It should be noted that this has been translated from the original Middle English
that Geoffrey Chaucer
wrote it in.
with his showers
sweet with fruit
has pierced unto the root
And bathed each vein
that has power
To generate therein
and sire the flower;
also has, with his sweet breath,
Quickened again, in every holt
The tender shoots and buds, and the young sun
Into the Ram
one half his course has run,
And many little birds make melody
That sleep through all the night with open eye
pricks them on to rant and rage)-
Then do folk long to go on pilgrimage
to go seeking out strange strands,
To distant shrines well known in sundry
And specially from every shire
they to Canterbury went,
The holy blessed martyr
there to seek
Who helped them when they were sick
Befell that, in that season, on a day
, at the Tabard
, as I lay
Ready to start upon my pilgrimage
To Canterbury, full of devout homage
There came at nightfall to that hostelry
Some nine and twenty in a company
Of sundry persons who had chanced to fall
In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all
That toward Canterbury town would ride.
The rooms and stables spacious were and wide,
And well we there were eased, and of the best.
And briefly, when the sun had gone to rest
So had I
spoken with them, every one,
That I was of their fellowship anon
And made agreement that we'd early rise
To take the road, as you I will apprise.
But none the less, whilst I have time and space,
Before yet farther in this tale I pace,
It seems to me accordant with reason
To inform you of the state of every one
Of all of these, as it appeared to me,
And who they were, and what was their degree,
And even how arrayed there at the inn;
And with a Knight
thus will I first begin.
A knight there was, and he a worthy man,
Who, from the moment that he first began
To ride about the world, loved chivalry
and all courtesy
Full worthy was he in his liege-lord
And therein had he ridden (none more far)
As well in Christendom
And honoured everywhere for worthiness.
, he, when it was won;
Full often the table's roster
Above all nations' knights in Prussia
raided he, and Russia
No christened man so oft of his degree.
In far Granada
at the siege
, and in Belmarie
was he and at Satalye
When they were won; and on the Middle Sea
At many a noble meeting chanced to be.
Of mortal battles he had fought fifteen,
And he'd fought for our faith
Three times in lists
, and each time slain his foe.
This self-same worthy knight had been also
At one time with the lord of Palatye
Against another heathen in Turkey
And always won he sovereign
fame for prize.
Though so illustrious, he was very wise
And bore himself as meekly as a maid.
He never yet had any vileness said,,br>
In all his life, to whatsoever wight
He was a truly perfect, gentle knight.
But now, to tell you all of his array
His steeds were good, but yet he was not gay.
Of simple fustian
wore he a jupon
Sadly discoloured by his habergeon
For he had lately come from his voyage
And now was going on this pilgrimage.
With him there was his son, a youthful Squire
A lover and a lusty bachelor
With locks well curled, as if they'd laid in press.
Some twenty years of age he was, I guess.
In stature he was of an average length
Wondrously active, aye, and great of strength.
He'd ridden sometime with the cavalry
, in Artois
, and Picardy
And borne him well within that little space
In hope to win thereby his lady's grace.
he was, as if he were a mead
All full of fresh-cut flowers white and red.
Singing he was, or fluting, all the day;
He was as fresh as is the month of May.
Short was his gown, with sleeves both long and wide.
Well could be sit on horse, and fairly ride.
He could make songs and words thereto indite
, and dance too, as well as sketch and write.
So hot he loved that, while night told her tale,
He slept no more than does a nightingale
Courteous he, and humble, willing and able,
And carved before his father at the table.
had he, nor more servants, no,
At that time, for he chose to travel so;
And he was clad in coat and hood of green
A sheaf of peacock
arrows bright and keen
Under his belt he bore right carefully
(Well could he keep his tackle
His arrows had no bedraggled
And in his hand he bore a mighty bow
A cropped head had he and a sun-browned
knew he all the useful ways.
Upon his arm he bore a bracer
And at one side a sword and buckler, yea,
And at the other side a dagger
Well sheathed and sharp as spear point in the light;
On breast a Christopher
of silver sheen.
