A worthy woman from beside bath city

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Geoffrey Chaucer

T H E C A N T E R B U RY TA L E S

Translated into Modern English by Nevill Coghill

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Contents

INTRODUCTION: Chaucer’s Life – Chaucer’s Works

The Canterbury Tales

[GROUP A]

THE PROLOGUE

THE KNIGHT’S TALE

Words between the Host and the Miller

THE MILLER’S TALE

The Reeve’s Prologue

THE REEVE’S TALE

The Cook’s Prologue

THE COOK’S TALE

[GROUP B]

Introduction to the Man of Law’s Tale

The Man of Law’s Prologue

THE MAN OF LAW’S TALE

Epilogue to the Man of Law’s Tale

THE SHIPMAN’S TALE

Words of the Host to the Shipman and the Prioress

The Prioress’s Prologue

THE PRIORESS’S TALE

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Words of the Host to Chaucer

CHAUCER’S TALE OF SIR TOPAZ

The Host stops Chaucer’s Tale of Sir Topaz

CHAUCER’S TALE OF MELIBEE (in synopsis)

Words of the Host to the Monk

THE MONKS TALE

(Lucifer, Adam, Samson, Hercules, Nebuchadnezzar, Belshazzar, Zenobia, King Peter of Spain, King Peter of Cyprus, Bernabo Visconti of Lombardy, Count Ugolino of Pisa, Nero, Holofernes, King Antiochus the Illustrious, Alexander, Julius Caesar, Croesus)

Words of the Knight and the Host

THE NUN’S PRIEST’S TALE

Words of the Host to the Nun’s Priest

[GROUP C]

THE PHYSICIAN’S TALE

Words of the Host to the Physician and to the Pardoner

The Pardoner’s Prologue

THE PARDONER’S TALE

[GROUP D]

The Wife of Bath’s Prologue

Words between the Summoner and the Friar

THE WIFE OF BATH’S TALE

The Friar’s Prologue

THE FRIAR’S TALE

The Summoner’s Prologue

THE SUMMONER’S TALE

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[GROUP E]

The Clerk’s Prologue

THE CLERK’S TALE

Chaucer’s Envoy to the Clerk’s Tale

The Merchant’s Prologue

THE MERCHANT’S TALE

Epilogue to the Merchant’s Tale

[GROUP F]

The Squire’s Prologue

THE SQUIRE’S TALE

Words of the Franklin to the Squire and of the Host to the Franklin

The Franklin’s Prologue

THE FRANKLIN’S TALE

[GROUP G]

The Second Nun’s Prologue

THE SECOND NUN’S TALE

The Canon’s Yeoman’s Prologue

THE CANON’S YEOMAN’S TALE

[GROUP H]

The Manciple’s Prologue

THE MANCIPLE’S TALE

[GROUP I]

The Parson’s Prologue

THE PARSON’S TALE (in synopsis)

Chaucer’s Retractions

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NOTES

Follow Penguin

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PENGUIN CLASSICS

THE CANTERBURY TALES

Geoffrey Chaucer was born in London, the son of a vintner, in about 1342. He is known to have been a page to the Countess of Ulster in 1357, and Edward III valued him highly enough to pay a part of his ransom in 1360, after he had been captured fighting in France.

It was probably in France that Chaucer’s interest in poetry was first aroused. Certainly he soon began to translate the long allegorical poem of courtly love, the Roman de la Rose. His literary experience was further increased by visits to the Italy of Boccaccio on the King’s business, and he was well-read in several languages and on many topics, such as astronomy, medicine, physics and alchemy.

Chaucer rose in royal employment, and became a knight of the shire for Kent (1385–6) and a Justice of the Peace. A lapse of favour during the temporary absence of his steady patron, John of Gaunt (to whom he was connected by his marriage), gave him time to begin organizing his unfinished Canterbury Tales. Later his fortunes revived, and at his death in 1400 he was buried in Westminster Abbey.

The order of his works is uncertain, but they include The Book of the Duchess, The House of Fame, The Parliament of Fowls, Troilus and Criseyde and a translation of Boethius’ De Consolatione Philosophiae.

Professor Nevill Coghill held many appointments at Oxford University, where he was Merton Professor of English Literature from 1957 to 1966, and later became Emeritus Fellow of Exeter and Merton Colleges. He was born in 1899 and educated at Haileybury and Exeter College, Oxford, and served in the Great War after 1917. He wrote several books on English Literature, and had a keen interest in drama, particularly Shakespearean. For many years he was a strong supporter of the Oxford University Dramatic Society, and produced plays in London and Oxford. The book of the musical play, Canterbury Tales, which ran at the Phoenix Theatre, London, from 1968 to 1973 was co-written by Nevill Coghill in collaboration with Martin Starkie who first conceived the idea and

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presented the original production. His translation of Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde into modern English is also published in the Penguin Classics. Professor Coghill, who died in November 1980, will perhaps be best remembered for this translation which has become an enduring bestseller.

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FOR

Richard Freeman Brian Ball

Glynne Wickham Peter Whillans Graham Binns

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… I have translated some parts of his works, only that I might perpetuate his memory, or at least refresh it, amongst my countrymen. If I have altered him anywhere for the better, I must at the same time acknowledge, that I could have done nothing without him… .

JOHN DRYDEN on translating Chaucer Preface to the Fables

1700

And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be.

ALEXANDER POPE Essay on Criticism

1711

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Introduction

I

Chaucer’s Life

Geoffrey Chaucer was born about the year 1342; the exact date is not known. His father, John, and his grandfather, Robert, had associations with the wine trade and, more tenuously, with the Court. John was Deputy Butler to the King at Southampton in 1348. Geoffrey Chaucer’s mother is believed to have been Agnes de Copton, niece of an official at the Mint. They lived in London in the parish of St Martin’s-in-the-Vintry, reasonably well-to-do but in a humbler walk of life than that to be adorned so capably by their brilliant son.

It is thought that Chaucer was sent for his early schooling to St Paul’s Almonry. From there he went on to be a page in the household of the Countess of Ulster, later Duchess of Clarence, wife of Lionel the third son of Edward III. The first mention of Geoffrey Chaucer’s existence is in her household accounts for 1357. She had bought him a short cloak, a pair of shoes, and some parti-coloured red and black breeches.

To be a page in a family of such eminence was a coveted position. His duties as a page included making beds, carrying candles, and running errands. He would there have acquired the finest education in good manners, a matter of great importance not only in his career as a courtier but also in his career as a poet. No English poet has so mannerly an approach to his reader.

As a page he would wait on the greatest in the land. One of these was the Duke of Lancaster, John of Gaunt; throughout his life he was Chaucer’s most faithful patron and protector.

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In 1359 Chaucer was sent abroad, a soldier in the egg, on one of those intermittent forays into France that made up so large a part of the Hundred Years’ War. He was taken prisoner near Rheims and ransomed in the following year; the King himself contributed towards his ransom. Well- trained and intelligent pages did not grow on every bush.

