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Heere
bigynneth the Marchantes Tale
Whilom ther was dwellynge in Lumbardye
A worthy knyght, that
born was of Pavye,
35 In which he lyved in
greet prosperitee;
And sixty yeer a wyflees
man was hee,
And folwed ay his
bodily delyt
On wommen, ther as
was his appetyt,
As doon thise fooles
that been seculeer.
40 And whan that he was
passed sixty yeer,
Were it for hoolynesse
or for dotage,
I kan nat seye, but
swich a greet corage
Hadde this knyght
to been a wedded man
That day and nyght
he dooth al that he kan
45 T'espien where he myghte
wedded be,
Preyinge oure lord
to graunten him that he
Mighte ones knowe
of thilke blisful lyf
That is bitwixe an
housbonde and his wyf,
And for to lyve under
that hooly boond
50 With which that first
God man and womman bond.
"Noon oother lyf,"
seyde he, "is worth a bene;
For wedlok is so esy
and so clene,
That in this world
it is paradys."
Thus seyde this olde
knyght, that was so wys.
55
And certeinly, as sooth as God is kyng,
To take a wyf it is
a glorious thyng,
And namely whan a
man is oold and hoor;
Thanne is a wyf the
fruyt of his tresor.
Thanne sholde he take
a yong wyf and a feir,
60 On which he myghte engendren
hym and heir,
And lede his lyf in
joye and in solas,
Where as thise bacheleris
synge allas,
Whan that they funden
any adversitee
In love, which nys
but childyssh vanytee.
65 And trewely it sit wel
to be so,
That bacheleris have
often peyne and wo;
On brotel ground they
buylde, and brotelnesse
They fynde, whan they
wene sikernesse.
They lyve but as a
bryd or as a beest,
70 In libertee, and under
noon arreest,
Ther as a wedded man
in his estaat
Lyveth a lyf blisful
and ordinaat,
Under this yok of
mariage ybounde.
Wel may his herte
in joy and blisse habounde,
75 For who kan be so buxom
as a wyf?
Who is so trewe, and
eek so ententyf
To kepe hym, syk and
hool, as is his make?
For wele or wo she
wole hym nat forsake;
She nys nat wery hym
to love and serve,
80 Thogh that he lye bedrede,
til he sterve.
And yet somme clerkes
seyn it nys nat so,
Of whiche he Theofraste
is oon of tho.
What force though
Theofraste liste lye?
"Ne take no wyf,"
quod he, "for housbondrye,
85 As for to spare in houshold
thy dispence.
A trewe servant dooth
moore diligence
Thy good to kepe,
than thyn owene wyf,
For she wol clayme
half part al hir lyf.
And if that thou be
syk, so God me save,
90 Thy verray freendes,
or a trewe knave,
Wol kepe thee bet
than she that waiteth ay
After thy good and
hath doon many a day.
And if thou take a
wyf unto thyn hoold,
Ful lightly maystow
been a cokewold."
95 This sentence, and an
hundred thynges worse,
Writeth this man,
ther God his bones corse!
But take no kep of
al swich vanytee;
Deffie Theofraste,
and herke me.
A wyf is Goddes yifte verraily;
100 Alle othere manere yiftes
hardily,
As londes, rentes,
pasture, or commune,
Or moebles, alle been
yiftes of fortune,
That passen as a shadwe
upon a wal.
But drede nat, if
pleynly speke I shal,
105 A wyf wol laste, and
thyn hous endure,
Wel lenger than thee
list, paraventure.
Mariage is a ful greet sacrement.
He which that hath
no wyf, I holde hym shent;
He lyveth helplees
and al desolat, --
110 I speke of folk in seculer
estaat.
And herke why, I sey
nat this for noght,
That womman is for
mannes helpe ywroght.
The hye God, whan
he hadde Adam maked,
And saugh him al allone,
bely-naked,
115 God of his grete goodnesse
syde than,
"Lat us now make an
helpe unto this man
Lyk to hymself"; and
thanne he made him Eve.
Heere may ye se, and
heerby may ye preve,
That wyf is mannes
helpe and his confort,
120 His paradys terrestre,
and his disport.
So buxom and so vertuous
is she,
They moste nedes lyve
in unitee.
O flessh they been,
and o fleesh, as I gesse,
Hath but oon herte,
in wele and in distresse.
125
A wyf! a, Seinte Marie, benedicite!
How myghte man han
any adversitee
That hath a wyf? certes,
I kan nat seye.
The blisse which that
is bitwixe hem tweye
Ther may no tonge
telle, or herte thynke.
130 If he be povre, she
helpeth hym to swynke;
She kepeth his good,
and wasteth never a deel;
Al that hire housbonde
lust, hire liketh weel;
She seith nat ones
"nay", whan he seith "ye".
"Do this," seith he;
"Al redy, sire," seith she.
135 O blisful ordre of wedlok
precious,
Thou art so murye,
and eek so vertuous,
And so commended and
appreved eek
That every man that
halt hym worth a leek,
Upon his bare knees
oughte al his lyf
140 Thanken his God that
hym hath sent a wyf,
Or elles preye to
God hym for to sende
A wyf, to laste unto
his lyves ende.
For thanne his lyf
is set in sikernesse;
He may nat be deceyved,
as I gesse,
145 So that he werke after
his wyves reed.
Thanne may he boldely
beren up his heed,
They been so trewe,
and therwithal so wyse;
For which, if thou
wolt werken as the wyse,
Do alwey so as wommen
wol thee rede.
150
Lo, how that Jacob, as thise clerkes rede,
By good conseil of
his mooder Rebekke,
Boond the kydes skyn
aboute his nekke,
For which his fadres
benyson he wan.
Lo, Judith, as the storie eek telle kan,
155 By wys conseil she Goddes
peple kepte,
And slow hym Olofernus,
whil he slepte.
Lo Abigayl, by good conseil, how she
Saved hir housbonde
Nabal, whan that he
Sholde han be slayn;
and looke, Ester also
160 By good conseil delyvered
out of wo
The peple of God,
and made hym Mardochee
Of Assuere enhaunced
for to be.
Ther nys no thyng in gree superlatyf,
As seith Senek, above
and humble wyf.
165
Suffre thy wyves tonge, as Catoun bit;
She shal comande,
and thou shalt suffren it,
And yet she wole obeye
of curteisye.
A wyf is kepere of
thyn housbondrye;
Wel may the sike man
biwaille and wepe,
170 Ther as ther nys no
wyf the hous to kepe.
I warne thee, if wisely
thou wolt wirche,
Love wel thy wyf,
as Crist loved his chirche.
If thou lovest thyself,
thou lovest thy wyf;
No man hateth his
flessh, but in his lyf
175 He fostreth it, and
therfore bidde I thee,
Cherisse thy wyf,
or thou shalt nevere thee.
Housbonde and wyf,
what so men jape or pleye,
Of worldly folk holden
the siker weye;
They been so knyt
ther may noon harm bityde,
180 And namely upon the
wyves syde.
For which this Januarie,
of whom I tolde,
Considered hath, inwith
his dayes olde,
The lusty lyf, the
vertuous quyete,
That is in mariage
hony-sweete;
185 And for his freendes
on a day he sente,
To tellen hem th'effect
of his entente.
With face sad his tale he hath hem toold.
He seyde, "Freendes,
I am hoor and oold,
And almost, God woot,
on my pittes brynke;
190 Upon my soule somwhat
moste I thynke.
I have my body folily
despended;
Blessed be God that
it shal been amended!
For I wol be, certeyn,
a wedded man,
And that anoon in
al the haste I kan.
195 Unto som mayde fair
and tendre of age,
I prey yow, shapeth
for my mariage
Al sodeynly, for I
wol nat abyde;
And I wol fonde t'espien,
on my syde,
To whom I may be wedded
hastily.
200 But forasmuche as ye
been mo than I,
Ye shullen rather
swich a thyng espyen
Than I, and where
me best were to allyen.
"But o thyng warne I yow, my freendes deere,
I wol moon oold wyf
han in no manere.
205 She shal nat passe twenty
yeer, certayn;
Oold fissh and yong
flessh wolde I have ful fayn.
Bet is," quod he,
"a pyk than a pykerel,
And bet than old boef
is the tendre veel.
I wol no womman thritty
yeer of age;
210 It is but bene-straw
and greet forage.
And eek thise olde
wydwes, God it woot,
They konne so muchel
craft on Wades boot,
So muchel broken harm,
whan that hem leste,
That with hem sholde
I nevere lyve in reste.
215 For sondry scoles maken
sotile clerkis;
Womman of manye scoles
half a clerk is.
But certeynly, a yong
thyng may men gye,
Right as men may warm
wex with handes plye.
Wherfore I sey yow
pleynly, in a clause,
220 I wol noon oold wyf
han right for this cause.
For if so were I hadde
swich myschaunce,
That I in hire ne
koude han no plesaunce,
Thanne sholde I lede
my lyf in avoutrye,
And go streight to
the devel, whan I dye.
225 Ne children sholde I
none upon hire geten;
Yet were me levere
houndes hand me eten,
Than that myn heritage
sholde falle
In straunge hand,
and this I telle yow alle.
I dote nat, I woot
the cause why
230 Men sholde wedde, and
forthermoore woot I,
Ther speketh many
a man of mariage
That woot namoore
of it than woot my page,
For whiche causes
man sholde take a wyf.
If he ne may nat lyven
chaast his lyf,
235 Take hym a wyf with
greet devocioun,
By cause of leveful
procreacioun
Of children, to th'onour
of God above,
And nat oonly for
paramour or love;
And for they sholde
leccherye eschue,
240 And yelde hir dette
whan that it is due;
Or for that ech of
hem sholde helpen oother
In meschief, as a
suster shal the brother;
And lyve in chastitee
ful holily.
But sires, by youre
leve, that am nat I.
245 For, God be thanked!
I dar make avaunt,
I feele my lymes stark
and suffisaunt
To do al that a man
bilongeth to;
I woot myselven best
what I may do.
Though I be hoor,
I fare as dooth a tree
250 That blosmeth er that
fruyt ywoxen bee;
And blosmy tree nys
neither drye ne deed.
I feele me nowhere
hoor but on myn heed;
Myn herte and alle
my lymes been as grene
As laurer thurgh the
yeer is for to sene.
255 And syn that ye han
herd al myn entente,
I prey yow to my wyl
ye wole assente.
Diverse men diversely hym tolde
Of mariage manye ensamples
olde.
Somme blamed it, somme
preysed it, certeyn;
260 But atte laste, shortly
for to seyn,
As al day falleth
altercacioun
Bitwixen freendes
in disputisoun,
Ther fil a stryf bitwixe
his bretheren two,
Of whiche that oon
was cleped Placebo,
265 Justinus soothly called
was that oother.
Placebo seyde, "O
Januarie, brother,
Ful litel nede hadde
ye, my lord so deere,
Conseil to axe of
any that is heere,
But that ye been so
ful of sapience
270 That yow ne liketh,
for youre heighe prudence,
To weyven fro the
word of Salomon.
This word seyde he
unto us everychon:
Wirk alle thyng by
conseil," - thus seyde he,
"And thanne shaltow
nat repente thee." -
275 But though that Salomon
spak swich a word,
Myn owene deere brother
and my lord,
So wysly God my soule
brynge at reste,
I holde youre owene
conseil is the beste.
For, brother myn,
of me taak this motyf,
280 I have now been a court-man
al my lyf,
And God it woot, though
I unworthy be,
I have stonden in
ful greet degree
Abouten lordes of
ful heigh estaat;
Yet hadde I nevere
with noon of hem debaat.
285 I nevere hem contraried,
trewely;
I woot wel that my
lord kan moore than I.
With that he seith,
I holde it ferme and stable;
I seye the same, or
elles thyng semblable.
A ful greet fool is
any conseillour
290 That serveth any lord
of heigh honour,
That dar presume,
or elles thanken it,
That his conseil sholde
passe his lordes wit.
Nay, lordes been no
fooles, by my fay!
Ye han youreselven
shewed heer to-day
295 So heigh sentence, so
holily and weel,
That I consente and
conferme everydeel
Youre wordes alle
and youre opinioun.
By God, ther nys no
man in al this toun,
Ne in Ytaille, that
koude bet han sayd!
300 Crist halt hym of this
conseil ful wel apayd.
And trewely, it is
an heigh corage
Of any man that stapen
is in age
To take a yong wyf;
by my fader kyn,
Youre herte hangeth
on a joly pyn!