He bore a horn in baldric
all of green;
he truly was, I guess.
There was also a nun, a Prioress
Who, in her smiling, modest was and coy;
Her greatest oath was but ‘By Saint Eloy
And she was known as Madam Eglantine
Full well she sang the services divine,
Intoning through her nose, becomingly;
And fair she spoke her French
, and fluently,
After the school of Stratford-at-the-Bow
For French of Paris was not hers to know.
At table she had been well taught withal
And never from her lips let morsels fall,
Nor dipped her fingers deep in sauce, but ate
With so much care the food upon her plate
That never driblet fell upon her breast.
In courtesy she had delight and zest
Her upper lip was always wiped so clean
That in her cup was no iota
Of grease, when she had drunk her draught of wine.
Becomingly she reached for meat to dine.
And certainly delighting in good sport,
She was right pleasant, amiable- in short.
She was at pains to counterfeit
Of courtliness, and stately manners took,
And would be held worthy of reverence.
But, to say something of her moral sense,
She was so charitable and piteous
That she would weep if she but saw a mouse
Caught in a trap, though it were dead or bled.
She had some little dogs, too, that she fed
On roasted flesh, or milk and fine white bread.
But sore she'd weep if one of them were dead,
Or if men smote
it with a rod to smart:
For pity ruled her, and her tender heart.
her pleated wimple
Her nose was fine; her eyes were blue as glass;
Her mouth was small and therewith soft and red;
But certainly she had a fair forehead;
It was almost a full span
broad, I own,
For, truth to tell, she was not undergrown
Neat was her cloak, as I was well aware.
small about her arm she'd bear
A string of beads and gauded
all with green;
And therefrom hung a brooch
of golden sheen
Whereon there was first written a crowned A,
And under, Amor vincit omnia
Another little Nun
with her had she,
Who was her chaplain
; and of priests
there was, one made for mastery,
, who loved his venery
A manly man
, to be an abbot
Full many a blooded horse had he in stable:
And when he rode men might his bridle hear
A-jingling in the whistling wind as clear,
Aye, and as loud as does the chapel bell
Where this brave monk was of the cell
The rule of Maurus
or Saint Benedict
By reason it was old and somewhat strict,
This said monk let such old things slowly pace
And followed new-world manners in their place.
He cared not for that text a clean-plucked hen
Which holds that hunters are not holy men
Nor that a monk, when he is cloister
Is like unto a fish that's waterless;
That is to say, a monk out of his cloister.
But this same text he held not worth an oyster;
And I said his opinion was right good.
What? Should he study as a madman
Upon a book in cloister cell? Or yet
Go labour with his hands and sweat,
bids? How shall the world be served?
Let Austin have his toil to him reserved.
Therefore he was a rider day and night;
s he had, as swift as bird in flight.
Since riding and the hunting of the hare
Were all his love, for no cost would he spare.
I saw his sleeves were puffed at the hand
With fur of grey, the finest in the land;
Also, to fasten hood beneath his chin,
He had of good-wrought gold a curious pin:
in the larger end there was.
His head was bald and shone like any glass,
And smooth as one anointed was his face.
Fat was this lord, he stood in goodly
His bulging eyes he rolled about, and hot
They gleamed and red, like fire beneath a pot;
His boots were soft; his horse of great estate.
Now certainly he was a fine prelate
He was not pale as some poor wasted ghost.
A fat swan
loved he best of any roast.
was as brown as is a berry.
A Friar there was, a wanton and a merry,
, a very festive man.
In all the Orders Four
is none that can
Equal his gossip and his fair language.
He had arranged full many a marriage
Of women young, and this at his own cost.
Unto his order he was a noble post.