It is not known for certain when Chaucer began to write poetry, but it is reasonable to believe that it was on his return from France. The elegance of French poetry and its thrilling doctrines of Amour Courtois* seem to have gone to his impressionable, amorous, and poetical heart. He set to work to translate the gospel of that kind of love and poetry, the Roman de la Rose, a thirteenth-century French poem begun by Guillaume de Lorris and later completed by Jean de Meun.

Meanwhile he was promoted as a courtier. In 1367 he was attending on the King himself and was referred to as Dilectus Valettus noster… our dearly beloved Valet. It was towards that year that Chaucer married. His bride was Philippa de Roet, a lady in attendance on the Queen, and sister to Catherine Swynford, third wife of John of Gaunt.

Chaucer wrote no poems to her, so far as is known. It was not in fashion to write poems to one’s wife. It could even be debated whether love could ever have a place in marriage; the typical situation in which a ‘courtly lover’ found himself was to be plunged in a secret, an illicit, and even an adulterous passion for some seemingly unattainable and pedestalized lady. Before his mistress a lover was prostrate, wounded to death by her beauty, killed by her disdain, obliged to an illimitable constancy, marked out for her dangerous service. A smile from her was in theory a gracious reward for twenty years of painful adoration. All Chaucer’s heroes regard love when it comes upon them as the most beautiful of absolute disasters, an agony as much desired as bemoaned, ever to be pursued, never to be betrayed.

This was not in theory the attitude of a husband to his wife. It was for a husband to command, for a wife to obey. The changes that can be rung on these antitheses are to be seen throughout The Canterbury Tales. If we may judge by the Knight’s Tale and the Franklin’s Tale Chaucer thought that love and marriage were perhaps compatible after all, provided that the lover remained his wife’s ‘servant’ after marriage, in private at least. If we

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read the Wife of Bath’s Prologue we shall see that she thought little of wives that did not master their husbands. What solution to these problems was reached by Geoffrey and Philippa Chaucer he never revealed. He only once alludes to her, or seems to do so, when in The House of Fame he compares the timbre of her voice awaking him in the morning to that of an eagle. His maturest work is increasingly ironical about women considered as wives; what the Wife of Bath and the Merchant have to say of them is of this kind. The Wife of Bath’s Prologue and the Merchant’s Tale are perhaps his two most astounding performances. By the time he wrote them Philippa had long been dead. It is in any case by no means certain that these two characters utter Chaucer’s private convictions; they are speaking for themselves. One can only say that Chaucer was a great enough writer to lend them unanswerable thoughts and language, to think and speak on their behalf.

The King soon began to employ his beloved valet on important missions abroad. The details of most of these are not known, but appear to have been of a civilian and commercial nature, dealing with trade relations. We can infer that Chaucer was trustworthy and efficient.

Meanwhile Chaucer was gratifying and extending his passion for books. He was a prodigious reader and had the art of storing what he read in an almost faultless memory. He learnt in time to read widely in Latin, French, Anglo-Norman, and Italian. He made himself a considerable expert in contemporary sciences, especially in astronomy, medicine, psychology, physics, and alchemy. There is, for instance, in The House of Fame a long and amusing account of the nature of sound-waves. The Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale (one of the best) shows an intimate but furiously contemptuous knowledge of alchemical practice. In literary and historical fields his favourites seem to have been Vergil, Ovid, Statius, Seneca, and Cicero among the ancients, and the Roman de la Rose with its congeners and the works of Dante, Boccaccio, and Petrarch among the moderns. He knew the Fathers of the Church and quotes freely and frequently from every book in the Bible and Apocrypha.

Two journeys on the King’s business took Chaucer to Italy: the first in 1372 to Genoa, the second in 1378 to Milan. It has always been supposed that these missions were what first brought him in contact with that

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Renaissance dawn which so glorified his later poetry. While he never lost or disvalued what he had learnt from French culture, he added some of the depth of Dante and much of the splendour of Boccaccio, from whom came, amongst other things, the stories of Troilus and Criseyde and the Knight’s Tale. Chaucer’s power to tell a story seems to have emerged at this time and to derive from Italy.

Meanwhile he was rising by steady promotions in what we should now call the Civil Service, that is in his offices as a courtier. In 1374 he became Comptroller of customs and subsidies on wools, skins, and hides at the Port of London: in 1382 Comptroller of petty customs, in 1385 Justice of the Peace for the county of Kent, in 1386 Knight of the Shire. He was now in some affluence.

But in December 1386 he was suddenly deprived of all his offices. John of Gaunt had left England on a military expedition to Spain and was replaced as an influence on young King Richard II by the Duke of Gloucester. Gloucester had never been a patron of the poet, and filled his posts with his own supporters. We may be grateful to him for this, because he set Chaucer at leisure thereby. It is almost certain that the poet then began to set in order and compose The Canterbury Tales.

In 1389 John of Gaunt returned and Chaucer was restored to favour and office. He was put in charge of the repair of walls, ditches, sewers, and bridges between Greenwich and Woolwich, and of the fabric of St George’s Chapel at Windsor. The office of Sub-Forester of North Petherton (probably a sinecure) was given him. The daily pitcher of wine allowed him by Edward III in 1374 became, under Richard II, an annual tun. Henry Bolingbroke presented him with a scarlet robe trimmed with fur. Once more he had met with that cheerful good luck which is so happily reflected in his poetry.

He felt himself to be growing old, however; he complained that the faculty of rhyming had deserted him. No one knows when he put his last touch to The Canterbury Tales. He never finished them.

He died on the twenty-fifth of October 1400 and was buried in Westminster Abbey. A fine tomb, erected by an admirer in the fifteenth century, marks his grave and was the first of those that are gathered into

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what we now know as the Poets’ Corner. The Father of English Poetry lies in his family vault.*

II

Chaucer’s Works

The order in which Chaucer’s works were written is not known exactly or for certain. Some have been lost, if we are to believe the lists Chaucer gives of his poems in The Prologue to the Legend of Good Women and the ‘retracciouns’ appended by him to The Parson’s Tale. His main surviving poems are:

Before 1372 part at least of his translation of the Roman de la Rose, The Book of the Duchess (1369/70?) and the ABC of the Virgin. Between 1372 and 1382, The House of Fame, The Parliament of Fowls, and most probably a number of stories – or preliminary versions of stories – that were later included in The Canterbury Tales, the idea for which does not seem to have come to him until about 1386. Among these I incline to place The Second Nun’s Tale, The Clerk of Oxford’s Tale, The Man of Law’s Tale, Chaucer’s Tale of Melibee, and The Knight’s Tale. These seem to indicate that he passed through a phase of poetic piety (The Second Nun’s Tale, The Clerk of Oxford’s Tale, The Man of Law’s Tale, and the Tale of Melibee), qualified by an ever-increasing range of subject-matter, increasingly tinged with irony, and enlivened by passages of that rich naturalistic conversation in rhymed verse which it was one of Chaucer’s peculiar powers to invent.

