricked her hard and
deep, like one gone mad.
And so a jolly life these
two clerks had
Till the third cock began
to crow and sing.
Alain grew weary in the grey dawning,
For he had laboured hard
through all the night;
And said: "Farewell, now,
Maudy, sweet delight!
The day is come, I may no
longer bide;
But evermore, whether I
walk or ride,
I am your own clerk, so
may I have weal."
"Now, sweetheart," said she, "go and fare you well!
But ere you go, there's
one thing I must tell.
When you go walking homeward
past the mill,
Right at the entrance, just
the door behind,
You shall a loaf of half
a bushel find
That was baked up of your
own flour, a deal
Of which I helped my father
for to steal.
And, darling, may God save
you now and keep!"
And with that word she almost
had to weep.
Alain arose and thought: "Ere it be dawn,
I will go creep in softly
by friend John."
And found the cradle with
his hand, anon.
"By God!" thought he, "all
wrong I must have gone;
My head is dizzy from my
work tonight,
And that's why I have failed
to go aright.
I know well, by this cradle,
I am wrong,
For here the miller and
his wife belong."
And on he went, and on the
devil's way,
Unto the bed wherein the
miller lay.
He thought to have crept
in by comrade John,
So, to the miller, in he
got anon,
And caught him round the
neck, and softly spake,
Saying: "You, John, you
old swine's head, awake,
For Christ's own soul, and
hear a noble work,
For by Saint James, and
as I am a clerk,
I have, three times in this
short night, no lack,
Swived that old miller's
daughter on her back,
While you, like any coward,
were aghast."
"You scoundrel," cried the miller, "you trespassed?
Ah, traitor false and treacherous
clerk!" cried he,
"You shall be killed, by
God's own dignity!
Who dares be bold enough
to bring to shame
My daughter, who is born
of such a name?"
And by the gullet, then,
he caught Alain.
And pitilessly he handled
him amain,
And on the nose he smote
him with his fist.
Down ran the bloody stream
upon his breast;
And on the floor, with nose
and mouth a-soak,
They wallowed as two pigs
do in a poke.
And up they came, and down
they both went, prone,
Until the miller stumbled
on a stone,
And reeled and fell down
backwards on his wife,
Who nothing knew of all
this silly strife;
For she had fallen into
slumber tight
With John the clerk, who'd
been awake all night.
But at the fall, from sleep
she started out.
"Help, holy Cross of Bromholm!"
did she shout,
"In manus tuas, Lord, to
Thee I call!
Simon, awake, the Fiend
is on us all
My heart is broken, help,
I am but dead!
There lies one on my womb,
one on my head!
Help, Simpkin, for these
treacherous clerks do fight!"
John started up, as fast as well he might,
And searched along the wall,
and to and fro,
To find a staff; and she
arose also,
And knowing the room better
than did John,
She found a staff against
the wall, anon;
And then she saw a little
ray of light,
For through a hole the moon
was shining bright;
And by that light she saw
the struggling two,
But certainly she knew not
who was who,
Except she saw a white thing
with her eye.
And when she did this same
white thing espy,
She thought the clerk had
worn a nightcap here.
And with the staff she nearer
drew, and near,
And, thinking to hit Alain
on his poll,
She fetched the miller on
his bald white skull,
And down he went, crying
out, "Help, help, I die!"
The two clerks beat him
well and let him lie;
And clothed themselves,
and took their horse anon,
And got their flour, and
on their way were gone.
And at the mill they found
the well-made cake
Which of their meal the
miller's wife did bake.
Thus is the haughty miller soundly beat,
And thus he's lost his pay
for grinding wheat,
And paid for the two suppers,
let me tell,
Of Alain, and of John, who've
tricked him well.
His wife is taken, also
his daughter sweet;
Thus it befalls a miller
who's a cheat.
And therefore is this proverb
said with truth,
"An evil end to evil man,
forsooth."
The cheater shall himself
well cheated be.
And God, Who sits on high
in majesty,
Save all this company, both
strong and frail!
Thus have I paid this miller
with my tale.
Here is ended the Reeve's
Tale |
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