Well liked by all and intimate was he
With franklins everywhere in his country,
And with the worthy women of the town:
For at confessing he'd more power in gown
(As he himself said) than it good curate
For of his order he was licentiate
He heard confession gently, it was said,
Gently absolved too, leaving naught
He was an easy man to give penance
When knowing he should gain a good pittance
For to a begging friar, money given
Is sign that any man has been well shriven
For if one gave (he dared to boast of this),
He took the man's repentance not amiss.
For many a man there is so hard of heart
He cannot weep however pains may smart.
Therefore, instead of weeping and of prayer,
Men should give silver to poor friars all bare.
was stuck always full of knives
And pins, to give to young and pleasing wives.
And certainly he kept a merry note:
Well could he sing and play upon the rote.
he bore the prize away.
His throat was white as lily of the May
Yet strong he was as ever champion.
In towns he knew the taverns, every one,
And every good host and each barmaid
Better than begging lepers
, these he knew.
For unto no such solid man as he
Accorded it, as far as he could see,
To have sick lepers for acquaintances.
There is no honest advantageousness
In dealing with such poverty-stricken curs;
It's with the rich and with big victualler
And so, wherever profit might arise,
Courteous he was and humble in men's eyes.
There was no other man so virtuous.
He was the finest beggar of his house;
A certain district being farmed to him,
None of his brethren dared approach its rim;
For though a widow had no shoes to show,
So pleasant was his In principio
He always got a farthing
ere he went.
He lived by pickings, it is evident.
And he could romp as well as any whelp
On love days could he be of mickle
For there he was not like a cloisterer
With threadbare cope as is the poor scholar,
But he was like a lord or like a pope.
Of double worsted
was his semi-cope
That rounded like a bell, as you may guess.
He lisped a little, out of wantonness,
To make his English soft upon his tongue;
And in his harping, after he had sung,
His two eyes twinkled in his head as bright
As do the stars within the frosty night.
This worthy limiter was named Hubert
There was a Merchant
with forked beard, and girt
In motley gown, and high on horse he sat,
Upon his head a Flemish beaver hat
His boots were fastened rather elegantly.
His spoke his notions out right pompously,
Stressing the times when he had won, not lost.
He would the sea were held at any cost
Across from Middleburgh
At money-changing he could make a crown
This worthy man kept all his wits well set;
There was no one could say he was in debt,
So well he governed all his trade affairs
With bargains and with borrowings and with shares.
Indeed, he was a worthy man withal,
But, sooth to say, his name I can't recall.
was with us also,
Who'd turned to getting knowledge, long ago.
As meager was his horse as is a rake
Nor he himself too fat, I'll undertake,
But he looked hollow and went soberly.
Right threadbare was his overcoat; for he
Had got him yet no churchly benefice
Nor was so worldly as to gain office.
For he would rather have at his bed's head
Some twenty books, all bound in black and red,
and his philosophy
Than rich robes, fiddle, or gay psaltery
Yet, and for all he was philosopher,
He had but little gold within his coffer
But all that he might borrow from a friend
On books and learning he would swiftly spend,
And then he'd pray right busily for the souls
Of those who gave him wherewithal
Of study took he utmost care and heed.
Not one word spoke he more than was his need;
And that was said in fullest reverence
And short and quick and full of high good sense.
Pregnant of moral virtue
was his speech;
And gladly would he learn and gladly teach.
A Sergeant of the Law
, wary and wise,
Who'd often gone to Paul's walk
There was also, compact of excellence.
Discreet he was, and of great reverence;
At least he seemed so, his words were so wise.
Often he sat as justice in assize
By patent or commission from the crown;
Because of learning and his high renown,
He took large fees and many robes could own.
So great a purchaser was never known.
All was fee simple to him, in effect,
Wherefore his claims could never be suspect.
Nowhere a man so busy of his class,
And yet he seemed much busier than he was.
All cases and all judgments could he cite
That from King William
's time were apposite
And he could draw a contract so explicit
Not any man could fault therefrom elicit;
And every statute he'd verbatim quote.
He rode but badly in a medley
Belted in a silken sash, with little bars,
But of his dress no more particulars.