Between 1380 and 1385 appeared the matchless Troilus and Criseyde and the translation of Boethius, De Consolatione Philosophiae. The latter is the main basis for most of Chaucer’s philosophical speculations, especially those on tragedy and predestination, which underlie its twin Troilus and Criseyde.

This poem, the most poignant love-story in English narrative poetry, is also one of the most amusing. It is his first great masterpiece, yet for all its humour can stand comparison with any tragic love-story in the world. Its psychological understanding is so subtle and its narrative line so skilfully

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ordered that it has been called our first novel. It appears to have given some offence to Queen Anne of Bohemia (Richard’s wife) because it seemed to imply that women were more faithless than men in matters of love. Chaucer was bidden to write a retraction and so in the following year (1386) he produced a large instalment of The Legend of the Saints of Cupid (all female), which is also known as The Legend of Good Women. He never finished it. His disciple Lydgate said later that it encumbered his wits to think of so many good women.

From 1386 or 1387 onwards he was at work on The Canterbury Tales. There are some 84 MSS and early printed editions by Caxton, Pynson, Wynkyn de Worde, and Thynne.

These manuscripts show that Chaucer left ten fragments of varying size of this great poem. Modern editors have arranged these in what appears to be the intended sequence, inferred from dates and places mentioned in the ‘end-links’, as the colloquies of the pilgrims between tales are called. For convenience these manuscript fragments are numbered in Groups from A to I; Group B can be subdivided into two, making ten Groups in all.

If we may trust the Prologue, Chaucer intended that each of some thirty pilgrims should tell two tales on the way to Canterbury and two on the way back. He never completed this immense project, and what he wrote was not finally revised even so far as it went. There are also one or two minor inconsistencies which a little revision could have rectified.

In this rendering I have followed the accepted order first worked out by Furnivall (1868) and later confirmed by Skeat (1894). It makes a reasonably continuous and consistent narrative of a pilgrimage that seems to have occupied five days (16 to 20 April) and that led to the outskirts of Canterbury. At that point Chaucer withdrew from his task with an apology for whatever might smack of sin in his work.

The idea of a collection of tales diversified in style to suit their tellers and unified in form by uniting the tellers in a common purpose is Chaucer’s own. Collections of stories were common at the time, but only Chaucer hit on this simple device for securing natural probability, psychological variety, and a wide range of narrative interest.

In all literature there is nothing that touches or resembles the Prologue. It is the concise portrait of an entire nation, high and low, old and young,

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male and female, lay and clerical, learned and ignorant, rogue and righteous, land and sea, town and country, but without extremes. Apart from the stunning clarity, touched with nuance, of the characters presented, the most noticeable thing about them is their normality. They are the perennial progeny of men and women. Sharply individual, together they make a party.

The tales these pilgrims tell come from all over Europe, many of them from the works of Chaucer’s near contemporaries. Some come from further afield, from the ancients, from the Orient. They exemplify the whole range of contemporary European imagination, then particularly addicted to stories, especially to stories that had some sharp point and deducible maxim, moral, or idea. Almost every tale ends with a piece of proverbial or other wisdom derived from it and with a general benediction on the company.

One of the few tales believed to be his own invention is that of the Canon’s Yeoman; some have imagined it to be a personal revenge taken by him upon some alchemist who had duped him; be that as it may, it is one of the best of the tales. It was not considered the function of a teller of stories in the fourteenth century to invent the stories he told, but to present and embellish them with all the arts of rhetoric for the purposes of entertainment and instruction. Chaucer’s choice of story ranges from what he could hear – such as tales of low life in oral circulation, like the Miller’s Tale, that are known as fabliaux – to what he had read in Boccaccio or other classic masters or in the lives of saints. To quote Dryden once more, ‘’Tis sufficient to say, according to the proverb, that here is God’s plenty.’

The present version of this master-work is intended for those who feel difficulty in reading the original, yet would like to enjoy as much of that ‘plenty’ as the translator has been able to convey in a more modern idiom.

NEVILL COGHILL

Exeter College Oxford

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[G R O U P A ]

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The Prologue

When in April the sweet showers fall And pierce the drought of March to the root, and all The veins are bathed in liquor of such power As brings about the engendering of the flower, When also Zephyrus with his sweet breath Exhales an air in every grove and heath Upon the tender shoots, and the young sun His half-course in the sign of the Ram has run, And the small fowl are making melody That sleep away the night with open eye (So nature pricks them and their heart engages) Then people long to go on pilgrimages And palmers long to seek the stranger strands Of far-off saints, hallowed in sundry lands, And specially, from every shire’s end Of England, down to Canterbury they wend To seek the holy blissful martyr,* quick To give his help to them when they were sick.

It happened in that season that one day In Southwark, at The Tabard, as I lay Ready to go on pilgrimage and start For Canterbury, most devout at heart, At night there came into that hostelry Some nine and twenty in a company Of sundry folk happening then to fall In fellowship, and they were pilgrims all That towards Canterbury meant to ride. The rooms and stables of the inn were wide; They made us easy, all was of the best.

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And, briefly, when the sun had gone to rest, I’d spoken to them all upon the trip And was soon one with them in fellowship, Pledged to rise early and to take the way To Canterbury, as you heard me say.

But none the less, while I have time and space, Before my story takes a further pace, It seems a reasonable thing to say What their condition was, the full array Of each of them, as it appeared to me, According to profession and degree, And what apparel they were riding in; And at a Knight I therefore will begin. There was a Knight, a most distinguished man, Who from the day on which he first began To ride abroad had followed chivalry, Truth honour, generousness and courtesy. He had done nobly in his sovereign’s war And ridden into battle, no man more, As well in Christian as in heathen places, And ever honoured for his noble graces.

When we took Alexandria,* he was there. He often sat at table in the chair Of honour, above all nations, when in Prussia. In Lithuania he had ridden, and Russia, No Christian man so often, of his rank. When, in Granada, Algeciras sank Under assault, he had been there, and in North Africa, raiding Benamarin; In Anatolia he had been as well And fought when Ayas and Attalia fell, For all along the Mediterranean coast He had embarked with many a noble host. In fifteen mortal battles he had been And jousted for our faith at Tramissene

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Thrice in the lists, and always killed his man. This same distinguished knight had led the van Once with the Bey of Balat, doing work For him against another heathen Turk; He was of sovereign value in all eyes. And though so much distinguished, he was wise And in his bearing modest as a maid. He never yet a boorish thing had said In all his life to any, come what might; He was a true, a perfect gentle-knight.

Speaking of his equipment, he possessed Fine horses, but he was not gaily dressed. He wore a fustian tunic stained and dark With smudges where his armour had left mark; Just home from service, he had joined our ranks To do his pilgrimage and render thanks.