305 Dooth now in this matiere
right as yow leste,
For finally I holde
it for the beste."
Justinus, that ay stille sat and herde,
Right in this wise
he to Placebo answerde:
"Now, brother myn,
be pacient, I preye,
310 Syn ye han seyd, and
herkneth what I seye.
Senek, amonges othere
wordes wyse,
Seith that a man oghte
hym right wel avyse
To whom he yeveth
his lond or his catel.
And syn I oghte avyse
me right wel
315 To whom I yeve my good
awey from me,
Wel muchel moore I
oghte avysed be
To whom I yeve my
body for alwey.
I warne yow wel, it
is no childes pley
To take a wyf withouten
avysement.
320 Men moste enquere, this
is myn assent,
Wher she be wys, or
sobre, or dronkelewe,
Or proud, or elles
ootherweys a shrewe,
A chidestere, or wastour
of thy good,
Or riche, or poore,
or elles mannyssh wood.
325 Al be it so that no
man fynden shal
Noon in this world
that trotteth hool in al,
Ne man, ne beest,
swich as men koude devyse;
But nathelees it oghte
ynough suffise
With any wyf, if so
were that she hadde
330 Mo goode thewes than
hire vices badde;
And al this axeth
leyser for t'enquere.
For, God it woot,
I have wept many a teere
Ful pryvely, syn I
have had a wyf.
Preyse whoso wole
a wedded mannes lyf,
335 Certein I fynde in it
but cost and care
And observances, of
alle blisses bare.
And yet, God woot,
my neighebores aboute,
And namely of wommen
many a route,
Seyn that I have the
mooste stedefast wyf,
340 And eek the mekeste
oon that bereth lyf;
But I woot best where
wryngeth me my sho.
Ye mowe, for me, right
as yow liketh do;
Avyseth yow - ye been
a man of age -
How that ye entren
into mariage,
345 And namely with a yong
wyf and a fair.
By hym that made water,
erthe, and air,
The yongeste man that
is in al this route
Is bisy ynough to
bryngen it aboute
To han his wyf allone.
Trusteth me,
350 Ye shul nat plesen hire
fully yeres thre, -
This is to seyn, to
doon hire ful plesaunce.
A wyf axeth ful many
an observaunce.
I prey yow that ye
be nat yvele apayd."
"Wel," quod this Januarie, "and hastow ysayd?
355 Straw for thy Senek,
and for thy proverbes!
I counte nat a panyer
ful of herbes
Of scole-termes. Wyser
men than thow,
As thou hast herd,
assenteden right now
To my purpos. Placebo,
what sey ye?"
360
"I seye it is a cursed man," quod he,
"That letteth matrimoigne,
sikerly."
And with that word
they rysen sodeynly,
And been assented
fully that he sholde
Be wedded whanne hym
liste, and where he wolde.
365
Heigh fantasye and curious bisynesse
Fro day to day gan
in the soule impresse
Of Januarie aboute
his mariage.
Many fair shap and
many a fair visage
Ther passeth thurgh
his herte nyght by nyght,
370 As whoso tooke a mirour,
polisshed bryght,
And sette it in a
commune market-place,
Thanne sholde he se
ful many a figure pace
By his mirour; and
in the same wyse
Gan Januarie inwith
his thoght devyse
375 Of maydens whiche that
dwelten hym bisyde.
He wiste nat wher
that he myghte abyde.
For if that oon have
beaute in hir face,
Another stant so in
the peples grace
For hire sadnesse
and hire benyngnytee
380 That of the peple grettest
voys hath she;
And somme were riche,
and hadden badde name.
But nathelees, bitwixe
ernest and game,
He atte laste apoynted
hym on oon,
And leet alle othere
from his herte goon,
385 And chees hire of his
owene auctoritee;
For love is blynd
alday, and may nat see.
And whan that he was
in his bed ybroght,
He purtreyed in his
herte and in his thoght
Hir fresshe beautee
and hir age tendre,
390 Hir myddel smal, hire
armes longe and sklendre,
Hir wise governaunce,
hir gentillesse,
Hir wommanly berynge,
and hire sadnesse.
And whan that he on
hire was condescended,
Hym thoughte his choys
myghte nat ben amended.
395 For whan that he hymself
concluded hadde,
Hym thoughte ech oother
mannes wit so badde
That inpossible it
were to repplye
Agayn his choys, this
was his fantasye.
His freendes sente
he to, at his instaunce,
400 And preyed hem to doon
hym that plesaunce,
That hastily they
wolden to hym come;
He wolde abregge hir
labour, alle and some.
Nedeth namoore for
hym to go ne ryde;
He was apoynted ther
he wolde abyde.
405 Placebo cam, and eek
his freendes soone,
And alderfirst he
bad hem alle a boone,
That noon of hem none
argumentes make
Agayn the purpos which
that he hath take,
Which purpos was plesant
to God, seyde he,
410 And verray ground of
his prosperitee.
He seyde ther was a mayden in the toun,
Which that of beautee
hadde greet renoun,
Al were it so she
were of smal degree;
Suffiseth hym hir
yowthe and hir beautee.
415 Which mayde, he seyde,
he wolde han to his wyf,
To lede in ese and
hoolynesse his lyf;
And thanked God that
he myghte han hire al,
That no wight his
blisse parten shal.
And preyed hem to
laboure in this nede,
420 And shapen that he faille
nat to spede;
For thanne, he seyde,
his spirit was at ese.
"Thanne is," quod
he, "no thyng may me displese,
Save o thyng priketh
in my conscience,
The which I wol reherce
in youre presence.
425
I have," quod he, "herd seyd, ful yoore ago,
Ther may no man han
parfite blisses two, -
This is to seye, in
erthe and eek in hevene.
For though he kepe
hym fro the synnes sevene,
And eek from every
branche of thilke tree,
430 Yet is ther so parfit
felicitee
And so greet ese and
lust in mariage,
That evere I am agast
now in myn age
That I shal lede now
so myrie a lyf,
So delicat, withouten
wo and stryf,
435 That I shal have myn
hevene in erthe heere.
For sith that verray
hevene is boght so deere
With tribulation and
greet penaunce,
How sholde I thanne,
that lyve in swich plesaunce
As alle wedded men
doon with hire wyvys,
440 Come to the blisse ther
rist eterne on lyve ys?
This is my drede,
and ye, my bretheren tweye,
Assoilleth me this
question, I preye.
Justinus, which that hated his folye,
Answerde anon right
in his japerye;
445 And for he wolde his
longe tale abregge,
He wolde noon auctoritee
allegge,
But seyde, "Sire,
so ther be noon obstacle
Oother than this,
God of his hygh myracle
And of his mercy may
so for yow wirche
450 That, er ye have youre
right of hooly chirche,
Ye may repente of
wedded mannes lyf,
In which ye seyn ther
is no wo ne stryf.
And elles, God forbede
but he sente
A wedded man hym grace
to repente
455 Wel ofte rather than
a sengle man!
And therfore, sire
- the beste reed I kan -
Dispeire yow noght,
but have in youre memorie,
Paraunter she may
be youre purgatorie!
She may be Goddes
meene and Goddes whippe;
460 Thanne shal youre soule
up to hevene skippe
Swifter than dooth
and arwe out of bowe.
I hope to God, herafter
shul ye knowe
That ther nys no so
greet felicitee
In mariage, ne nevere
mo shal bee,
465 That yow shal lette
of youre savacion,
So that ye sue, as
skile is an reson,
The lustes of youre
wyf attemprely,
And that ye plese
hire nat to amorously,
And that ye kepe yow
eek from oother synne.
470 My tale is doon, for
my wit is thynne.
Beth nat agast herof,
my brother deere,
But lat us waden out
of this mateere.
The Wyf of Bathe,
if ye han understonde,
Of mariage, which
we have on honde,
475 Declared hath ful wel
in litel space.
Fareth now wel, God
have yow in his grace."
And with this word this Justyn and his brother
Han take hir leve,
and ech of hem of oother.
For whan they saughe
that it moste nedes be,
480 They wroghten so, by
sly and wys tretee,
That she, this mayden,
which that Mayus highte,
As hastily as evere
that she myghte,
Shal wedded be unto
this Januarie.
I trowe it were to
longe yow to tarie,
485 If I yow tolde of every
scrit and bond
By which that she
was feffed in his lond,
Or for to herknen
of hir riche array.
But finally ycomen
is the day
That to the chirche
bothe be they went
490 For to receyve the hooly
sacrement.
Forth comth the preest,
with stole aboute his nakke,
And bad hire be lyk
Sarra and Rebekke
In wysdom and in trouthe
of mariage;
And seyde his orisons,
as is usage,
495 And croucheth hem, and
bad God sholde hem blesse,
And made al siker
ynogh with hoolynesse.
Thus been they wedded with solempnitee,
And at the feeste
sitteth he and she
With othere worthy
folk upon the deys.
500 Al ful of joye and blisse
is the paleys,
And ful of instrumentz
and of vitaille,
The mooste deyntevous
of al Ytaille.
Biforn hem stoode
instrumentz of swich soun
That Orpheus, ne of
Thebes Amphioun,
505 Ne maden nevere swich
a melodye.
At every cours thanne
cam loud mynstralcye,
That nevere tromped
Joab for to heer,
Nor he Theodomas,
yet half so cleere,
At Thebes, whan the
citee was in doute.
510 Bacus the wyn hem shynketh
al aboute,
And Venus laugheth
upon every wight,
For Januarie was bicome
hir knyght,
And wolde bothe assayen
his corage
In libertee, and eek
in mariage;
515 And with hire fyrbrond
in hire hand aboute
Daunceth biforn the
bryde and al the route.
And certeinly, I dar
right wel seyn this,
Ymeneus, that God
of weddyng is,
Saugh nevere his lyf
so myrie a wedded man.
520 Hoold thou thy pees,
thou poete Marcian,
That writest us that
ilke weddyng murie
Of hire Philologie
and hym Mercurie,
And of the songes
that the Muses songe!
To smal is bothe thy
penen, and eek thy tonge,
525 For to descryven of
this mariage.
Whan tendre youthe
hath wedded stoupyng age,
Ther is swich myrthe
that it may nat be writen.
Assayeth it youreself,
thanne may ye witen
If that I lye or noon
in this matiere.
530
Mayus, that sit with so benyngne a chiere,
Hire to biholde it
semed fayerye.
Queene Ester looked
nevere with swich an ye
On Assuer, so meke
a look hath she.
I may yow nat devyse
al hir beautee.
535 But thus muche of hire
beautee telle I may,
That she was lyk the
brighte morwe of May,
Fulfild of alle beautee
and plesaunce.
This Januarie is ravysshed in a traunce
At every tyme he looked
on hir face;
540 But in his herte he
gan hire to manace
That he that nyght
in armes wolde hire streyne
Harder than evere
Parys dide Eleyne.
But nathelees yet
hadde he greet pitee
That thilke nyght
offenden hire moste he,
545 And thoughte, "Allas!
O tendre creature,
Now wolde God ye myghte
wel endure
Al my corage, it is
so sharp and keene!
I am agast ye shul
it nat sustene.
But God forbede that
I dide al my myght!
550 Now wolde God that it
were woxen nyght,
And that the nyght
wolde lasten everemo.
I wolde that al this
peple were ago."
And finally he dooth
al his labour,
As he best myghte,
savynge his honour,
555 To haste hem fro the
mete in subtil wyse.
The tyme cam that resoun was to ryse;
And after that men
daunce and drynken faste,
And spices al aboute
the hous they caste,
And ful of joye and
blisse is every man, -
560 Al but a squyer, highte
Damyan,
Which carf biforn
the knyght ful many a day.
He was so ravysshed
on his lady May
That for the verray
peyne he was ny wood.
Almoost he swelte
and swowned ther he stood,
565 So soore hath Venus
hurt hym with hire brond,
As that she bar it
daunsynge in hire hond;
And to his bed he
wente hym hastily.
Namoore of hym as
at this tyme speke I,
But there I lete hym
wepe ynogh and pleyne,
570 Til fresshe May wol
rewen on his peyne.
O perilous fyr, that in the bedstraw bredeth!
O famulier foo, that
his servyce bedeth!
O servant traytour,
false hoomly hewe,
Lyk to the naddre
in bosom sly untrewe,
575 God shilde us alle from
youre aqueyntaunce!
O Januarie, dronken
in plesaunce
In mariage, se how
thy Damyan,
Thyn owene squier
and thy borne man,
Entendeth for to do
thee vileynye.