There was a Franklin
in his company;
White was his beard as is the white daisy
Of sanguine temperament
by every sign,
He loved right well his morning sop
Delightful living was the goal he'd won,
For he was Epicurus]'s very son,
That held opinion that a full delight
Was true felicity, perfect and right.
A householder, and that a great, was he;
he was in his own country.
His bread and ale were always right well done;
A man with better cellars there was none.
Baked meat was never wanting in his house,
Of fish and flesh, and that so plenteous
It seemed to snow therein both food and drink
Of every dainty that a man could think.
According to the season of the year
He changed his diet and his means of cheer.
Full many a fattened partridge
did he mew,
And many a bream
in fish-pond too.
Woe to his cook, except the sauces were
Poignant and sharp, and ready all his gear.
His table, waiting in his hall always,
Stood ready covered through the livelong day.
At county sessions was he lord and sire
And often acted as a knight of shire.
A dagger and a trinket-bag of silk
Hung from his girdle, white as morning milk.
He had been sheriff
and been auditor
And nowhere was a worthier vavasor
and a Carpenter
, and Weaver
Were with us, clothed in similar livery,
All of one sober, great fraternity
Their gear was new and well adorned it was;
Their weapons were not cheaply trimmed with brass,
But all with silver; chastely made and well
Their girdles and their pouches too, I tell.
Each man of them appeared a proper burgess
To sit in guildhall on a high dais.
And each of them, for wisdom he could span,
Was fitted to have been an alderman
they'd enough, and, too, of rent;
To which their goodwives
gave a free assent,
Or else for certain they had been to blame.
It's good to hear Madam
before one's name,
And go to church when all the world may see,
Having one's mantle borne right royally.
they had with them, just for the nonce
To boil the chickens with the marrow-bones,
And flavour tartly and with galingale
Well could he tell a draught of London ale
And he could roast and seethe and broil and fry,
And make a good thick soup, and bake a pie.
But very ill it was, it seemed to me,
That on his shin a deadly sore had he;
For sweet blanc-mange
, he made it with the best.
There was a Sailor, living far out west;
For aught I know, he was of Dartmouth
He sadly rode a hackney
, in a gown,
Of thick rough cloth falling to the knee.
A dagger hanging on a cord had he
About his neck, and under arm, and down.
The summer's heat had burned his visage brown;
And certainly he was a good fellow.
Full many a draught of wine he'd drawn, I trow
vintage, while the trader slept.
Nice conscience was a thing he never kept.
If that he fought and got the upper hand,
By water he sent them home to every land.
But as for craft, to reckon well his tides,
His currents and the dangerous watersides,
His harbours, and his moon, his pilotage,
There was none such from Hull
to far Carthage
Hardy. and wise in all things undertaken,
By many a tempest
had his beard been shaken.
He knew well all the havens, as they were,
to the Cape of Finisterre
And every creek in Brittany
His vessel had been christened Madeleine
With us there was a Doctor
In all this world was none like him to pick
For talk of medicine and surgery;
For he was grounded in astronomy
He often kept a patient from the pall
By horoscopes and magic natural
Well could he tell the fortune ascendent
Within the houses for his sick patient.
He knew the cause of every malady,
Were it of hot or cold, of moist or dry,
And where engendered, and of what humour
He was a very good practitioner
The cause being known, down to the deepest root,
Anon he gave to the sick man his boot.
Ready he was, with his apothecaries
To send him drugs and all electuaries
By mutual aid much gold they'd always won-
Their friendship was a thing not new begun.
Well read was he in Esculapius
, and in Rufus
, and Hali
, and Galen
, and Avicen
, and Constantine
, and John Damascene
In diet he was measured as could be,
Including naught of superfluity
But nourishing and easy. It's no libel
To say he read but little in the Bible
In blue and scarlet he went clad, withal,
Lined with a taffeta
and with sendal
And yet he was right chary of expense;
He kept the gold he gained from pestilence
For gold in physic is a fine cordial,
And therefore loved he gold exceeding all.