He had his son with him, a fine young Squire, A lover and cadet, a lad of fire With locks as curly as if they had been pressed. He was some twenty years of age, I guessed. In stature he was of a moderate length, With wonderful agility and strength. He’d seen some service with the cavalry In Flanders and Artois and Picardy And had done valiantly in little space Of time, in hope to win his lady’s grace. He was embroidered like a meadow bright And full of freshest flowers, red and white. Singing he was, or fluting all the day; He was as fresh as is the month of May. Short was his gown, the sleeves were long and wide; He knew the way to sit a horse and ride. He could make songs and poems and recite, Knew how to joust and dance, to draw and write. He loved so hotly that till dawn grew pale

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He slept as little as a nightingale. Courteous he was, lowly and serviceable, And carved to serve his father at the table.

There was a Yeoman with him at his side, No other servant; so he chose to ride. This Yeoman wore a coat and hood of green, And peacock-feathered arrows, bright and keen And neatly sheathed, hung at his belt the while – For he could dress his gear in yeoman style, His arrows never drooped their feathers low – And in his hand he bore a mighty bow. His head was like a nut, his face was brown. He knew the whole of woodcraft up and down. A saucy brace was on his arm to ward It from the bow-string, and a shield and sword Hung at one side, and at the other slipped A jaunty dirk, spear-sharp and well-equipped. A medal of St Christopher he wore Of shining silver on his breast, and bore A hunting-horn, well slung and burnished clean, That dangled from a baldrick of bright green. He was a proper forester, I guess.

There also was a Nun, a Prioress, Her way of smiling very simple and coy. Her greatest oath was only ‘By St Loy!’ And she was known as Madam Eglantyne. And well she sang a service, with a fine Intoning through her nose, as was most seemly, And she spoke daintily in French, extremely, After the school of Stratford-atte-Bowe; French in the Paris style she did not know. At meat her manners were well taught withal; No morsel from her lips did she let fall, Nor dipped her fingers in the sauce too deep; But she could carry a morsel up and keep

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The smallest drop from falling on her breast. For courtliness she had a special zest, And she would wipe her upper lip so clean That not a trace of grease was to be seen Upon the cup when she had drunk; to eat, She reached a hand sedately for the meat. She certainly was very entertaining, Pleasant and friendly in her ways, and straining To counterfeit a courtly kind of grace, A stately bearing fitting to her place, And to seem dignified in all her dealings. As for her sympathies and tender feelings, She was so charitably solicitous She used to weep if she but saw a mouse Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bleeding. And she had little dogs she would be feeding With roasted flesh, or milk, or fine white bread. And bitterly she wept if one were dead Or someone took a stick and made it smart; She was all sentiment and tender heart. Her veil was gathered in a seemly way, Her nose was elegant, her eyes glass-grey; Her mouth was very small, but soft and red, Her forehead, certainly, was fair of spread, Almost a span across the brows, I own; She was indeed by no means undergrown. Her cloak, I noticed, had a graceful charm. She wore a coral trinket on her arm, A set of beads, the gaudies tricked in green,* Whence hung a golden brooch of brightest sheen On which there first was graven a crowned A, And lower, Amor vincit omnia.

Another Nun, the secretary at her cell, Was riding with her, and three Priests as well.

A Monk there was, one of the finest sort

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Who rode the country; hunting was his sport. A manly man, to be an Abbot able; Many a dainty horse he had in stable. His bridle, when he rode, a man might hear Jingling in a whistling wind as clear, Aye, and as loud as does the chapel bell Where my lord Monk was Prior of the cell. The Rule of good St Benet or St Maur As old and strict he tended to ignore; He let go by the things of yesterday And took the modern world’s more spacious way. He did not rate that text at a plucked hen Which says that hunters are not holy men And that a monk uncloistered is a mere Fish out of water, flapping on the pier, That is to say a monk out of his cloister. That was a text he held not worth an oyster; And I agreed and said his views were sound; Was he to study till his head went round Poring over books in cloisters? Must he toil As Austin bade and till the very soil? Was he to leave the world upon the shelf? Let Austin have his labour to himself.

This Monk was therefore a good man to horse; Greyhounds he had, as swift as birds, to course. Hunting a hare or riding at a fence Was all his fun, he spared for no expense. I saw his sleeves were garnished at the hand With fine grey fur, the finest in the land, And on his hood, to fasten it at his chin He had a wrought-gold cunningly fashioned pin; Into a lover’s knot it seemed to pass. His head was bald and shone like looking-glass; So did his face, as if it had been greased. He was a fat and personable priest;

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His prominent eyeballs never seemed to settle. They glittered like the flames beneath a kettle; Supple his boots, his horse in fine condition. He was a prelate fit for exhibition, He was not pale like a tormented soul. He liked a fat swan best, and roasted whole. His palfrey was as brown as is a berry.

There was a Friar, a wanton one and merry, A Limiter,* a very festive fellow. In all Four Orders* there was none so mellow, So glib with gallant phrase and well-turned speech. He’d fixed up many a marriage, giving each Of his young women what he could afford her. He was a noble pillar to his Order. Highly beloved and intimate was he With County folk within his boundary, And city dames of honour and possessions; For he was qualified to hear confessions, Or so he said, with more than priestly scope; He had a special licence from the Pope. Sweetly he heard his penitents at shrift With pleasant absolution, for a gift. He was an easy man in penance-giving Where he could hope to make a decent living; It’s a sure sign whenever gifts are given To a poor Order that a man’s well shriven, And should he give enough he knew in verity The penitent repented in sincerity. For many a fellow is so hard of heart He cannot weep, for all his inward smart. Therefore instead of weeping and of prayer One should give silver for a poor Friar’s care. He kept his tippet stuffed with pins for curls, And pocket-knives, to give to pretty girls. And certainly his voice was gay and sturdy,

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For he sang well and played the hurdy-gurdy. At sing-songs he was champion of the hour. His neck was whiter than a lily-flower But strong enough to butt a bruiser down. He knew the taverns well in every town And every innkeeper and barmaid too Better than lepers, beggars and that crew, For in so eminent a man as he It was not fitting with the dignity Of his position, dealing with a scum Of wretched lepers; nothing good can come Of commerce with such slum-and-gutter dwellers, But only with the rich and victual-sellers. But anywhere a profit might accrue Courteous he was and lowly of service too. Natural gifts like his were hard to match. He was the finest beggar of his batch, And, for his begging-district, paid a rent; His brethren did no poaching where he went. For though a widow mightn’t have a shoe, So pleasant was his holy how-d’ye-do He got his farthing from her just the same Before he left, and so his income came To more than he laid out. And how he romped, Just like a puppy! He was ever prompt To arbitrate disputes on settling days (For a small fee) in many helpful ways, Not then appearing as your cloistered scholar With threadbare habit hardly worth a dollar, But much more like a Doctor or a Pope. Of double-worsted was the semi-cope Upon his shoulders, and the swelling fold About him, like a bell about its mould When it is casting, rounded out his dress. He lisped a little out of wantonness

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To make his English sweet upon his tongue. When he had played his harp, or having sung, His eyes would twinkle in his head as bright As any star upon a frosty night. This worthy’s name was Hubert, it appeared.