580 God graunte thee thyn
hoomly fo t'espye!
For in this world
nys worse pestilence
Than hoomly foo al
day in thy presence.
Parfourned hath the sonne his ark diurne;
No lenger may the
body of hym sojurne
585 On th'orisonte, as in
that latitude.
Night with his mantel,
that is derk and rude,
Gan oversprede the
hemysperie aboute;
For which departed
is this lusty route
Fro Januarie, with
thank on every syde.
590 Hoom to hir houses lustily
they ryde,
Where as they doon
hir thynges as hem leste,
And whan they sye
hir tyme, goon to reste.
Soone after than,
this hastif Januarie
Wolde go to bedde,
he wolde no lenger tarye.
595 He drynketh ypocras,
clarree, and vernage
Of spices hoote, t'encreessen
his corage;
And many a letuarie
hath he ful fyn,
Swiche as the cursed
monk, daun Constantyn,
Hath writen in his
book De Coitu;
600 To eten hem alle he
nas no thyng eschu.
And to his privee
freendes thus seyde he:
"For Goddes love,
as soone as it may be,
Lat voyden al this
hous in curteys wyse."
And they han doon
right as he wol devyse.
605 Men drynken, and the
travers drawe anon.
The bryde was broght
abedde as stille as stoon;
And whan the bed was
with the preest yblessed,
Out of the chambre
hath every wight hym dressed;
And Januarie hath
faste in armes take
610 His fresshe May, his
paradys, his make.
He lulleth hire, he
kisseth hire ful ofte;
With thikke brustles
of his berd unsofte,
Lyk to the skyn of
houndfyssh, sharp as brere -
For he was shave al
newe in his manere -
615 He rubbeth hire aboute
hir tendre face,
And seyde thus, "Allas!
I moot trespace
To yow, my spouse,
and yow greetly offende,
Er tyme come that
I wil doun descende.
But nathelees, considereth
this," quod he,
620 "Ther nys no werkman,
whatsoevere he be,
That may bothe werke
wel and hastily;
This wol be doon at
leyser parfitly.
It is no fors how
longe that we pleye;
In trewe wedlok coupled
be we tweye;
625 And blessed be the yok
that we been inne,
For in oure actes
we mowe do no synne.
A man may do no synne
with his wyf,
Ne hurte hymselven
with his owene knyf;
For we han leve to
pleye us by the lawe."
630 Thus laboureth he til
that the day gan dawe;
And thanne he taketh
a sop in fyn clarree,
And upright in his
bed thanne sitteth he,
And after that he
sang ful loude and cleere,
And kiste his wyf,
and made wantown cheere
635 He was al coltissh,
ful of ragerye,
And ful of jargon
as a flekked pye.
The slakke skyn aboute
his nekke shaketh,
Whil that he sang,
so chaunteth he and craketh.
But God woot what
that may thoughte in hir herte,
640 Whan she hym saugh up
sittynge in his sherte,
In his nyght-cappe,
and with his nekke lene;
She preyseth nat his
pleyyng worth a bene.
Thanne seide he thus,
"My reste wol I take;
Now day is come, I
may no lenger wake."
645 And doun he leyde his
heed, and sleep til pryme.
And afterward, whan
that he saugh his tyme,
Up ryseth Januarie;
but fresshe May
Heeld hire chambre
unto the fourthe day,
As usage is of wyves
for the beste.
650 For every labour somtyme
moot han reste,
Or elles longe may
he nat endure;
This is to seyn, no
lyves creature,
Be it of fyssh, or
bryd, or beest, or man.
Now wol I speke of woful Damyan,
655 That langwissheth for
love, as ye shul heere;
Therfore I speke to
hym in this manere:
I seye, "O sely Damyan,
allas!
Andswere to my demaunde,
as in this cas.
How shaltow to thy
lady, fresshe May,
660 Telle thy wo? She wole
alwey seye nay.
Eek if thou speke,
she wol thy wo biwreye.
God be thyn helpe!
I kan no bettre seye."
This sike Damyan in Venus fyr
So brenneth that he
dyeth for desyr,
665 For which he putte his
lyf in aventure.
No lenger myghte he
in this wise endure,
But prively a penner
gan he borwe,
And in a lettre wroot
he al his sorwe,
In manere of a compleynt
or a lay,
670 Unto his faire, fresshe
lady may;
And in a purs of sylk,
heng on his sherte
He hath it put, and
leyde it at his herte.
The moone, that at noon was thilke day
That Januarie hath
wedded fresshe May
675 In two of Tawr, was
into Cancre glyden;
So longe hath Mayus
in hir chambre abyden,
As custume is unto
thise nobles alle.
A bryde shal nat eten
in the halle
Til dayes foure, or
thre dayes atte leeste,
680 Ypassed been; thanne
lat hire go to feeste.
The fourthe day compleet
fro noon to noon,
Whan that the heighe
masse was ydoon,
In halle sit this
Januarie and May,
As fressh as is the
brighte someres day.
685 And so bifel how that
this goode man
Remembred hym upon
this Damyan,
And seyde, "Seynte
Marie! how may this be,
That Damyan entendeth
nat to me?
Is he ay syk, or how
may this bityde?"
690 His squieres, whiche
that stooden ther bisyde,
Excused hym by cause
of his siknesse,
Which letted hym to
doon his bisynesse;
Noon oother cause
myghte make hym tarye.
"That me forthynketh," quod this Januarie,
695
"He is a gentil squier, by my trouthe!
If that he deyde,
it were harm and routhe.
He is as wys, discreet,
and as secree
As any man I woot
of his degree,
And therto manly,
and eek servysable.
700 And for to been a thrifty
man right able.
But after mete, as
soone as evere I may,
I wol myself visite
hym, and eek May,
To doon hym al the
confort that I kan."
And for that word
hym blessed every man,
705 That of his bountee
and his gentillesse
He wolde so conforten
in siknesse
His squier, for it
was a gentil dede.
"Dame," quod this
Januarie, "taak good hede,
At after-mete ye with
youre wommen alle,
710 Whan ye han been in
chambre out of this halle,
That alle ye go se
this Damyan.
Dooth hym disport
- he is a gentil man;
And telleth hym that
I wol hym visite,
Have I no thyng but
rested me a lite;
715 And spede yow faste,
for I wole abyde
Til that ye slepe
faste by my syde."
And with that word
he gan to hym to calle
A squier, that was
marchal of his halle,
And tolde hym certeyn
thynges, what he wolde.
720
This fresshe May hath streight hir wey yholde,
With alle hir wommen,
unto Damyan.
Doun by his beddes
syde sit she than,
Confortynge hym as
goodly as she may.
This Damyan, whan
that his tyme he say,
725 In secree wise his purs
and eek his bille,
In which that he ywriten
hadde his wille,
Hath put into hire
hand, withouten moore,
Save that he siketh
wonder depe and soore
And softely to hire
right thus seyde he:
730 "Mercy! and that ye
nat discovere me,
For I am deed if that
this thyng be kyd."
This purs hath she
inwith hir bosom hyd,
And wente hire wey;
ye gete namoore of me.
But unto Januarie
ycomen is she,
735 That on his beddes syde
sit ful softe.
He taketh hire, and
kisseth hire ful ofte,
And leyde hym doun
to slepe, and that anon.
She feyned hire as
that she moste gon
Ther as ye woot that
every wight moot neede;
740 And whan she of this
bille hath taken heede,
She rente it al to
cloutes atte laste,
And in the pryvee
softely it caste.
Who studieth now but faire fresshe May?
Adoun by olde Januarie
she lay,
745 That sleep til that
the coughe hath hym awaked.
Anon he preyde hire
strepen hire al naked;
He wolde of hire,
he seyde, han som plesaunce,
And seyde hir clothes
dide hym encombraunce,
And she obeyeth, be
hire lief or looth.
750 But lest that precious
folk be with me wrooth,
How that he wroghte,
I dar nat to yow telle;
Or wheither hire thoughte
it paradys or helle.
But heere I lete hem
werken in hir wyse
Til evensong rong,
and that they moste aryse.
755
Were it by destynee or aventure,
Were it by influence
or by nature,
Or constellacion,
that in swich estaat
The hevene stood,
that tyme fortunaat
Was for to putte a
bille of Venus werkes -
760 For alle thyng hath
tyme, as seyn thise clerkes -
To any womman, for
to gete hire love,
I kan nat seye; but
grete God above,
That knoweth that
noon act is causeless,
He deme of al, for
I wole hole my pees.
765 But sooth is this, how
that this fresshe May
Hath take swich impression
that day
Of pitee of this sike
Damyan,
That from hire herte
she ne dryve kan
The remembrance for
to doon hym ese.
770 "Certeyn," thoghte she,
"whom that this thyng displese,
I rekke noght, for
heere I hym assure
To love hym best of
any creature,
Though he namoore
hadde than his sherte."
Lo, pitee renneth
soone in gentil herte!
775
Heere may ye se how excellent franchise
In wommen is, whan
they hem narwe avyse.
Som tyrant is, as
ther be many oon,
That hath an herte
as hard as any stoon,
Which wolde han lat
hym sterven in the place
780 Wel rather than han
graunted hym hire grace;
And hem rejoysen in
hire crueel pryde,
And rekke nat to been
an homycide.
This gentil May, fulfilled of pitee,
Right of hire hand
a lettre made she,
785 In which she graunteth
hym hire verray grace.
Ther lakketh noght,
oonly but day and place,
Wher that she myghte
unto his lust suffise;
For it shal be right
as he wole devyse.
And whan she saugh
hir tyme, upon a day,
790 To visite this Damyan
gooth May,
And sotilly this lettre
doun she threste
Under his pilwe, rede
it if hym leste.
She taketh hym by
the hand, and harde hym twiste
So secrely that no
wight of it wiste,
795 And bad hym been al
hool, and forth she wente
To Januarie, whan
that he for hire sente.
Up riseth Damyan the nexte morwe;
Al passed was his
siknesse and his sorwe.
He kembeth hym, he
preyneth hym and pyketh,
800 He dooth al that his
lady lust and lyketh;
And eek to Januarie
he gooth as lowe
As evere dide a dogge
for the bowe.
He is so plesant unto
every man
(For craft is al,
whoso that do it kan)
805 That every wight is
fayn to speke hym good;
And fully in his lady
grace he stood.
Thus lete I Damyan
aboute his nede,
And in my tale forth
I wol procede.
Somme clerkes holden that felicitee
810 Stant in delit, and
therfore certeyn he,
This noble Januarie,
with al his myght,
In honest wyse, as
longeth to a knyght,
Shoop hym to lyve
ful deliciously.
His housynge, his
array, as honestly
815 To his degree was maked
as a kynges.
Amonges othere of
his honeste thynges,
He made a gardyn,
walled al with stoon;
So fair a gardyn woot
I nowher noon.
For, out of doute,
I verraily suppose
820 That he that wroot the
romance of the rose
Ne koude of it the
beautee wel devyse;
Ne Priapus ne myghte
nat suffise,
Though he be God of
gardyns, for to telle
The beautee of the
gardyn and the welle,
825 That stood under a laurer
alwey grene.
Ful ofte tyme he Pluto
and his queene,
Proserpina, and al
hire fayerye,
Disporten hem and
maken melodye
Aboute that welle,
and daunced, as men tolde.
830
This noble knyght, this Januarie the olde,
Swich deyntee hath
in it to walke and pleye,
That he wol no wight
suffren bere the keye
Save he hymself; for
of the smale wyket
He baar alwey of silver
a clyket,
835 With which, whan that
hym leste, he it unshette.
And whan he wolde
paye his wyf hir dette
In somer seson, thider
wolde he go,
And May his wyf, and
no wight but they two;
And thynges whiche
that were nat doon abedde,
840 He in the gardyn parfourned
hem and spedde.
And in this wyse,
many a murye day,
Lyved this Januarie
and fresshe May.
But worldly joye may
nat alwey dure
To Januarie, ne to
creature.
845
O sodeyn hap! O thou fortune unstable!
Lyk to the scorpion
so deceyvable,
That flaterest with
thyn heed whan thou wolt stynge;
Thy tayl is deeth,
thurgh thyn envenymynge.
O brotil joye! o sweete
venym queynte!
850 O monstre, that so subtilly
kanst peynte
Thy yiftes under hewe
of stidefastnesse,
That thou deceyvest
bothe moore and lesse!