There was a houseWife come from Bath
, or near,
Who- sad to say- was deaf in either ear.
At making cloth she had so great a bent
She bettered those of Ypres
and even of Ghent
In all the parish there was no goodwife
Should offering make before her, on my life;
And if one did, indeed, so wroth was she
It put her out of all her charity.
Her kerchiefs were of finest weave and ground;
I dare swear that they weighed a full ten pound
Which, of a Sunday, she wore on her head.
Her hose were of the choicest scarlet red,
ed, and her shoes were soft and new.
Bold was her face, and fair, and red of hue.
She'd been respectable throughout her life,
With five churched husbands bringing joy and strife,
Not counting other company in youth;
But thereof there's no need to speak, in truth.
Three times she'd journeyed to Jerusalem
And many a foreign stream she'd had to stem;
she'd been, and she'd been in Boulogne
In Spain at Santiago
, and at Cologne
She could tell much of wandering by the way:
was she, it is no lie to say.
Upon an ambler easily she sat,
d, aye, and over all a hat
As broad as is a buckler or a targe
A rug was tucked around her buttocks large
And on her feet a pair of sharpened spurs.
In company well could she laugh her slur
The remedies of love she knew, perchance,
For of that art she'd learned the old, old dance
There was a good man of religion, too,
A country Parson
, poor, I warrant you;
But rich he was in holy thought and work.
He was a learned man also, a clerk,
Who Christ's own gospel truly sought to preach;
Devoutly his parishioners would he teach.
Benign he was and wondrous diligent,
Patient in adverse times and well content,
As he was ofttimes proven; always blithe,
He was right loath to curse to get a tithe
But rather would he give, in case of doubt,
Unto those poor parishioners about,
Part of his income, even of his goods.
Enough with little, coloured all his moods.
Wide was his parish
, houses far asunder
But never did he fail, for rain or thunder:
In sickness, or in sin, or any state,
To visit to the farthest, small and great,
Going afoot, and in his hand, a stave
This fine example to his flock he gave,
That first he wrought and afterwards he taught;
Out of the gospel then that text he caught,
And this figure he added thereunto-
That, if gold rust, what shall poor iron do?
For if the priest be foul, in whom we trust,
What wonder if a layman yield to lust?
And shame it is, if priest take thought for keep,
A shitty shepherd
, shepherding clean sheep.
Well ought a priest example good to give,
By his own cleanness, how his flock should live.
He never let his benefice for hire,
Leaving his flock to flounder in the mire,
And ran to London, up to old Saint Paul's
To get himself a chantry
there for souls,
Nor in some brotherhood did he withhold;
But dwelt at home and kept so well the fold
That never wolf could make his plans miscarry;
He was a shepherd and not mercenary
And holy though he was, and virtuous,
To sinners he was not impiteous,
Nor haughty in his speech, nor too divine,
But in all teaching prudent and benign.
To lead folk into Heaven
but by stress
Of good example was his busyness.
But if some sinful one proved obstinate,
Be who it might, of high or low estate,
Him he reproved, and sharply, as I know.
There is nowhere a better priest, I trow.
He had no thirst for pomp or reverence,
Nor made himself a special, spiced conscience,
But Christ's own lore, and His apostles' twelve
He taught, but first he followed it himself.
With him there was a Plowman
, was his brother,
That many a load of dung
, and many another
Had scattered, for a good true toiler, he,
Living in peace and perfect charity.
He loved God most, and that with his whole heart
At all times, though he played or plied his art,
And next, his neighbour, even as himself.
He'd thresh and dig, with never thought of pelf
For Christ's own sake, for every poor wight
All without pay, if it lay in his might.
He paid his taxes, fully, fairly, well,
Both by his own toil and by stuff he'd sell.
In a tabard he rode upon a mare.