There was a Merchant with a forking beard And motley dress; high on his horse he sat, Upon his head a Flemish beaver hat And on his feet daintily buckled boots. He told of his opinions and pursuits In solemn tones, he harped on his increase Of capital; there should be sea-police (He thought) upon the Harwich–Holland ranges; He was expert at dabbling in exchanges. This estimable Merchant so had set His wits to work, none knew he was in debt, He was so stately in administration, In loans and bargains and negotiation. He was an excellent fellow all the same; To tell the truth I do not know his name.

An Oxford Cleric, still a student though, One who had taken logic long ago, Was there; his horse was thinner than a rake, And he was not too fat, I undertake, But had a hollow look, a sober stare; The thread upon his overcoat was bare. He had found no preferment in the church And he was too unworldly to make search For secular employment. By his bed He preferred having twenty books in red And black, of Aristotle’s philosophy, Than costly clothes, fiddle or psaltery. Though a philosopher, as I have told, He had not found the stone for making gold. Whatever money from his friends he took

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He spent on learning or another book And prayed for them most earnestly, returning Thanks to them thus for paying for his learning. His only care was study, and indeed He never spoke a word more than was need, Formal at that, respectful in the extreme, Short, to the point, and lofty in his theme. A tone of moral virtue filled his speech And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach.

A Serjeant at the Law who paid his calls, Wary and wise, for clients at St Paul’s* There also was, of noted excellence. Discreet he was, a man to reverence, Or so he seemed, his sayings were so wise. He often had been Justice of Assize By letters patent, and in full commission. His fame and learning and his high position Had won him many a robe and many a fee. There was no such conveyancer as he; All was fee-simple to his strong digestion, Not one conveyance could be called in question. Though there was nowhere one so busy as he, He was less busy than he seemed to be. He knew of every judgement, case and crime Ever recorded since King William’s time. He could dictate defences or draft deeds; No one could pinch a comma from his screeds And he knew every statute off by rote. He wore a homely parti-coloured coat, Girt with a silken belt of pin-stripe stuff; Of his appearance I have said enough.

There was a Franklin* with him, it appeared; White as a daisy-petal was his beard. A sanguine man, high-coloured and benign, He loved a morning sop of cake in wine.

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He lived for pleasure and had always done, For he was Epicurus’ very son, In whose opinion sensual delight Was the one true felicity in sight. As noted as St Julian was for bounty He made his household free to all the County. His bread, his ale were finest of the fine And no one had a better stock of wine. His house was never short of bake-meat pies, Of fish and flesh, and these in such supplies It positively snowed with meat and drink And all the dainties that a man could think. According to the seasons of the year Changes of dish were ordered to appear. He kept fat partridges in coops, beyond, Many a bream and pike were in his pond. Woe to the cook unless the sauce was hot And sharp, or if he wasn’t on the spot! And in his hall a table stood arrayed And ready all day long, with places laid. As Justice at the Sessions none stood higher; He often had been Member for the Shire. A dagger and a little purse of silk Hung at his girdle, white as morning milk. As Sheriff he checked audit, every entry. He was a model among landed gentry.

A Haberdasher, a Dyer, a Carpenter, A Weaver and a Carpet-maker were Among our ranks, all in the livery Of one impressive guild-fraternity. They were so trim and fresh their gear would pass For new. Their knives were not tricked out with brass But wrought with purest silver, which avouches A like display on girdles and on pouches. Each seemed a worthy burgess, fit to grace

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A guild-hall with a seat upon the dais. Their wisdom would have justified a plan To make each one of them an alderman; They had the capital and revenue, Besides their wives declared it was their due. And if they did not think so, then they ought; To be called ‘Madam’ is a glorious thought, And so is going to church and being seen Having your mantle carried, like a queen.

They had a Cook with them who stood alone For boiling chicken with a marrow-bone, Sharp flavouring-powder and a spice for savour. He could distinguish London ale by flavour, And he could roast and seethe and broil and fry, Make good thick soup and bake a tasty pie. But what a pity – so it seemed to me, That he should have an ulcer on his knee. As for blancmange, he made it with the best.

There was a Skipper hailing from far west; He came from Dartmouth, so I understood. He rode a farmer’s horse as best he could, In a woollen gown that reached his knee. A dagger on a lanyard falling free Hung from his neck under his arm and down. The summer heat had tanned his colour brown, And certainly he was an excellent fellow. Many a draught of vintage, red and yellow, He’d drawn at Bordeaux, while the trader snored. The nicer rules of conscience he ignored. If, when he fought, the enemy vessel sank, He sent his prisoners home; they walked the plank. As for his skill in reckoning his tides, Currents and many another risk besides, Moons, harbours, pilots, he had such dispatch That none from Hull to Carthage was his match.

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Hardy he was, prudent in undertaking; His beard in many a tempest had its shaking, And he knew all the havens as they were From Gottland to the Cape of Finisterre, And every creek in Brittany and Spain; The barge he owned was called The Maudelayne.

A Doctor too emerged as we proceeded; No one alive could talk as well as he did On points of medicine and of surgery, For, being grounded in astronomy, He watched his patient closely for the hours When, by his horoscope, he knew the powers Of favourable planets, then ascendent, Worked on the images* for his dependant. The cause of every malady you’d got He knew, and whether dry, cold, moist or hot;* He knew their seat, their humour and condition. He was a perfect practising physician. These causes being known for what they were, He gave the man his medicine then and there. All his apothecaries in a tribe Were ready with the drugs he would prescribe And each made money from the other’s guile; They had been friendly for a goodish while. He was well-versed in Aesculapius* too And what Hippocrates and Rufus knew And Dioscorides, now dead and gone, Galen and Rhazes, Hali, Serapion, Averroes, Avicenna, Constantine, Scotch Bernard, John of Gaddesden, Gilbertine. In his own diet he observed some measure; There were no superfluities for pleasure, Only digestives, nutritives and such. He did not read the Bible very much. In blood-red garments, slashed with bluish grey

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And lined with taffeta, he rode his way; Yet he was rather close as to expenses And kept the gold he won in pestilences. Gold stimulates the heart, or so we’re told. He therefore had a special love of gold.