Why hastow Januarie
thus deceyved,
That haddest hym for
thy fulle freend receyved?
855 And now thou hast biraft
hym bothe his ye,
For sorwe of which
desireth he to dyen.
Allas! this noble Januarie free,
Amydde his lust and
his prosperitee,
Is woxen blynd, and
that al sodeynly,
860 He wepeth and he wayleth
pitously;
And therwithal the
fyr of jalousie,
Lest that his wyf
sholde falle in som folye,
So brente his herte
that he wolde fayn
That som man bothe
hire and hym had slayn.
865 For neither after his
deeth, nor in his lyf,
Ne wolde he that she
were love ne wyf,
But evere lyve as
wydwe in clothes blake,
Soul as the turtle
that lost hath hire make,
But atte laste, after
a month or tweye
870 His sorwe gan aswage,
sooth to seye;
For whan he wiste
it may noon oother be,
He paciently took
his adversitee,
Save, out of doute,
he may nat forgoon
That he nas jalous
everemoore in oon;
875 Which jalousye it was
so outrageous,
That neither in halle,
n'yn noon oother hous,
Ne in noon oother
place, neverthemo,
He nolde suffre hire
for to ryde or go,
But if that he had
hond on hire alway;
880 For which ful ofte wepeth
fresshe May,
That loveth Damyan
so benyngnely
That she moot outher
dyen sodeynly,
Or elles she moot
han hym as hir leste.
She wayteth whan hir
herte wolde breste.
885 Upon that oother syde
Damyan
Bicomen is the sorwefulleste
man
That evere was; for
neither nyght ne day
Ne myghte he speke
a word to fresshe May,
As to his purpos,
of no swich mateere,
890 But if that Januarie
moste it heere,
That hadde an hand
upon hire everemo.
But nathelees, by
writyng to and fro,
And privee signes,
wiste he what she mente,
And she knew eek the
fyn of his entente.
895 O Januarie, what myghte
it thee availle,
Thogh thou myghte
se as fer as shippes saille?
For as good is blynd
deceyved be
As to be deceyved
whan a man may se.
Lo, Argus, which that hadde an hondred yen,
900 For al that evere he
koude poure or pryen,
Yet was he blent,
and, God woot, so been mo,
That wenen wisly that
it be nat so.
Passe over is an ese,
I sey namoore.
This fresshe May,
that I spak of so yoore,
905 In warm wex hath emprented
the clyket
That Januarie bar
of the smale wyket,
By which into his
gardyn ofte he wente;
And Damyan, that knew
al hire entente,
The cliket countrefeted
pryvely.
910 Ther nys namoore to
seye, but hastily
Som wonder by this
clyket shal bityde,
Which ye shul heeren,
if ye wole abyde.
O noble Ovyde, ful sooth seystou, God woot,
What sleighte is it,
thogh it be long and hoot,
915 That Love nyl fynde
it out in som manere?
By Piramus and Tesbee
may men leere;
Thogh they were kept
ful longe streite overal,
They been accorded,
rownynge thurgh a wal,
Ther no wight koude
han founde out swich a sleighte.
920 But now to purpos: er
that dayes eighte
Were passed, er the
month of Juyn, bifil
That Januarie hath
caught so greet a wil,
Thurgh eggyng of his
wyf, hym for to pleye
In his gardyn, and
no wight but they tweye,
925 That in a morwe unto
his May seith he:
"Rys up, my wyf, my
love, my lady free!
The turtles voys is
herd, my dowve sweete;
The wynter is goon
with alle his reynes weete.
Com forth now, with
thyne eyen columbyn!
930 How fairer been thy
brestes than is wyn!
The gardyn is enclosed
al aboute;
Com forth, my white
spouse! Out of doute
Thou hast me wounded
in myn herte, o wyf!
No spot of thee ne
knew I al my lyf.
935 Com forth, and lat us
taken oure disport;
I chees thee for my
wyf and my confort."
Swiche olde lewed wordes used he.
On Damyan a signe
made she,
That he sholde go
biforn with his cliket.
940 This Damyan thanne hath
opened the wyket,
And in he stirte,
and that in swich manere
That no wight myghte
it se neither yheere,
And stille he sit
under a bussh anon.
This Januarie, as
blynd as is a stoon,
945 With Mayus in his hand,
and no wight mo,
Into his fresshe gardyn
is ago,
And clapte to the
wyket sodeynly.
"Now wyf," quod he, "heere nys but thou and I,
That art the creature
that I best love.
950 For by that lord that
sit in hevene above,
Levere ich hadde to
dyen on a knyf,
Than thee offende,
trewe deere wyf!
For Goddes sake, thenk
how I thee chees,
Noght for no coveitise,
doutelees,
955 But oonly for the love
I had to thee.
And though that I
be oold, and may nat see,
Beth to me trewe,
and I wol telle yow why.
Thre thynges, certes,
shal ye wynne therby:
First, love of Crist,
and to youreself honour,
960 And al myn heritage,
toun and tour;
I yeve it yow, maketh
chartres as yow leste;
This shal be doon
to-morwe er sonne reste,
So wisly God my soule
brynge in blisse.
I prey yow first,
in covenant ye me kisse;
965 And though that I be
jalous, wyte me noght.
Ye been so depe enprented
in my thoght
That, whan that I
considere youre beautee,
And therwithal the
unlikly elde of me,
I may nat, certes,
though I sholde dye,
970 Forbere to been out
of youre compaignye
For verray love; this
is withouten doute.
Now kys me, wyf, and
lat us rome aboute."
This fresshe May, whan she thise wordes herde,
Benyngnely to Januarie
answerde,
975 But first and forward
she bigan to wepe.
"I have," quod she,
"a soule for to kepe
As wel as ye, and
also myn honour,
And of my wyfhod thilke
tendre flour,
Which that I have
assured in youre hond,
980 Whan that the preest
to yow my body bond;
Wherfore I wole answere
in this manere,
By the leve of yow,
my lord so deere:
I prey to God that
nevere dawe the day
That I ne sterve,
as foule as womman may,
985 If evere I do unto my
kyn that shame,
Or elles I empeyre
so my name,
That I be fals; and
if I do that lak,
Do strepe me and put
me in a sak,
And in the nexte ryver
do me drenche.
990 I am a gentil womman
and no wenche.
Why speke ye thus?
But men been evere untrewe,
And wommen have repreve
of yow ay newe.
Ye han noon oother
contenance, I leeve,
But speke to us of
untrust and repreeve."
995
And with that word she saugh wher Damyan
Sat in the bussh,
and coughen she bigan,
And with hir fynger
signes made she
That Damyan sholde
clymbe upon a tree,
That charged was with
fruyt, and up he wente.
1000 For verraily he knew
al hire entente,
And every signe that
she koude make,
Wel bet than Januarie,
hir owene make;
For in a lettre she
hadde toold
hym al
Of this matere, how
he werchen shal.
1005 And thus I lete hym
sitte upon the pyrie,
And Januarie and may
romynge ful myrie.
Bright was the day, and blew the firmament;
Phebus hath of gold
his stremes doun ysent,
To gladen every flour
with his warmnesse.
1010 He was that tyme in
Geminis, as I gesse,
But litel fro his
declynacion
Of Cancer, Jovis exaltacion.
And so bifel, that
brighte morwe-tyde,
That in that gardyn,
in the ferther syde,
1015 Pluto, that is kyng
of Fayerye,
And many a lady in
his compaignye,
Folwynge his wyf,
the queene Proserpyna,
Which that he ravysshed
out of Ethna
Whil that she gadered
floures in the mede -
1020 In Claudyan ye may
the stories rede,
How in his grisely
carte he hire fette -
This kyng of fairye
thanne adoun hym sette
Upon a bench of turves,
fressh and grene,
And right anon thus
seyde he to his queene:
1025
"My wyf," quod he, "ther may no wight seye nay;
Th'experience so preveth
every day
The tresons whiche
that wommen doon to man.
Ten hondred thousand
(tales) tellen I kan
Notable of youre untrouthe
and brotilnesse.
1030 O Salomon, wys, and
richest of richesse,
Fulfild of sapience
and of worldly glorie,
Ful worthy been thy
wordes to memorie
To every wight that
wit and reson kan.
Thus preiseth he yet
the bountee of man:
1035 'Amonges a thousand
men yet foond I oon,
But of wommen alle
foond I noon.' -
Thus seith the kyng that knoweth youre wikkednesse.
And Jhesus, filius
Syrak, as I gesse,
Ne speketh of yow
but seelde reverence.
1040 A wylde fyr and corrupt
pestilence
So falle upon youre
bodyes yet to-nyght!
Ne se ye nat this
honurable knyght,
By cause, allas that
he is blynd and old,
His owene man shal
make hym cokewold.
1045 Lo, where he sit, the
lechour, in the tree!
Now wol I graunten,
of my magestee,
Unto this olde, blynde,
worthy knyght
That he shal have
ayen his eyen syght,
Whan that his wyf
wold doon hym vileynye.
1050 Thanne shal he knowen
al hire harlotrye,
Bothe in repreve of
hire and othere mo."
Ye shal?" quod Proserpyne, "wol ye so?
Now by my moodres
sires soule I swere
That I shal yeven
hire suffisant answere,
1055 And alle wommen after,
for hir sake;
That, though they
be in any gilt ytake,
With face boold they
shulle hemself excuse,
And bere hem doun
that wolden hem accuse.
For lak of answere
noon of hem shal dyen.
1060 Al hadde man seyn a
thyng with bothe his yen,
Yit shul we wommen
visage it hardily,
And wepe, and swere,
and chyde subtilly,
So that ye man shul
been as lewed as gees.
What rekketh me of
youre auctoritees?
1065 I woot wel that this
Jew, this Salomon,
Foond of us wommen
fooles many oon.
But though that he
ne foond no good womman,
Yet hath ther founde
many another man
Wommen ful trewe,
ful goode, and vertuous.
1070 Witnesse on hem that
dwelle in cristes hous;
With martirdom they
preved hire constance.
The Romayn geestes
eek make remembrance
Of many a verray,
trewe wyf also.
But, sire, ne be nat
wrooth, al be it so,
1075 Though that he seyde
he foond no good womman,
I prey yow take the
sentence of the man;
He mente thus, that
in sovereyn bontee
Nis noon but god,
but neither he ne she.
Ey! for verray god, that nys but oon,
1080 What make ye so muche
of Salomon?
What though he made
a temple, goddes hous?
What though he were
riche and glorious?
So made he eek a temple
of false goddis.
How myghte he do a
thyng that moore forbode is?
1085 Pardee, as faire as
ye his name emplastre,
He was a lecchour
and an ydolastre,
And in his elde he
verray God forsook;
And if this God ne
hadde, as seith the book,
Yspared hem for his
fadres sake, he sholde
1090 Have lost his regne
rather than he wolde.
I sette right noght,
of al the vileynye
That ye of wommen
write, a boterflye!
I am a womman, nedes
moot I speke,
Of elles swelle til
myn herte breke.
1095 For sithen he seyde
that we been jangleresses,
As evere hool I moote
brouke my tresses,
I shal nat spare,
for no curteisye,
To speke hym harm
that wolde us vileynye."
"Dame," quod this Pluto, "be no lenger wrooth;
1100 I yeve it up! But sith
I swoor myn ooth
That I wolde graunten
hym his sighte ageyn,
My word shal stonde,
I warne yow certeyn.
I am a kyng, it sit
me noght to lye."
"And I," quod she, "a queene of Fayerye!
1105 Hir answere shal she
have, I undertake.
Lat us namoore wordes
heerof make;
For sothe, I wol no
lenger yow contrarie.
Now lat us turne agayn to Januarie,
That in the gardyn
with his faire May
1110 Syngeth ful murier
than the papejay,
"Yow love I best,
and shal, and oother noon."
So longe aboute the
aleyes is he goon,
Til he was come agaynes
thilke pyrie
Where as this Damyan
sitteth ful myrie
1115 An heigh among the
fresshe leves grene.
This fresshe May, that is so bright and sheene,
Gan for to syke, and
seyde, "Allas, my syde!
Now sire," quod she,
"for aught that may bityde,
I moste han of the
peres that I see,
1120 Or I moot dye, so soore
longeth me
To eten of the smale
peres grene.
Help, for hir love
that is of hevene queene!
I telle yow wel, a
womman in my plit
May han to fruyt so
greet an appetit
1125 That she may dyen,
but she of it have."
"Allas," quod he, "that I ne had heer a knave
That koude clymbe!