There were also a reeve and miller there;
And these, beside myself, made all there were.
was a stout churl, be it known,
Hardy and big of brawn and big of bone;
Which was well proved, for when he went on lam
At wrestling, never failed he of the ram.
He was a chunky fellow, broad of build;
He'd heave a door from hinges if he willed,
Or break it through, by running, with his head.
His beard, as any sow or fox, was red,
And broad it was as if it were a spade
Upon the coping of his nose he had
A wart, and thereon stood a tuft of hairs,
Red as the bristles in an old sow's ears;
His nostrils they were black and very wide.
A sword and buckler
bore he by his side.
His mouth was like a furnace door for size.
He was a jester
and could poetize,
But mostly all of sin and ribaldries.
He could steal corn and full thrice charge his fees;
And yet he had a thumb of gold, begad
A white coat and blue hood he wore, this lad.
A bagpipe he could blow well, be it known,
And with that same he brought us out of town.
There was a Manciple
from an inn of court,
To whom all buyers might quite well resort
To learn the art of buying food and drink;
For whether he paid cash or not, I think
That he so knew the markets, when to buy,
He never found himself left high and dry
Now is it not of God a full fair grace
That such a vulgar
man has wit to pace
The wisdom of a crowd of learned men?
Of masters had he more than three times ten,
Who were in law expert and curious;
Whereof there were a dozen in that house
Fit to be stewards of both rent and land
Of any lord in England who would stand
Upon his own and live in manner good,
, debtless (save his head were wood),
Or live as frugally as he might desire;
These men were able to have helped a shire
In any case that ever might befall;
And yet this manciple outguessed them all.
he was a slender, choleric
Who shaved his beard as close as razor can.
His hair was cut round even with his ears;
His top was tonsured like a pulpiteer
Long were his legs, and they were very lean,
And like a staff, with no calf to be seen.
Well could he manage granary and bin;
No auditor could ever on him win.
He could foretell, by drought and by the rain,
The yielding of his seed and of his grain.
His lord's sheep and his oxen and his dairy,
His swine and horses, all his stores, his poultry,
Were wholly in this steward's managing;
And, by agreement, he'd made reckoning
Since his young lord of age was twenty years;
Yet no man ever found him in arrears
There was no agent, hind, or herd who'd cheat
But he knew well his cunning and deceit;
They were afraid of him as of the death.
His cottage was a good one, on a heath;
By green trees shaded with this dwelling-place.
Much better than his lord could he purchase.
Right rich he was in his own private right,
Seeing he'd pleased his lord, by day or night,
By giving him, or lending, of his goods,
And so got thanked- but yet got coats and hoods.
In youth he'd learned a good trade, and had been
, as fine as could be seen.
This steward sat a horse that well could trot,
And was all dapple-grey, and was named Scot
A long surcoat
of blue did he parade,
And at his side he bore a rusty blade.
was this reeve of whom I tell,
From near a town that men call Badeswell
Bundled he was like friar from chin to croup
And ever he rode hindmost of our troop.
was with us in that place,
Who had a fiery-red, cherubic face,
he had; his eyes were narrow
As hot he was, and lecherous, as a sparrow
With black and scabby brows and scanty beard;
He had a face that little children feared
There was no mercury
, or litharge
, could discharge,
Nor ointment that could cleanse enough, or bite,
To free him of his boils and pimples white,
Nor of the bosses resting on his cheeks.
Well loved he garlic, onions, aye and leeks,
And drinking of strong wine as red as blood.
Then would he talk and shout as madman would.
And when a deal of wine he'd poured within,
Then would. he utter no word save Latin
Some phrases had he learned, say two or three,
Which he had garnered out of some decree;
No wonder, for he'd heard it all the day;
And all you know right well that even a jay
Can call out Wat
as well as can the pope.
But when, for aught else, into him you'd grope,
'Twas found he'd spent his whole vocabulary:
Just Questio quid juris
would he cry.
He was a noble rascal, and a kind;
A better comrade 'twould be hard to find.