A worthy woman from beside Bath city Was with us, somewhat deaf, which was a pity. In making cloth she showed so great a bent She bettered those of Ypres and of Ghent. In all the parish not a dame dared stir Towards the altar steps in front of her, And if indeed they did, so wrath was she As to be quite put out of charity. Her kerchiefs were of finely woven ground; I dared have sworn they weighed a good ten pound, The ones she wore on Sunday, on her head. Her hose were of the finest scarlet red And gartered tight; her shoes were soft and new. Bold was her face, handsome, and red in hue. A worthy woman all her life, what’s more She’d had five husbands, all at the church door, Apart from other company in youth; No need just now to speak of that, forsooth. And she had thrice been to Jerusalem, Seen many strange rivers and passed over them; She’d been to Rome and also to Boulogne, St James of Compostella and Cologne, And she was skilled in wandering by the way. She had gap-teeth, set widely, truth to say. Easily on an ambling horse she sat Well wimpled up, and on her head a hat As broad as is a buckler or a shield; She had a flowing mantle that concealed Large hips, her heels spurred sharply under that. In company she liked to laugh and chat

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And knew the remedies for love’s mischances, An art in which she knew the oldest dances. A holy-minded man of good renown There was, and poor, the Parson to a town, Yet he was rich in holy thought and work. He also was a learned man, a clerk, Who truly knew Christ’s gospel and would preach it Devoutly to parishioners, and teach it. Benign and wonderfully diligent, And patient when adversity was sent (For so he proved in much adversity) He hated cursing to extort a fee, Nay rather he preferred beyond a doubt Giving to poor parishioners round about Both from church offerings and his property; He could in little find sufficiency. Wide was his parish, with houses far asunder, Yet he neglected not in rain or thunder, In sickness or in grief, to pay a call On the remotest, whether great or small, Upon his feet, and in his hand a stave. This noble example to his sheep he gave That first he wrought, and afterwards he taught; And it was from the Gospel he had caught Those words, and he would add this figure too, That if gold rust, what then will iron do? For if a priest be foul in whom we trust No wonder that a common man should rust; And shame it is to see – let priests take stock – A shitten shepherd and a snowy flock. The true example that a priest should give Is one of cleanness, how the sheep should live. He did not set his benefice to hire And leave his sheep encumbered in the mire Or run to London to earn easy bread

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By singing masses for the wealthy dead, Or find some Brotherhood and get enrolled. He stayed at home and watched over his fold So that no wolf should make the sheep miscarry. He was a shepherd and no mercenary. Holy and virtuous he was, but then Never contemptuous of sinful men, Never disdainful, never too proud or fine, But was discreet in teaching and benign. His business was to show a fair behaviour And draw men thus to Heaven and their Saviour, Unless indeed a man were obstinate; And such, whether of high or low estate, He put to sharp rebuke, to say the least. I think there never was a better priest. He sought no pomp or glory in his dealings, No scrupulosity had spiced his feelings. Christ and His Twelve Apostles and their lore He taught, but followed it himself before.

There was a Plowman with him there, his brother; Many a load of dung one time or other He must have carted through the morning dew. He was an honest worker, good and true, Living in peace and perfect charity, And, as the gospel bade him, so did he, Loving God best with all his heart and mind And then his neighbour as himself, repined At no misfortune, slacked for no content, For steadily about his work he went To thrash his corn, to dig or to manure Or make a ditch; and he would help the poor For love of Christ and never take a penny If he could help it, and, as prompt as any, He paid his tithes in full when they were due On what he owned, and on his earnings too.

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He wore a tabard smock and rode a mare. There was a Reeve, also a Miller, there,

A College Manciple from the Inns of Court, A papal Pardoner and, in close consort, A Church-Court Summoner, riding at a trot, And finally myself – that was the lot.

The Miller was a chap of sixteen stone, A great stout fellow big in brawn and bone. He did well out of them, for he could go And win the ram at any wrestling show. Broad, knotty and short-shouldered, he would boast He could heave any door off hinge and post, Or take a run and break it with his head. His beard, like any sow or fox, was red And broad as well, as though it were a spade; And, at its very tip, his nose displayed A wart on which there stood a tuft of hair Red as the bristles in an old sow’s ear. His nostrils were as black as they were wide. He had a sword and buckler at his side, His mighty mouth was like a furnace door. A wrangler and buffoon, he had a store Of tavern stories, filthy in the main. His was a master-hand at stealing grain. He felt it with his thumb and thus he knew Its quality and took three times his due – A thumb of gold, by God, to gauge an oat! He wore a hood of blue and a white coat. He liked to play his bagpipes up and down And that was how he brought us out of town.

The Manciple came from the Inner Temple; All caterers might follow his example In buying victuals; he was never rash Whether he bought on credit or paid cash. He used to watch the market most precisely

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And got in first, and so he did quite nicely. Now isn’t it a marvel of God’s grace That an illiterate fellow can outpace The wisdom of a heap of learned men? His masters – he had more than thirty then – All versed in the abstrusest legal knowledge, Could have produced a dozen from their College Fit to be stewards in land and rents and game To any Peer in England you could name, And show him how to live on what he had Debt-free (unless of course the Peer were mad) Or be as frugal as he might desire, And make them fit to help about the Shire In any legal case there was to try; And yet this Manciple could wipe their eye.

The Reeve* was old and choleric and thin; His beard was shaven closely to the skin, His shorn hair came abruptly to a stop Above his ears, and he was docked on top Just like a priest in front; his legs were lean, Like sticks they were, no calf was to be seen. He kept his bins and garners very trim; No auditor could gain a point on him. And he could judge by watching drought and rain The yield he might expect from seed and grain. His master’s sheep, his animals and hens, Pigs, horses, dairies, stores and cattle-pens Were wholly trusted to his government. He had been under contract to present The accounts, right from his master’s earliest years. No one had ever caught him in arrears. No bailiff, serf or herdsman dared to kick, He knew their dodges, knew their every trick; Feared like the plague he was, by those beneath. He had a lovely dwelling on a heath,

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Shadowed in green by trees above the sward. A better hand at bargains than his lord, He had grown rich and had a store of treasure Well tucked away, yet out it came to pleasure His lord with subtle loans or gifts of goods, To earn his thanks and even coats and hoods. When young he’d learnt a useful trade and still He was a carpenter of first-rate skill. The stallion-cob he rode at a slow trot Was dapple-grey and bore the name of Scot. He wore an overcoat of bluish shade And rather long; he had a rusty blade Slung at his side. He came, as I heard tell, From Norfolk, near a place called Baldeswell. His coat was tucked under his belt and splayed. He rode the hindmost of our cavalcade.

There was a Summoner* with us at that Inn, His face on fire, like a cherubin,* For he had carbuncles. His eyes were narrow, He was as hot and lecherous as a sparrow. Black scabby brows he had, and a thin beard. Children were afraid when he appeared. No quicksilver, lead ointment, tartar creams, No brimstone, no boracic, so it seems, Could make a salve that had the power to bite, Clean up or cure his whelks of knobby white Or purge the pimples sitting on his cheeks. Garlic he loved, and onions too, and leeks, And drinking strong red wine till all was hazy. Then he would shout and jabber as if crazy, And wouldn’t speak a word except in Latin When he was drunk, such tags as he was pat in; He only had a few, say two or three, That he had mugged up out of some decree; No wonder, for he heard them every day.