Allas, Allas," quod he,
For I am blynd!" "Ye,
sire, no fors," quod she;
But wolde ye vouche
sauf, for Goddes sake,
1130 The pyrie inwith youre
armes for to take,
For wel I woot that
ye mystruste me,
Thanne sholde I clymbe
wel ynogh," quod she,
"So I my foot myghte
sette ypon youre bak."
"Certes," quod he, "theron shal be no lak,
1135 Mighte I yow helpen
with myn herte blood."
He stoupeth doun,
and on his bak she stood,
And caughte hire by
a twiste, and up she gooth -
Ladyes, I prey yow
that ye be nat wrooth;
I kan nat glose, I
am a rude man -
1140 And sodeynly anon this
Damyan
Gan pullen up the
smok, and in he throng.
And whan that Pluto saugh this grete wrong,
To Januarie he gaf
agayn his sighte,
And made hym se as
wel as evere he myghte.
1145 And whan that he hadde
caught his sighte agayn,
Ne was ther nevere
man of thyng so fayn,
But on his wyf his
thoght was everemo.
Up to the tree he
caste his eyen two,
And saugh that Damyan
his wyf had dressed
1150 In swich manere it
may nat been expressed,
But if I wolde speke
uncurteisly;
And up he yaf a roryng
and a cry,
As dooth the mooder
whan the child shal dye:
"Out! Help! Allas!
Harrow!" he gan to crye,
1155 "O stronge lady stoore,
what dostow?"
And she answerde, "Sire, what eyleth yow?
Have pacience and
resoun in youre mynde!
I have yow holpe on
bothe youre eyen blynde.
Up peril of my soule,
I shal nat lyen,
1160 As me was taught, to
heele with youre eyen,
Was no thyng bet,
to make yow to see,
Than strugle with
a man upon a tree.
God woot, I dide it
in ful good entente".
"Strugle?" quod he, "ye algate in it wente!
1165 God yeve yow bothe
on shames deth to dyen!
He swyved thee, I
saugh it with myne yen,
And elles be I hanged
by the hals!"
"Thanne is," quod she, "my medicyne fals;
For certeinly, if
that ye myghte se.
1170 Ye wolde nat seyn thise
wordes unto me.
Ye han som glymsyng,
and no parfit sighte."
"I se," quod he, "as wel as evere I myghte,
Thonked be god! with
bothe myne eyen two,
And by my trouthe,
me thoughte he dide thee so."
1175
"Ye maze, maze, goode sire," quod she;
"This thank have I
for I have maad yow see.
Allas," quod she,
"that evere I was so kynde!
"Now, dame," quod he, "lat al passe out of mynde.
Com doun, my lief,
and if I have myssayd,
1180 God helpe me so, as
I am yvele apayd.
But, by my fader soule,
I wende han seyn
How that this Damyan
hadde by thee leyn,
And that thy smok
hadde leyn upon his brest.
"Ye sire," quod she, "ye may wene as yow lest.
1185 But, sire, a man that
waketh out of his sleep,
He may nat sodeynly
wel taken keep
Upon a thyng, ne seen
it parfitly,
Til that he be adawed
verraily.
Right so a man that
longe hath blynd ybe,
1190 Ne may nat sodeynly
so wel yse,
First whan his sighte
is newe come ageyn,
As he that hath a
day or two yseyn.
Til that youre sighte
ysatled be a while,
Ther may ful many
a sighte yow bigile.
1195 Beth war, I prey yow;
for, by hevene kyng,
Ful many a man weneth
to seen a thyng,
And it is al another
than it semeth.
He that mysconceyveth,
he mysdemeth."
And with that word
she leep doun fro the tree,
1200
This Januarie, who is glad but he?
He kisseth hire, and
clippeth hire ful ofte,
And on hire wombe
he stroketh hire ful softe,
And to his palays
hoom he hath hire lad.
Now, goode men, I
pray yow to be glad.
1205 Thus endeth heere my
tale of Januarie;
God blesse us, and
his mooder Seinte Marie!
Heere is ended the Marchantes
Tale of Januarie. |
Here begins the Merchant's
Tale
Once on a time there dwelt
in Lombardy
One born in Pavia, a knight
worthy,
And there he lived in great
prosperity;
And sixty years a wifeless
man was he,
And followed ever his bodily
delight
In women, whereof was his
appetite,
As these fool laymen will,
so it appears.
And when he had so passed
his sixty years,
Were it for piety or for
dotage
I cannot say, but such a
rapturous rage
Had this knight to become
a wedded man
That day and night he did
his best to scan
And spy a place where he
might wedded be;
Praying Our Lord to grant
to him that he
Might once know something
of that blissful life
That is between a husband
and his wife;
And so to live within that
holy band
Wherein God first made man
and woman stand.
"No other life," said he,
"is worth a
bean;
For wedlock is so easy and
so clean
That in this world it is
a paradise."
Thus said this ancient knight,
who was so wise.
And certainly, as sure as
God is King,
To take a wife, it is a
glorious thing,
Especially when a man is
old and hoary;
Then is a wife the fruit
of wealth and glory.
Then should he take a young
wife and a fair,
On whom he may beget himself
an heir,
And lead his life in joy
and in solace,
Whereas these bachelors
do but sing "Alas!"'
When they fall into some
adversity
In love, which is but childish
vanity.
And truly, it is well that
it is so
That bachelors have often
pain and woe;
On shifting ground they
build, and shiftiness
They find when they suppose
they've certainness.
They live but as a bird
does, or a beast,
In liberty and under no
arrest,
Whereas a wedded man in
his high state
Lives a life blissful, ordered,
moderate,
Under the yoke of happy
marriage bound;
Well may his heart in joy
and bliss abound.
For who can be so docile
as a wife?
Who is so true as she whose
aim in life
Is comfort for him, sick
or well, to make?
For weal or woe she will
not him forsake.
She's ne'er too tired to
love and serve, say I,
Though he may lie bedridden
till he die.
And yet some writers say
it is not so,
And Theophrastus is one
such, I know.
What odds though Theophrastus
chose to lie?
"Take not a wife," said
he, "for husbandry,
If you would spare in household
your expense;
A faithful servant does
more diligence
To keep your goods than
your own wedded wife.
For she will claim a half
part all her life;
And if you should be sick,
so God me save,
Your true friends or an
honest serving knave
Will keep you better than
she that waits, I say,
After your wealth, and has
done, many a day.
And if you take a wife to
have and hold,
Right easily may you become
cuckold."
This judgment and a hundred
such things worse
Did this man write, may
God his dead bones curse!
But take no heed of all
such vanity.
Defy old Theophrastus and
hear me.
A wife is God's own gift,
aye verily;
All other kinds of gifts,
most certainly,
As lands, rents, pasture,
rights in common land,
Or moveables, in gift of
Fortune stand,
And pass away like shadows
on the wall.
But, without doubt, if plainly
speak I shall,
A wife will last, and in
your house endure
Longer than you would like,
peradventure.
But marriage is a solemn
sacrament;
Who has no wife I hold on
ruin bent;
He lives in helplessness,
all desolate,
I speak of folk in secular
estate.
And hearken why, I say not
this for naught:
It's because woman was for
man's help wrought.
The High God, when He'd
Adam made, all rude,
And saw him so alone and
belly-nude,
God of His goodness thus
to speak began:
"Let us now make a help
meet for this man,
Like to himself." And then
he made him Eve.
Here may you see, and here
prove, I believe,
A wife is a man's help and
his comfort,
His earthly paradise and
means of sport;
So docile and so virtuous
is she
That they must needs live
in all harmony.
One flesh they are, and
one flesh, as I guess,
Has but one heart in weal
and in distress.
A wife! Ah, Holy Mary, ben'cite!
How may a man have any adversity
Who has a wife? Truly, I
cannot say.
The bliss that is between
such two, for aye,
No tongue can tell, nor
any heart can think.
If he be poor, why, she
helps him to swink;
She keeps his money and
never wastes a deal;
All that her husband wishes
she likes well;
She never once says "nay"
when he says "yea."
"Do this," says he; "All
ready, sir," she'll say.
O blissful state of wedlock,
prized and dear,
So pleasant and so full
of virtue clear,
So much approved and praised
as fortune's peak,
That every man who holds
him worth a leek
Upon his bare knees ought,
through all his life,
To give God thanks, Who's
sent to him a wife;
Or else he should pray God
that He will send
A wife to him, to last till
his life's end.
For then his life is set
in certainness;
He cannot be deceived, as
I may guess,
So that he act according
as she's said;
Then may he boldly carry
high his head,
They are so true and therewithal
so wise;
Wherefore, if you will do
as do the wise,
Then aye as women counsel
be your deed.
Lo, how young Jacob, as
these clerics read,
About his hairless neck
a kid's skin bound,
A trick that Dame Rebecca
for him found,
By which his father's benison
he won.
Lo, Judith, as the ancient
stories run,
By her wise counsel she
God's people kept,
And Holofernes slew, while
yet he slept.
Lo, Abigail, by good advice
how she
Did save her husband, Nabal,
when that he
Should have been slain;
and lo, Esther also
By good advice delivered
out of woe
The people of God and got
him, Mordecai,
By King Ahasuerus lifted
high.
There is no pleasure so
superlative
(Says Seneca) as a humble
wife can give.
Suffer your wife's tongue,
Cato bids, as fit;
She shall command, and you
shall suffer it;
And yet she will obey, of
courtesy.
A wife is keeper of your
husbandry;
Well may the sick man wail
and even weep
Who has no wife the house
to clean and keep.
I warn you now, if wisely
you would work,
Love well your wife, as
Jesus loves His Kirk.
For if you love yourself,
you love your wife;
No man hates his own flesh,
but through his life
He fosters it, and so I
bid you strive
To cherish her, or you shall
never thrive.
Husband and wife, despite
men's jape or play,
Of all the world's folk
hold the safest way;
They are so knit there may
no harm betide,
Especially upon the good
wife's side.
For which this January,
of whom I told,
Did well consider in his
days grown old,
The pleasant life, the virtuous
rest complete
That are in marriage, always
honey-sweet;
And for his friends upon
a day he sent
To tell them the effect
of his intent.
With sober face his tale
to them he's told;
He said to them: "My friends,
I'm hoar and old,
And almost, God knows, come
to my grave's brink;
About my soul, now, somewhat
must I think.
I have my body foolishly
expended;
Blessed be God, that thing
be amended!
For I will be, truly, a
wedded man,
And that anon, in all the
haste I can,
Unto some maiden young in
age and fair.
I pray you for my marriage
all prepare,
And do so now, for I will
not abide;
And I will try to find one,
on my side,
To whom I may be wedded
speedily.
But for as much as you are
more than I,
It's better that you have
the thing in mind
And try a proper mate for
me to find.
"But of one thing I warn
you, my friends dear,
I will not have an old wife
coming here.
She shan't have more than
twenty years, that's plain;
Of old fish and young flesh
I am full fain.
Better," said he, "a pike
than pickerel;
And better than old beef
is tender veal.
I'll have no woman thirty
years of age,
It is but bean-straw and
such rough forage.
And these old widows, God
knows that, afloat,
They know so much of spells
when on Wade's boat,
And do such petty harm,
when they think best,
That with one should I never
live at rest.
For several schools can
make men clever clerks;
Woman in many schools learns
clever works.
But certainly a young thing
men may guide,
Just as warm wax may with
one's hands be plied.
Wherefore I tell you plainly,
in a clause,
I will not have an old wife,
for that cause.
For if it chanced I made
that sad mistake
And never in her could my
pleasure take,
My life I'd lead then in
adultery
And go straight to the devil
when I die.
No children should I then
on her beget;
Yet would I rather hounds
my flesh should fret
Than that my heritage descend
and fall
Into strange hands, and
this I tell you all.
I dote not, and I know the
reason why
A man should marry, and
furthermore know I
There speaks full many a
man of all marriage
Who knows no more of it
than knows my page,
Nor for what reasons man
should take a wife.
If one may not live chastely
all his life,
Let him take wife whose
quality he's known
For lawful procreation of
his own
Blood children, to the honour
of God above,
And not alone for passion
or for love;
And because lechery they
should eschew
And do their family duty
when it's due;
Or because each of them
should help the other
In trouble, as a sister
shall a brother;
And live in chastity full
decently.
But, sirs, and by your leave,
that is not I.
For, God be thanked, I dare
to make a vaunt,
I feel my limbs are strong
and fit to jaunt
In doing all man's are expected
to;
I know myself and know what
I can do.