Why, he would suffer, for a quart of wine,
Some good fellow to have his concubine
A twelve-month, and excuse him to the full
(Between ourselves, though, he could pluck a gull).
And if he chanced upon a good fellow,
He would instruct him never to have awe,
In such a case, of the archdeacon's curse,
Except a man's soul lie within his purse
For in his purse the man should punished be.
The purse is the archdeacon's Hell, said he.
But well I know he lied in what he said;
A curse ought every guilty man to dread
(For curse can kill, as absolution
And 'ware signifigant to the grave.
In his own power had he, and at ease,
The boys and girls of all the diocese,
And knew their secrets, and by counsel led.
A garland had he set upon his head,
Large as a tavern's wine-bush on a stake;
A buckler had he made of bread they bake.
With him there rode a gentle Pardoner
, his friend and his compeer
Straight from the court of Rome had journeyed he.
Loudly he sang Come hither, love, to me,
The summoner joining with a burden round;
Was never horn of half so great a sound.
This pardoner had hair as yellow as wax,
But lank it hung as does a strike of flax;
In wisps hung down such locks as he'd on head,
And with them he his shoulders overspread;
But thin they dropped, and stringy, one by one.
But as to hood, for sport of it, he'd none,
Though it was packed in wallet all the while.
It seemed to him he went in latest style,
Dishevelled, save for cap, his head all bare.
As shiny eyes he had as has a hare.
He had a fine veronica
sewed to cap.
His wallet lay before him in his lap,
Stuffed full of pardon
s brought from Rome all hot.
A voice he had that bleated like a goat.
No beard had he, nor ever should he have,
For smooth his face as he'd just had a shave;
I think he was a gelding
or a mare.
But in his craft, from Berwick
Was no such pardoner in any place.
For in his bag he had a pillowcase
The which, he said, was Our True Lady
He said he had a piece of the very sail
That good Saint Peter had, what time he went
Upon the sea, till Jesus changed his bent.
He had a latten cross
set full of stones,
And in a bottle had he some pig's bones.
But with these relics, when he came upon
Some simple parson, then this paragon
In that one day more money stood to gain
Than the poor dupe in two months could attain.
And thus, with flattery and suchlike japes
He made the parson and the rest his apes.
But yet, to tell the whole truth at the last,
He was, in church, a fine ecclesiast.
Well could he read a lesson or a story,
But best of all he sang an offertory
For well he knew that when that song was sung,
Then might he preach, and all with silver tongue.
To win some gold, as he right well could;
Therefore he sang so merrily and so loud.
Now have I told you briefly, in a clause,
The state, the array, the number, and the cause
Of the assembling of this company
, at this noble hostelry
Known as the Tabard Inn
, hard by the Bell.
But now the time is come wherein to tell
How all we bore ourselves that very night
When at the hostelry we did alight.
And afterward the story I engage
To tell you of our common pilgrimage.
But first, I pray you, of your courtesy,
You'll not ascribe it to vulgarity
Though I speak plainly of this matter here,
Retailing you their words and means of cheer;
Nor though I use their very terms, nor lie.
For this thing do you know as well as I:
When one repeats a tale told by a man,
He must report, as nearly as he can,
Every least word, if he remember it,
it be, or how unfit;
Or else he may be telling what's untrue,
Embellishing and fictionizing
He may not spare, although it were his brother;
He must as well say one word as another.
Christ spoke right broadly out, in holy writ
And, you know well, there's nothing low in it.
says, to those able to read:
The word should be the cousin to the deed.
Also, I pray that you'll forgive it me
If I have not set folk, in their degree
Here in this tale, by rank as they should stand.
My wits are not the best, you'll understand.
our host gave to us, every one,
And to the supper set us all anon;
And served us then with victuals of the best.
Strong was the wine and pleasant to each guest.
A seemly man our good Host
Fit to have been a marshal in some hall;
He was a large man, with protruding eyes,
As fine a burgher
as in Cheapside
Bold in his speech, and wise, and right well taught,
And as to manhood
, lacking there in naught.