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And, as you know, a man can teach a jay To call out ‘Walter’ better than the Pope. But had you tried to test his wits and grope For more, you’d have found nothing in the bag. Then ‘Questio quid juris’ was his tag.* He was a noble varlet and a kind one, You’d meet none better if you went to find one. Why, he’d allow – just for a quart of wine – Any good lad to keep a concubine A twelvemonth and dispense him altogether! And he had finches of his own to feather: And if he found some rascal with a maid He would instruct him not to be afraid In such a case of the Archdeacon’s curse (Unless the rascal’s soul were in his purse) For in his purse the punishment should be. ‘Purse is the good Archdeacon’s Hell,’ said he. But well I know he lied in what he said; A curse should put a guilty man in dread, For curses kill, as shriving brings, salvation. We should beware of excommunication. Thus, as he pleased, the man could bring duress On any young fellow in the diocese. He knew their secrets, they did what he said. He wore a garland set upon his head Large as the holly-bush upon a stake Outside an ale-house, and he had a cake, A round one, which it was his joke to wield As if it were intended for a shield.

He and a gentle Pardoner* rode together, A bird from Charing Cross of the same feather, Just back from visiting the Court of Rome. He loudly sang, ‘Come hither, love, come home!’ The Summoner sang deep seconds to this song, No trumpet ever sounded half so strong.

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This Pardoner had hair as yellow as wax, Hanging down smoothly like a hank of flax. In driblets fell his locks behind his head Down to his shoulders which they overspread; Thinly they fell, like rat-tails, one by one. He wore no hood upon his head, for fun; The hood inside his wallet had been stowed, He aimed at riding in the latest mode; But for a little cap his head was bare And he had bulging eye-balls, like a hare. He’d sewed a holy relic on his cap; His wallet lay before him on his lap, Brimful of pardons come from Rome, all hot. He had the same small voice a goat has got. His chin no beard had harboured, nor would harbour, Smoother than ever chin was left by barber. I judge he was a gelding, or a mare. As to his trade, from Berwick down to Ware There was no pardoner of equal grace, For in his trunk he had a pillow-case Which he asserted was Our Lady’s veil. He said he had a gobbet of the sail Saint Peter had the time when he made bold To walk the waves, till Jesu Christ took hold. He had a cross of metal set with stones And, in a glass, a rubble of pigs’ bones. And with these relics, any time he found Some poor up-country parson to astound, In one short day, in money down, he drew More than the parson in a month or two, And by his flatteries and prevarication Made monkeys of the priest and congregation. But still to do him justice first and last In church he was a noble ecclesiast. How well he read a lesson or told a story!

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But best of all he sang an Offertory, For well he knew that when that song was sung He’d have to preach and tune his honey-tongue And (well he could) win silver from the crowd. That’s why he sang so merrily and loud.

Now I have told you shortly, in a clause, The rank, the array, the number and the cause Of our assembly in this company In Southwark, at that high-class hostelry Known as The Tabard, close beside The Bell. And now the time has come for me to tell How we behaved that evening; I’ll begin After we had alighted at the Inn, Then I’ll report our journey, stage by stage, All the remainder of our pilgrimage. But first I beg of you, in courtesy, Not to condemn me as unmannerly If I speak plainly and with no concealings And give account of all their words and dealings, Using their very phrases as they fell. For certainly, as you all know so well, He who repeats a tale after a man Is bound to say, as nearly as he can, Each single word, if he remembers it, However rudely spoken or unfit, Or else the tale he tells will be untrue, The things pretended and the phrases new. He may not flinch although it were his brother, He may as well say one word as another. And Christ Himself spoke broad in Holy Writ, Yet there is no scurrility in it, And Plato says, for those with power to read, ‘The word should be as cousin to the deed.’ Further I beg you to forgive it me If I neglect the order and degree

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And what is due to rank in what I’ve planned. I’m short of wit as you will understand.

Our Host gave us great welcome; everyone Was given a place and supper was begun. He served the finest victuals you could think, The wine was strong and we were glad to drink. A very striking man our Host withal, And fit to be a marshal in a hall. His eyes were bright, his girth a little wide; There is no finer burgess in Cheapside. Bold in his speech, yet wise and full of tact, There was no manly attribute he lacked, What’s more he was a merry-hearted man. After our meal he jokingly began To talk of sport, and, among other things After we’d settled up our reckonings, He said as follows: ‘Truly, gentlemen, You’re very welcome and I can’t think when – Upon my word I’m telling you no lie – I’ve seen a gathering here that looked so spry, No, not this year, as in this tavern now. I’d think you up some fun if I knew how. And, as it happens, a thought has just occurred To please you, costing nothing, on my word. You’re off to Canterbury – well, God speed! Blessed St Thomas answer to your need! And I don’t doubt, before the journey’s done You mean to while the time in tales and fun. Indeed, there’s little pleasure for your bones Riding along and all as dumb as stones. So let me then propose for your enjoyment, Just as I said, a suitable employment. And if my notion suits and you agree And promise to submit yourselves to me Playing your parts exactly as I say

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Tomorrow as you ride along the way, Then by my father’s soul (and he is dead) If you don’t like it you can have my head! Hold up your hands, and not another word.’

Well, our opinion was not long deferred, It seemed not worth a serious debate; We all agreed to it at any rate And bade him issue what commands he would. ‘My lords,’ he said, ‘now listen for your good, And please don’t treat my notion with disdain. This is the point. I’ll make it short and plain. Each one of you shall help to make things slip By telling two stories on the outward trip To Canterbury, that’s what I intend, And, on the homeward way to journey’s end Another two, tales from the days of old; And then the man whose story is best told, That is to say who gives the fullest measure Of good morality and general pleasure, He shall be given a supper, paid by all, Here in this tavern, in this very hall, When we come back again from Canterbury. And in the hope to keep you bright and merry I’ll go along with you myself and ride All at my own expense and serve as guide. I’ll be the judge, and those who won’t obey Shall pay for what we spend upon the way. Now if you all agree to what you’ve heard Tell me at once without another word, And I will make arrangements early for it.’

Of course we all agreed, in fact we swore it Delightedly, and made entreaty too That he should act as he proposed to do, Become our Governor in short, and be Judge of our tales and general referee,

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And set the supper at a certain price. We promised to be ruled by his advice Come high, come low; unanimously thus We set him up in judgement over us. More wine was fetched, the business being done; We drank it off and up went everyone To bed without a moment of delay.

Early next morning at the spring of day Up rose our Host and roused us like a cock, Gathering us together in a flock, And off we rode at slightly faster pace Than walking to St Thomas’ watering-place; And there our Host drew up, began to ease His horse, and said, ‘Now, listen if you please, My lords! Remember what you promised me. If evensong and mattins will agree Let’s see who shall be first to tell a tale. And as I hope to drink good wine and ale I’ll be your judge. The rebel who disobeys, However much the journey costs, he pays. Now draw for cut and then we can depart; The man who draws the shortest cut shall start. My Lord the Knight,’ he said, ‘step up to me And draw your cut, for that is my decree. And come you near, my Lady Prioress, And you, Sir Cleric, drop your shamefastness, No studying now! A hand from every man!’ Immediately the draw for lots began And to tell shortly how the matter went, Whether by chance or fate or accident, The truth is this, the cut fell to the Knight, Which everybody greeted with delight. And tell his tale he must, as reason was Because of our agreement and because He too had sworn. What more is there to say?