Though I am hoar, I fare
as does a tree
That blossoms ere the fruit
be grown; you see
A blooming tree is neither
dry nor dead.
And I feel nowhere hoary
but on head;
My heart and all my limbs
are still as green
As laurel through the year
is to be seen.
And now that you have heard
all my intent,
I pray that to my wish you
will assent."
Then divers men to him diversely
told,
Of marriage, many an instance
known of old.
Some blamed it and some
praised it, that's certain,
But at the last, and briefly
to make plain,
Since altercation follows
soon or late
When friends begin such
matters to debate,
There fell a strife between
his brothers two,
Whereof the name of one
was Placebo
And verily Justinus was
that other.
Placebo said: "O January,
brother,
Full little need had you,
my lord so dear,
Counsel to ask of anyone
that's here;
Save that you are so full
of sapience
That you like not, what
of your high prudence,
To vary from the word of
Solomon.
This word said he to each
and every one:
'Do everything by counsel,'
thus said he,
'And then thou hast no cause
to repent thee.'
But although Solomon spoke
such a word,
My own dear brother and
my proper lord,
So truly may God bring my
soul to rest
As I hold your own counsel
is the best.
For, brother mine, of me
take this one word,
I've been a courtier all
my days, my lord.
And God knows well, though
I unworthy be
I have stood well, and in
full great degree,
With many lords of very
high estate;
Yet ne'er with one of them
had I debate.
I never contradicted, certainly;
I know well that my lord
knows more than I.
Whate'er he says, I hold
it firm and stable;
I say the same, or nearly
as I'm able.
A full great fool is any
Councillor
That serves a lord of any
high honour
And dares presume to say,
or else think it,
His counsel can surpass
his lordship's wit.
Nay, lords are never fools,
nay, by my fay;
You have yourself, sir,
showed, and here today,
With such good sense and
piety withal
That I assent to and confirm
it all,
The words and the opinions
you have shown.
By God, there is no man
in all this town,
Or Italy, it better could
have phrased;
And Christ Himself your
counsel would have praised
And truthfully, it argues
high courage
In any man that is advanced
in age
To take a young wife; by
my father's kin,
A merry heart you've got
beneath your skin?
Do in this matter at your
own behest,
For, finally, I hold that
for the best."
Justinus, who sat still
and calm, and heard,
Right in this wise Placebo
he answered:
"Now, brother mine, be patient,
so I pray;
Since you have spoken, hear
what I shall say.
For Seneca, among his words
so wise,
Says that a man ought well
himself advise
To whom he'll give his chattels
or his land.
And since I ought to know
just where I stand
Before I give my wealth
away from me,
How much more well advised
I ought to be
To whom I give my body;
for alway
I warn you well, that it
is not child's play
To take a wife without much
advisement.
Men must inquire, and this
is my intent,
Whether she's wise, or sober,
or drunkard,
Or proud, or else in other
things froward,
Or shrewish, or a waster
of what's had,
Or rich, or poor, or whether
she's man-mad.
And be it true that no man
finds, or shall,
One in this world that perfect
is in all,
Of man or beast, such as
men could devise;
Nevertheless, it ought enough
suffice
With any wife, if so were
that she had
More traits of virtue that
her vices bad;
And all this leisure asks
to see and hear.
For God knows I have wept
full many a tear
In privity, since I have
had a wife.
Praise whoso will a wedded
man's good life,
Truly I find in it, but
cost and care
And many duties, of all
blisses bare.
And yet, God knows, my neighbours
round about,
Especially the women, many
a rout,
Say that I've married the
most steadfast wife,
Aye, and the meekest one
there is in life.
But I know best where pinches
me my shoe.
You may, for me, do as you
please to do;
But take good heed, since
you're a man of age,
How you shall enter into
a marriage,
Especially with a young
wife and a fair.
By Him Who made the water,
earth, and air,
The youngest man there is
in all this rout
Is busy enough to bring
the thing about
That he alone shall have
his wife, trust me.
You'll not be able to please
her through years three,
That is to say, to give
all she desires.
A wife attention all the
while requires.
I pray you that you be not
offended."
"Well?" asked this January,
"And have you said?
A straw for Seneca and your
proverbs!
I value not a basketful
of herbs
Your schoolmen's terms;
for wiser men than you,
As you have heard, assent
and bid me do
My purpose now. Placebo,
what say ye?"
"I say it is a wicked man,"
said he,
"That hinders matrimony,
certainly."
And with that word they
rose up, suddenly,
Having assented fully that
he should
Be wedded when he pleased
and where he would.
Imagination and his eagerness
Did in the soul of January
press
As he considered marriage
for a space.
Many fair shapes and many
a lovely face
Passed through his amorous
fancy, night by night.
As who might take mirror
polished bright
And set it in the common
market-place
And then should see full
many a figure pace
Within the mirror; just
in that same wise
Did January within his thought
surmise
Of maidens whom he dwelt
in town beside.
He knew not where his fancy
might abide.
For if the one have beauty
of her face,
Another stands so in the
people's grace
For soberness and for benignity,
That all the people's choice
she seems to be;
And some were rich and had
an evil name.
Nevertheless, half earnest,
half in game,
He fixed at last upon a
certain one
And let all others from
his heart be gone,
And chose her on his own
authority;
For love is always blind
and cannot see.
And when in bed at night,
why then he wrought
To portray, in his heart
and in his thought,
Her beauty fresh and her
young age, so tender,
Her middle small, her two
arms long and slender,
Her management full wise,
her gentleness,
Her womanly bearing, and
her seriousness.
And when to her at last
his choice descended,
He thought that choice might
never be amended.
For when he had concluded
thus, egad,
He thought that other men
had wits so bad
It were impossible to make
reply
Against his choice, this
was his fantasy.
His friends he sent to,
at his own instance,
And prayed them give him,
in this wise, pleasance,
That speedily they would
set forth and come:
He would abridge their labour,
all and some.
He need not more to walk
about or ride,
For he'd determined where
he would abide.
Placebo came, and all his
friends came soon,
And first of all he asked
of them the boon
That none of them an argument
should make
Against the course he fully
meant to take;
"Which purpose pleasing
is to God," said he,
"And the true ground of
my felicity."
He said there was a maiden
in the town
Who had for beauty come
to great renown,
Despite the fact she was
of small degree;
Sufficed him well her youth
and her beauty.
Which maid, he said, he
wanted for his wife,
To lead in ease and decency
his life.
And he thanked God that
he might have her, all,
That none partook of his
bliss now, nor shall.
And prayed them all to labour
in this need
And so arrange that he'd
fail not, indeed;
For then, he said, his soul
should be at case.
"And then," said he, "there's
naught can me displease,
Save one lone thing that
sticks in my conscience,
The which I will recite
in your presence.
"I have," said he, "heard
said, and long ago,
There may no man have perfect
blisses two,
That is to say, on earth
and then in Heaven.
For though he keep from
sins the deadly seven,
And, too, from every branch
of that same tree,
Yet is there so complete
felicity
And such great pleasure
in the married state
That I am fearful, since
it comes so late,
That I shall lead so merry
and fine a life,
And so delicious, without
woe and strife,
That I shall have my heaven
on earth here.
For since that other Heaven
is bought so dear,
With tribulation and with
great penance,
How should I then, who live
in such pleasance,
As all these wedded men
do with their wives,
Come to the bliss where
Christ Eternal lives?
This is my fear, and you,
my brothers, pray
Resolve for me this problem
now, I say."
Justinus, who so hated this
folly,
Answered anon in jesting
wise and free;
And since he would his longish
tale abridge,
He would no old authority
allege,
But said: "Sir, so there
is no obstacle
Other than this, God, of
high miracle
And of His mercy, may so
for you work
That, ere you have your
right of Holy Kirk,
You'll change your mind
on wedded husband's life,
Wherein you say there is
no woe or strife.
And otherwise, God grant
that there be sent
To wedded man the fair grace
to repent
Often, and sooner than a
single man!
And therefore, sir, this
is the best I can:
Despair not, but retain
in memory,
Perhaps she may your purgatory
be!
She may be God's tool, she
may be God's whip;
Then shall your spirit up
to Heaven skip
Swifter than does an arrow
from the bow!
I hope to God, hereafter
you shall know
That there is none so great
felicity
In marriage, no nor ever
shall there be,
To keep you from salvation
that's your own,
So that you use, with reason
that's well known,
The charms of your wife's
body temperately,
And that you please her
not too amorously,
And that you keep as well
from other sin.
My tale is done now, for
my wit is thin.
Be not deterred hereby,
my brother dear"-
(But let us pass quite over
what's said here.
The wife of Bath, if you
have understood,
Has treated marriage, in
its likelihood,
And spoken well of it in
little space)-
"Fare you well now, God
have you in His grace."
And with that word this
Justin and his brother
Did take their leave, and
each of them from other.
For when they all saw that
it must needs be,
They so arranged, by sly
and wise treaty,
That she, this maiden, who
was Maia hight,
As speedily indeed as ever
she might,
Should wedded be unto this
January.
I think it were too long
a time to tarry
To tell of deed and bond
between them, and
The way she was enfeoffed
of all his land;
Or to hear tell of all her
rich array.
But finally was come the
happy day
When to the church together
they two went,
There to receive the holy
sacrament.
Forth came the priest with
stole about his neck,
Saying of Rebecca and Sarah
she should reck
For wisdom and for truth
in her marriage;
And said his orisons, as
is usage,
And crossed them, praying
God that He should bless,
And made all tight enough
with holiness.
Thus are they wedded with
solemnity,
And at the feast are sitting,
he and she,
With other worthy folk upon
the dais.
All full of joy and bliss
the palace gay is,
And full of instruments
and viandry,
The daintiest in all of
Italy.
Before them played such
instruments anon
That Orpheus or Theban Amphion
Never in life made such
a melody.
With every course there
rose loud minstrelsy,
And never Joab sounded trump,
to hear,
Nor did Theodomas, one half
so clear
At Thebes, while yet the
city hung in doubt.
Bacchus the wine poured
out for all about,
And Venus gaily laughed
for every wight.
For January had become her
knight,
And would make trial of
his amorous power
In liberty and in the bridal
bower;
And with her firebrand in
her hand, about
Danced she before the bride
and all the rout.
And certainly I dare right
well say this,
That Hymenaeus, god of wedded
bliss,
Ne'er saw in life so merry
a married man.
Hold thou thy peace, thou
poet Marcian
Who tellest how Philology
was wed
And how with Mercury she
went to bed,
And of the sweet songs by
the Muses sung.
Too slight are both thy
pen and thy thin tongue.
To show aright this wedding
on thy page.
When tender youth has wedded
stooping age,
There is such mirth that
no one may it show;
Try it yourself, and then
you well will know
Whether I lie or not in
matters here.
Maia, she sat there with
so gentle cheer,
To look at her it seemed
like faery;
Queen Esther never looked
with such an eye
Upon Ahasuerus, so meek
was she.
I can't describe to you
all her beauty;
But thus much of her beauty
I can say,
That she was like the brightening
morn of May,
Fulfilled of beauty and
of all pleasance.
January was rapt into a
trance
With each time that he looked
upon her face;
And in his heart her beauty
he'd embrace,
And threatened in his arms
to hold her tight,
Harder than Paris Helen
did, that night.
But nonetheless great pity,
too, had he
Because that night she must
deflowered be;
And thought: "Alas! O tender
young creature!
Now would God you may easily
endure
All my desire, it is so
sharp and keen.
I fear you can't sustain
it long, my queen.
But God forbid that I do
all I might!
And now would God that it
were come to night,
And that the night would
last for ever- oh,
I wish these people would
arise and go."
And at the last he laboured
all in all,
As best he might for Manners
there in hall,
To haste them from the feast
in subtle wise.
Time came when it was right
that they should rise;
And after that men danced
and drank right fast,
And spices all about the
house they cast;
And full of bliss and joy
was every man,
All but a squire, a youth
called Damian,
Who'd carved before the
knight full many a day.
He was so ravished by his
Lady May
That for the very pain,
as madman would,
Almost he fell down fainting
where he stood.
So sore had Venus hurt him
with her brand,
When she went dancing, bearing
it in hand.
And to his bed he took him
speedily;
No more of him just at this
time say I.
I'll let him weep his fill,
with woe complain,
Until fresh May have ruth
upon his pain.
O parlous fire that in the
bedstraw breeds!