Also, he was a very merry man,
And after meat, at playing he began,
Speaking of mirth
among some other things,
When all of us had paid our reckonings;
And saying thus: Now masters, verily
You are all welcome here, and heartily:
For by my truth, and telling you no lie,
I have not seen, this year, a company
Here in this inn, fitter for sport than now.
Fain would I make you happy, knew I how.
And of a game have I this moment thought
To give you joy, and it shall cost you naught.
You go to Canterbury; may God speed
And the blest martyr soon requite your need.
And well I know, as you go on your way,
You'll tell good tales and shape yourselves to play;
For truly there's no mirth nor comfort, none,
Riding the roads as dumb as is a stone
And therefore will I furnish you a sport,
As I just said, to give you some comfort.
And if you like it, all, by one assent,
And will be ruled by me, of my judgment,
And will so do as I'll proceed to say,
Tomorrow, when you ride upon your way,
Then, by my father's spirit, who is dead
If you're not gay, I'll give you up my head.
Hold up your hands, nor more about it speak.
Our full assenting was not far to seek;
We thought there was no reason to think twice,
And granted him his way without advice,
And bade him tell his verdict just and wise,
he, here now is my advice;
But take it not, I pray you, in disdain;
This is the point, to put it short and plain,
That each of you, beguiling the long day,
Shall tell two stories as you wend
To Canterbury town; and each of you
On coming home, shall tell another two,
All of adventures he has known befall.
And he who plays his part the best of all,
That is to say, who tells upon the road
Tales of best sense, in most amusing mode,
Shall have a supper at the others' cost
Here in this room and sitting by this post
When we come back again from Canterbury.
And now, the more to warrant you'll be merry,
I will myself, and gladly, with you ride
At my own cost, and I will be your guide.
But whosoever shall my rule gainsay
Shall pay for all that's bought along the way.
And if you are agreed that it be so,
Tell me at once, or if not, tell me no,
And I will act accordingly. No more.
This thing was granted, and our oaths we swore,
With right glad hearts, and prayed of him, also,
That he would take the office, nor forgo
The place of governor
of all of us,
Judging our tales; and by his wisdom thus
Arrange that supper at a certain price,
We to be ruled, each one, by his advice
In things both great and small; by one assent,
We stood committed to his government.
And thereupon, the wine
was fetched anon;
We drank, and then to rest went every one,
And that without a longer tarry
Next morning, when the day began to spring,
Up rose our host, and acting as our cock
He gathered us together in a flock,
And forth we rode, a jog-trot
being the pace,
Until we reached Saint Thomas
And there our host pulled horse up to a walk,
And said: Now, masters, listen while I talk.
You know what you agreed at set of sun.
Let's here decide who first shall tell a tale.
And as I hope to drink more wine and ale,
Whoso proves rebel
to my government
Shall pay for all that by the way is spent.
Come now, draw cuts, before we farther win,
And he that draws the shortest shall begin.
Sir knight, said he, my master and my lord,
You shall draw first as you have pledged your word.
Come near, quoth he, my lady Prioress
And you, sir Clerk
, put by your bashfulness,
Nor ponder more; out hands, flow, every man!
At once to draw a cut each one began,
And, to make short the matter, as it was,
Whether by chance or whatsoever cause,
The truth is, that the cut fell to the Knight
At which right happy then was every wight.
Thus that his story first of all he'd tell,
According to the compact, it befell,
As you have heard. Why argue to and fro
And when this good man saw that it was so,
Being a wise man and obedient
To plighted word, given by free assent,
He slid: Since I must then begin the game,
Why, welcome be the cut, and in God's name
Now let us ride, and hearken what I say.
And at that word we rode forth on our way;
And he began to speak, with right good cheer,
His tale anon, as it is written here.
project gutenberg-promo.net/pg/, canterburytales.org for giving me the public domain version, and especially my 12th grade English teacher.