O foe familiar that his
service speeds!
O treacherous servant, false
domestic who
Is most like adder in bosom,
sly, untrue,
God shield us all from knowing
aught of you!
O January, drunk of pleasure's
brew
In marriage, see how now
your Damian,
Your own trained personal
squire, born your man,
Wishes and means to do you
villainy.
God grant that on this household
foe you'll spy!
For in this world no pestilence
is worse
Than foe domestic, constantly
a curse.
When traversed has the sun
his are of day,
No longer may the body of
him stay
On the horizon, in that
latitude.
Night with his mantle, which
is dark and rude,
Did overspread the hemisphere
about;
And so departed had this
joyous rout
From January, with thanks
on every side.
Home to their houses happily
they ride,
Whereat they do what things
may please them best,
And when they see the time
come, go to rest.
Soon after that this hasty
January
Would go to bed, he would
no longer tarry.
He drank of claret, hippocras,
vernage,
All spiced and hot to heighten
his love's rage;
And many an aphrodisiac,
full and fine,
Such as the wicked monk,
Dan Constantine,
Has written in his book
De Coitu
Not one of all of them he
did eschew.
And to his friends most
intimate, said he:
"For God's love, and as
soon as it may be,
Let all now leave this house
in courteous wise."
And all they rose, just
as he bade them rise.
They drank good-night, and
curtains drew anon;
The bride was brought to
bed, as still as stone;
And when the bed had been
by priest well blessed,
Out of the chamber everyone
progressed.
And January lay down close
beside
His fresh young May, his
paradise, his bride.
He soothed her, and he kissed
her much and oft,
With the thick bristles
of his beard, not soft,
But sharp as briars, like
a dogfish skin,
For he'd been badly shaved
ere he came in.
He stroked and rubbed her
on her tender face,
And said: "Alas! I fear
I'll do trespass
Against you here, my spouse,
and much offend
Before the time when I will
down descend.
But nonetheless, consider
this," said he,
"There is no workman, whosoe'er
he be,
That may work well, if he
works hastily;
This will be done at leisure,
perfectly.
It makes no difference how
long we two play;
For in true wedlock were
we tied today;
And blessed be the yoke
that we are in,
For in our acts, now, we
can do no sin.
A man can do no sin with
his own wife,
Nor can he hurt himself
with his own knife;
For we have leave most lawfully
to play."
Thus laboured he till came
the dawn of day;
And then he took in wine
a sop of bread,
And upright sat within the
marriage bed,
And after that he sang full
loud and clear
And kissed his wife and
made much wanton cheer.
He was all coltish, full
of venery,
And full of chatter as a
speckled pie.
The slackened skin about
his neck did shake
The while he sang and chanted
like a crake.
But God knows what thing
May thought in her heart
When up she saw him sitting
in his shirt,
In his nightcap, and with
his neck so lean;
She valued not his playing
worth a bean.
Then said he thus: "My rest
now will I take;
Now day is come, I can no
longer wake."
And down he laid his head
and slept till prime.
And afterward, when saw
he it was time,
Up rose this January; but
fresh May,
She kept her chamber until
the fourth day,
As custom is of wives, and
for the best.
For every worker sometime
must have rest,
Or else for long he'll certainly
not thrive,
That is to say, no creature
that's alive,
Be it of fish, or bird,
or beast, or man.
Now will I speak of woeful
Damian,
Who languished for his love,
as you shall hear;
I thus address him in this
fashion here.
I say: "O hapless Damian,
alas!
Answer to my demand in this
your case,
How shall you to your lady,
lovely May,
Tell all your woe? She would
of course say 'Nay.'
And if you speak, she will
your state betray;
God be your help! I can
no better say."
This lovesick Damian in
Venus' fire
So burned, he almost perished
for desire;
Which put his life in danger,
I am sure;
Longer in this wise could
he not endure;
But privily a pen-case did
he borrow
And in a letter wrote he
all his sorrow,
In form of a complaint or
of a lay,
Unto his fair and blooming
Lady May.
And in a purse of silk hung
in his shirt,
He put the poem and laid
it next his heart.
The moon, which was at noon
of that same day
Whereon this January wedded
May
Half way through Taurus,
had to Cancer glided,
So long had Maia in her
chamber bided.
As is the custom among nobles
all.
A bride shall not eat in
the common hall
Until four days, or three
days at the least,
Have fully passed; then
let her go to feast.
On the fourth day, complete
from noon to noon,
After the high Mass had
been said and done,
In hall did January sit
with May
As fresh as is the fair
bright summer day.
And so befell it there that
this good man
Recalled to mind his squire,
this Damian,
And said: "Why holy Mary!
How can it be
That Damian attends not
here on me?
Is he sick always? How may
this betide?"
His other squires, who waited
there beside,
Made the excuse that he
indeed was ill,
Which kept him from his
proper duties still;
There was no other cause
could make him tarry.
"That is a pity," said this
January,
"He is a gentle squire,
aye, by my truth!
If he should die, it were
great harm and ruth;
As wise and secret, and
discreet is he
As any man I know of his
degree;
Therewith he's manly and
he's serviceable,
And to become a useful man
right able.
But after meat, as soon
as ever I may,
I will myself go visit him,
with May,
To give him all the comfort
that I can."
And for that word they blessed
him, every man,
Because, for goodness and
his gentleness,
He would so go to comfort,
in sickness,
His suffering squire, for
'twas a gentle deed.
"Dame," said this January,
"take good heed
That after meat, you, with
your women all,
When you have gone to chamber
from this hall,
That all you go to see this
Damian;
Cheer him a bit, for he's
a gentleman;
And tell him that I'll come
to visit him
After I've rested- a short
interim;
And get this over quickly,
for I'll bide
Awake until you sleep there
at my side."
And with that word he raised
his voice to call
A squire, who served as
marshal of his hall,
And certain things he wished
arranged were told.
This lovely May then did
her straight way hold,
With all her women, unto
Damian.
Down by his bed she sat,
and so began
To comfort him with kindly
word and glance.
This Damian, when once he'd
found his chance,
In secret wise his purse
and letter, too,
Wherein he'd said what he
aspired to,
He put into her hand, with
nothing more,
Save that he heaved a sigh
both deep and sore,
And softly to her in this
wise said he:
"Oh, mercy! Don't, I beg
you, tell on me;
For I'm but dead if this
thing be made known."
This purse she hid in bosom
of her gown
And went her way; you get
no more of me.
But unto January then came
she,
Who on his bedside sat in
mood full soft.
He took her in his arms
and kissed her oft,
And laid him down to sleep,
and that anon.
And she pretended that she
must be gone
Where you know well that
everyone has need.
And when she of this note
had taken heed,
She tore it all to fragments
at the last
And down the privy quietly
it cast.
Who's in brown study now
but fair fresh May?
Down by old January's side
she lay,
Who slept, until the cough
awakened him;
He prayed her strip all
naked for his whim;
He would have pleasure of
her, so he said,
And clothes were an incumbrance
when in bed,
And she obeyed him, whether
lief or loath.
But lest these precious
folk be with me wroth,
How there he worked, I dare
not to you tell;
Nor whether she thought
it paradise or hell;
But there I leave them working
in their wise
Till vespers rang and they
must needs arise.
Were it by destiny or merely
chance,
By nature or some other
circumstance,
Or constellation's sign,
that in such state
The heavens stood, the time
was fortunate
To make request concerning
Venus' works
(For there's a time for
all things, say these clerks)
To any woman, to procure
her love,
I cannot say; but the great
God above,
Who knows there's no effect
without a cause,
He may judge all, for here
my voice withdraws.
But true it is that this
fair blooming May
Was so affected and impressed
that day
For pity of this lovesick
Damian,
That from her heart she
could not drive or ban
Remembrance of her wish
to give him ease.
"Certainly," thought she,
"whom this may displease
I do not care, for I'd assure
him now
Him with my love I'd willingly
endow,
Though he'd no more of riches
than his shirt."
Lo, pity soon wells up in
gentle heart.
Here may you see what generosity
In women is when they advise
closely.
Perhaps some tyrant (for
there's many a one)
Who has a heart as hard
as any stone,
Would well have let him
die within that place
Much rather than have granted
him her grace;
And such would have rejoiced
in cruel pride,
Nor cared that she were
thus a homicide.
This gentle May, fulfilled
of all pity,
With her own hand a letter
then wrote she
In which she granted him
her utmost grace;
There was naught lacking
now, save time and place
Wherein she might suffice
to ease his lust:
For all should be as he
would have it, just;
And when she'd opportunity
on a day,
To visit Damian went this
lovely May,
And cleverly this letter
she thrust close
Under his pillow, read it
if he chose.
She took him by the hand
and hard did press,
So secretly that no one
else could guess,
And bade him gain his health,
and forth she went
To January, when for her
he sent.
Up rose this Damian upon
the morrow,
For gone was all his sickness
and his sorrow.
He combed himself and preened
his feathers smooth,
He did all that his lady
liked, in sooth;
And then to January went
as low
As ever did a hound trained
to the bow.
He was so pleasant unto
every man
(For craft is everything
for those who can),
That everyone was fain to
speak his good;
And fully in his lady's
grace he stood.
Thus Damian I leave about
his need
And forward in my tale I
will proceed.
Some writers hold that all
felicity
Stands in delight, and therefor,
certainly,
This noble January, with
all his might,
Honourably, as does befit
a knight,
Arranged affairs to live
deliciously.
His housing, his array,
as splendidly
Befitted his condition as
a king's.
Among the rest of his luxurious
things
He built a garden walled
about with stone;
So fair a garden do I know
of none.
For, without doubt, I verily
suppose
That he who wrote The Romance
of the Rose
Could not its beauty say
in singing wise;
Nor could Priapus' power
quite suffice,
Though he is god of gardens
all, to tell
The beauty of that garden,
and the well
Which was beneath the laurel
always green.
For oftentimes God Pluto
and his queen,
Fair Proserpine and all
her faery
Disported there and made
sweet melody
About that well, and danced
there, as men told.
This noble knight, this
January old,
Such pleasure had therein
to walk and play,
That none he'd suffer bear
the key, they say.
Save he himself; for of
the little wicket
He carried always the small
silver clicket
With which, as pleased him,
he'd unlock the gate.
And when he chose to pay
court to his mate
In summer season, thither
would he go
With May, his wife, and
no one but they two;
And divers things that were
not done abed,
Within that garden there
were done, 'tis said.
And in this manner many
a merry day
Lived this old January and
young May.
But worldly pleasure cannot
always stay,
And January's joy must pass
away.
O sudden chance, O Fortune,
thou unstable,
Like to the scorpion so
deceptive, able
To flatter with thy mouth
when thou wilt sting;
Thy tail is death, through
thine envenoming.
O fragile joy! O poison
sweetly taint!
O monster that so cleverly
canst paint
Thy gifts in all the hues
of steadfastness
That thou deceivest both
the great and less!
Why hast thou January thus
deceived,
That had'st him for thine
own full friend received?
And now thou hast bereft
him of his eyes,
For sorrow of which in love
he daily dies.
Alas! This noble January
free,
In all his pleasure and
prosperity,
Is fallen blind, and that
all suddenly.
He wept and he lamented,
pitifully;
And therewithal the fire
of jealousy
Lest that his wife should
fall to some folly,
So burned within his heart
that he would fain
Both him and her some man
had swiftly slain.
For neither after death
nor in his life
Would he that she were other's
love or wife,
But dress in black and live
in widow's state,
Lone as the turtle-dove
that's lost her mate.
But finally, after a month
or twain,
His grief somewhat abated,
to speak plain;
For when he knew it might
not elsewise be,
He took in patience his
adversity,
Save, doubtless, he could
not renounce, as done,
His jealousy, from which
he never won.
For this his passion was
so outrageous
That neither in his hall
nor other house
Nor any other place, not
ever, no,
He suffered her to ride
or walking go,
Unless he had his hand on
her alway;
For which did often weep
this fresh young May,
Who loved her Damian so
tenderly
That she must either swiftly
die or she
Must have him as she willed,
her thirst to slake;
Biding her time, she thought
her heart would break.
And on the other side this
Damian
Was now become the most
disconsolate man
That ever was; for neither
night nor day
Might he so much as speak
a word to May
Of his desire, as I am telling
here,
Save it were said to January's
ear,
Who never took his blind
hand off her, no.
Nevertheless, by writing
to and fro
And secret signals, he knew
what she meant;
And she too knew the aim
of his intent.
O January, what might it
now avail
Could your eyes see as far
as ships can sail?
For it's as pleasant, blind,
deceived to be
As be deceived while yet
a man may see.
Lo, Argus, who was called
the hundred-eyed,
No matter how he peered
and watched and pried,
He was deceived; and God
knows others to
Who think, and firmly, that
it is not so.
Oblivion is peace; I say
no more.
This lovely May, of whom
I spoke before,
In warm wax made impression
of the key
Her husband carried, to
the gate where he
In entering his garden often
went.
And Damian, who knew all
her intent,
The key did counterfeit,
and privately;
There is no more to say,
but speedily
Some mischief of this latch-key
shall betide,
Which you shall hear, if
you but time will bide.
O noble Ovid, truth you
say, God wot!
What art is there, though
it be long and hot,
But Love will find it somehow
suits his turn?
By Pyramus and Thisbe may
men learn;
Though they were strictly
kept apart in all,
They soon accorded, whispering
through a wall,
Where none could have suspected
any gate.
But now to purpose: ere
had passed: days eight,
And ere the first day of
July, befell
That January was under such
a spell,
Through egging of his wife,
to go and play
Within his garden, and no
one but they,
That on a morning to this
May said he:
"Rise up, my wife, my love,
my lady free;
The turtle's voice is heard,
my dove so sweet;
The winter's past, the rain's
gone, and the sleet;
Come forth now with your
two eyes columbine!
How sweeter are your breasts
than is sweet wine!
The garden is enclosed and
walled about;
Come forth, my white spouse,
for beyond all doubt
You have me ravished in
my heart, O wife!
No fault have I found in
you in my life.
Come forth, come forth,
and let us take our sport;
I chose you for my wife
and my comfort."
Such were the lewd old words
that then used he;
To Damian a secret sign
made she
That he should go before
them with his clicket;
This Damian then opened
up the wicket,
And in he slipped, and that
in manner such
That none could see nor
hear; and he did crouch
And still he sat beneath
a bush anon.
This January, blind as is
a stone,
With Maia's hand in his,
and none else there,
Into his garden went, so
fresh and fair,
And then clapped to the
wicket suddenly.
"Now, wife," said he, "here's
none but you and I,
And you're the one of all
that I best love.
For by that Lord Who sits
in Heaven above,
Far rather would I die upon
a knife
Than do offence to you,
my true, dear wife!
For God's sake how I did
choose you out,
And for no love of money,
beyond doubt,
But only for the love you
roused in me.
And though I am grown old
and cannot see,
Be true to me, and I will
tell you why.
Three things, it's certain,
shall you gain thereby;
First, Christ's dear love,
and honour of your own,
And all my heritage of tower
and town;
I give it you, draw deeds
to please you, pet;
This shall be done tomorrow
ere sunset.
So truly may God bring my
soul to bliss,
I pray you first, in covenant,
that we kiss.
And though I'm jealous,
yet reproach me not.
You are so deeply printed
in my thought
That, when I do consider
your beauty
And therewith all the unlovely
age of me,
I cannot, truly, nay, though
I should die,'
Abstain from being in your
company,
For utter love; of this
there is no doubt.
Now kiss me, wife, and let
us walk about."
This blooming May, when
these words she had heard,
Graciously January she answered,
But first and foremost she
began to weep.
"I have also," said she,
"a soul to keep,
As well as you, and also
honour mine,
And of my wifehood that
sweet flower divine
Which I assured you of,
both safe and sound,
When unto you that priest
my body bound;
Wherefore I'll answer you
in this manner,
If I may by your leave,
my lord so dear.
I pray to God that never
dawns the day
That I'll not die, foully
as woman may,
If ever I do unto my kin
such shame,
And likewise damage so my
own fair name,
As to be false; and if I
grow so slack,
Strip me and put me naked
in a sack
And in the nearest river
let me drown.
I am a lady, not a wench
of town.
Why speak you thus? Men
ever are untrue,
And woman have reproaches
always new.
No reason or excuse have
you, I think,
And so you harp on women
who hoodwink."
And with that word she saw
where Damian
Sat under bush; to cough
then she began,
And with her slender finger
signs made she
That Damian should climb
into a tree
That burdened was with fruit,
and up he went;
For verily he knew her full
intent,
And understood each sign
that she could make,
Better than January, her
old rake.
For in a letter she had
told him all
Of how he should proceed
when time should fall.
And thus I leave him in
the pear-tree still
While May and January roam
at will.
Bright was the day and blue
the firmament,
Phoebus his golden streamers
down has sent
To gladden every flower
with his warmness.
He was that time in Gemini,
I guess,
And but a little from his
declination
Of Cancer, which is great
Jove's exaltation.
And so befell, in that bright
morning-tide,
That in this garden, on
the farther side,
Pluto, who is the king of
Faery,
With many a lady in his
company,
Following his wife, the
fair Queen Proserpine,
Each after other, straight
as any line
(While she was gathering
flowers on a mead,
In Claudian you may the
story read
How in his grim car he had
stolen her)-
This king of Faery sat down
yonder
Upon a turfen bank all fresh
and green,
And right anon thus said
he to his queen.
"My wife," said he, "there
may no one say nay;
Experience proves fully
every day
The treason that these women
do to man.
Ten hundred thousand stories
tell I can
To show your fickleness
and lies. Of which,
O Solomon wise, and richest
of the rich,
Fulfilled of sapience and
worldly glory,
Well worth remembrance are
thy words and story
By everyone who's wit, and
reason can.
Thus goodness he expounds
with praise of man:
'Among a thousand men yet
found I one,
But of all women living
found I none.'
"Thus spoke the king that
knew your wickedness;
And Jesus son of Sirach,
as I guess,
Spoke of you seldom with
much reverence.
A wild-fire and a rotten
pestilence
Fall on your bodies all
before tonight!
Do you not see this honourable
knight,
Because, alas! he is both
blind and old,
His own sworn man shall
make him a cuckold;
Lo, there he sits, the lecher,
in that tree.
Now will I grant, of my
high majesty,
Unto this old and blind
and worthy knight,
That he shall have again
his two eyes' sight,
Just when his wife shall
do him villainy;
Then shall he know of all
her harlotry,
Both in reproach to her
and others too."
"You shall," said Proserpine,
"if will you so;
Now by my mother's father's
soul, I swear
That I will give her adequate
answer,
And all such women after,
for her sake;
That, though in any guilt
caught, they'll not quake,
But with a bold face they'll
themselves excuse,
And bear him down who would
them thus accuse.
For lack of answer none
of them shall die.
Nay, though a man see things
with either eye,
Yet shall we women brazen
shamelessly
And weep and swear and wrangle
cleverly,
So that you men shall stupid
be as geese.
What do I care for your
authorities?
"I know well that this Jew,
this Solomon
Found fools among us women,
many a one,
But though he never found
a good woman,
Yet has there found full
many another man
Women right true, right
good, and virtuous
Witness all those that dwell
in Jesus' house;
With martyrdom they proved
their constancy.
The Gesta Romanorum speak
kindly
Of many wives both good
and true also.
But be not angry, sir, though
it be so
That he said he had found
no good woman,
I pray you take the meaning
of the man;
He meant that sovereign
goodness cannot be.
Except in God, Who is the
Trinity.
"Ah, since of very God there
is but one,
Why do you make so much
of Solomon?
What though he built a temple
for God's house?
What though he were both
rich and glorious?
So built he, too, a temple
to false gods,
How could he with the Law
be more at odds?
By gad, clean as his name
you whitewash, sir,
He was a lecher and idolater;
And in old age the True
God he forsook.
And if that God had not,
as says the Book,
Spared him for father David's
sake, he should
Have lost his kingdom sooner
than he would.
I value not, of all the
villainy
That you of women write,
a butterfly.
I am a woman, and needs
must I speak,
Or else swell up until my
heart shall break.
For since he said we gossip,
rail, and scold,
As ever may I my fair tresses
hold,
I will not spare, for any
courtesy,
To speak him ill who'd wish
us villainy."
"Dame," said this Pluto,
"be no longer wroth;
I give it up; but since
I swore my oath
That I would give to him
his sight again,
My word shall stand, I warn
you that's certain.
I am a king, it suits me
not to lie."
"And I," said she, "am queen
of Faery.
Her answer shall she have,
I undertake;
No further talk hereof let
us two make.
Forsooth, I will not longer
be contrary."
Now let us turn again to
January,
Who in the garden with his
lovely May
Sang, and that merrier than
the popinjay,
"I love you best, and ever
shall, I know."
And so about the alleys
did he go
Till he had come at last
to that pear-tree
Wherein this Damian sat
right merrily
On high, among the young
leaves fresh and green.
This blooming May, who was
so bright of sheen,
Began to sigh, and said:
"Alas, my side!
Now, sir," said she, "no
matter what betide,
I must have some of these
pears that I see,
Or I may die, so much I
long," said she,
"To eat some of those little
pears so green.
Help, for Her love Who is
of Heaven Queen!
I tell you well, a woman
in my plight
May have for fruit so great
an appetite
That she may die if none
of it she have."
"Alas!" said he, "that I
had here a knave
That could climb up, alas,
alas!" said he,
"That I am blind." "Yea,
sir, no odds," said she,
"If you'd but grant me,
and for God's dear sake,
That this pear-tree within
your arms you'd take
(For well I know that you
do not trust me),
Then I could climb up well
enough," said she,
"So I my foot might set
upon your back."
"Surely," said he, "thereof
should be no lack,
Might I so help you with
my own heart's blood."
So he stooped down, and
on his back she stood,
And gave herself a twist
and up went she.
Ladies, I pray you be not
wroth with me;
I cannot gloze, I'm an uncultured
man.
For of a sudden this said
Damian
Pulled up her smock and
thrust both deep and long.
And when King Pluto saw
this awful wrong,
To January he gave again
his sight,
And made him see as well
as ever he might.
And when he thus had got
his sight again,
Never was man of anything
so fain.
But since his wife he thought
of first and last,
Up to the tree his eyes
he quickly cast,
And saw how Damian his wife
had dressed
In such a way as cannot
be expressed,
Save I should rudely speak
and vulgarly:
And such a bellowing clamour
then raised he
As does a mother when her
child must die:
"Out! Help! Alas! Oh, help
me!" he did cry,
"Outlandish, brazen woman,
what do you do?"
And she replied: "Why, sir,
and what ails you?
Have patience, and do reason
in your mind
That I have helped you for
your two eyes blind.
On peril of my soul, I tell
no lies,
But I was taught that to
recover eyes
Was nothing better, so to
make you see,
Than struggle with a man
up in a tree.
God knows I did it with
a good intent."
"Struggle!" cried he, "but
damme, in it went!
God give you both a shameful
death to die!
He banged you, for I saw
it with my eye,
Or may they hang me by the
neck up, else!"
"Then is," said she, "my
medicine all false;
For certainly, if you could
really see,
You would not say these
cruel words to me;
You catch but glimpses and
no perfect sight."
"I see," said he, "as well
as ever I might-
Thanks be to God!- and with
my two eyes, too,
And truth, I thought he
did that thing to you."
"You are bewildered still,
good sir," said she,
"Such thanks I have for
causing you to see;
Alas!" she cried, "that
ever I was so kind!"
"Now, dame," said he, "put
all this out of mind.
Come down, my dear, and
if I have missaid,
God help me if I'm not put
out indeed.
But by my father's soul,
I thought to have seen
How Damian right over you
did lean
And that your smock was
pulled up to his breast."
"Yes, sir," said she, "you
may think as seems best;
But, sir, a man that wakens
out of sleep,
He cannot suddenly take
note and keep
Of any thing, or see it
perfectly,
Until he has recovered verily;
Just so a man that blinded
long has been,
He cannot say that suddenly
he's seen
So well, at first, when
sight is new to him,
As later, when his sight's
no longer dim.
Until your sight be settled
for a while,
There may full many a thing
your mind beguile.
Beware, I pray you, for,
by Heaven's King,
Full many a man thinks that
he sees a thing,
And it is other quite than
what it seems.
And he that misconstrues,
why, he misdeems."
And with that word she leaped
down from the tree.
This January, who is glad
but he?
He kissed her and he hugged
her much and oft,
And on her belly stroked
and rubbed her soft,
And home to palace led her,
let me add.
And now, good men, I pray
you to be glad.
For here I end my tale of
January;
God bless us, and His Mother,
Holy Mary!
Here ends the Merchant's
Tale of January |
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