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For when this good man saw how matters lay, Being by wisdom and obedience driven To keep a promise he had freely given, He said, ‘Since it’s for me to start the game, Why, welcome be the cut in God’s good name! Now let us ride, and listen to what I say.’ And at the word we started on our way And in a cheerful style he then began At once to tell his tale, and thus it ran.

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THE KNIGHT’S TALE

PART I

Stories of old have made it known to us That there was once a Duke called Theseus, Ruler of Athens, Lord and Governor, And in his time so great a conqueror There was none mightier beneath the sun. And many a rich country he had won, What with his wisdom and his troops of horse. He had subdued the Amazons by force And all their realm, once known as Scythia, But then called Femeny. Hippolyta, Their queen, he took to wife, and, says the story, He brought her home in solemn pomp and glory, Also her younger sister, Emily. And thus victorious and with minstrelsy I leave this noble Duke for Athens bound With all his host of men-at-arms around.

And were it not too long to tell again I would have fully pictured the campaign In which his men-at-arms and he had won Those territories from the Amazon And the great battle that was given then Between those women and the Athenian men, Or told you how Hippolyta had been Besieged and taken, fair courageous queen, And what a feast there was when they were married, And after of the tempest that had harried Their home-coming. I pass these over now Having, God knows, a larger field to plough.

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Weak are my oxen for such mighty stuff; What I have yet to tell is long enough. I won’t delay the others of our rout, Let every fellow tell his tale about And see who wins the supper at the Inn. Where I left off, let me again begin.

This Duke I mentioned, ere alighting down And on the very outskirts of the town In all felicity and height of pride Became aware, casting an eye aside, That kneeling on the highway, two by two, A company of ladies were in view All clothed in black, each pair in proper station Behind the other. And such lamentation And cries they uttered, it was past conceiving The world had ever heard such noise of grieving, Nor did they hold their misery in check Till they grasped bridle at his horse’s neck.

‘Who may you be that, at my coming, so Perturb my festival with cries of woe?’ Said Theseus. ‘Do you grudge the celebration Of these my honours with your lamentation? Who can have injured you or who offended? And tell me if the matter may be mended And why it is that you are clothed in black?’

The eldest of these ladies answered back, Fainting a little in such deadly fashion That but to see and hear her stirred compassion, And said, ‘O Sir, whom Fortune has made glorious In conquest and is sending home victorious, We do not grudge your glory in our grief But rather beg your mercy and relief. Have pity on our sorrowful distress! Some drop of pity, in your nobleness, On us unhappy women let there fall!

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For sure there is not one among us all That was not once a duchess or a queen, Though wretches now, as may be truly seen, Thanks be to Fortune and her treacherous wheel That suffers no estate on earth to feel Secure, and, waiting on your presence, we, Here at the shrine of Goddess Clemency, Have watched a fortnight for this very hour. Help us, my Lord, it lies within your power. I, wretched Queen, that weep aloud my woe, Was wife to King Capaneus long ago That died at Thebes, accursed be the day! And we in our disconsolate array That make this sorrowful appeal to pity Lost each her husband in that fatal city During the siege, for so it came to pass. Now old King Creon – O alas, alas! – The Lord of Thebes, grown cruel in his age And filled with foul iniquity and rage, For tyranny and spite as I have said Does outrage on the bodies of our dead, On all our husbands, for when they were slain Their bodies were dragged out onto the plain Into a heap, and there, as we have learnt, They neither may have burial nor be burnt, But he makes dogs devour them, in scorn.’

At that they all at once began to mourn, And every woman fell upon her face And cried, ‘Have pity, Lord, on our disgrace And let our sorrow sink into your heart.’

The Duke, who felt a pang of pity start At what they spoke, dismounted from his steed; He felt his heart about to break indeed, Seeing how piteous and disconsolate They were, that once had been of high estate!

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He raised them in his arms and sought to fill Their hearts with comfort and with kind good will, And swore on oath that as he was true knight, So far as it should lie within his might, He would take vengeance on this tyrant King, This Creon, till the land of Greece should ring With how he had encountered him and served The monster with the death he had deserved. Instantly then and with no more delay, He turned and with his banners in display Made off for Thebes with all his host beside, For not a step to Athens would he ride, Nor take his ease so much as half a day, But marched into the night upon his way. But yet he sent Hippolyta the Queen And Emily her sister, the serene, On into Athens, where they were to dwell, And off he rode; there is no more to tell.

The figure of red Mars with spear and targe So shone upon his banners white and large, That all the meadows glittered up and down, And close by them his pennon of renown Shone rich with gold, emblazoned with that feat, His slaying of the Minotaur in Crete. Thus rode this Duke, thus rode this conqueror And led his flower of chivalry to war, Until he came to Thebes, there to alight In splendour on a chosen field to fight. And, to speak briefly of so great a thing, He conquered Creon there, the Theban king, And slew him manfully, as became a knight, In open battle, put his troops to flight, And by assault captured the city after And rent it, roof and wall and spar and rafter; And to the ladies he restored again

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The bones belonging to their husbands slain, To do, as custom was, their obsequies.

But it were all too long to speak of these, Or of the clamorous complaint and yearning These ladies uttered at the place of burning The bodies, or of all the courtesy That Theseus, noble in his victory, Showed to the ladies when they went their way; I would be brief in what I have to say.

Now when Duke Theseus worthily had done Justice on Creon and when Thebes was won, That night, camped in the field, he took his rest, Having disposed the land as he thought best.

Crawling for ransack among heaps of slain And stripping their accoutrements for gain, The pillagers went busily about After the battle on the field of rout. And so befell among the heaps they found, Thrust through with bloody wounds upon the ground, Two pale young knights there, lying side by side, Wearing the self-same arms in blazoned pride. Of these Arcita was the name of one, That of the other knight was Palamon; And they were neither fully quick nor dead. By coat of arms and crest upon the head The heralds knew, for all the filth and mud, That they were Princes of the Royal Blood; Two sisters of the House of Thebes had borne them. Out of the heap these pillagers have torn them And gently carried them to Theseus’ tent. And he decreed they should at once be sent To Athens, and gave order they be kept Perpetual prisoners – he would accept No ransom for them. This was done, and then The noble Duke turned homeward with his men

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Crowned with the laurel of his victory, And there in honour and felicity He lived his life; what more is there to say? And in a tower, in grief and anguish lay Arcite and Palamon, beyond all doubt For ever, for no gold could buy them out.

Year after year went by, day after day, Until one morning in the month of May Young Emily, that fairer was of mien Than is the lily on its stalk of green, And fresher in her colouring that strove With early roses in a May-time grove – I know not which was fairer of the two – Ere it was day, as she was wont to do, Rose and arrayed her beauty as was right, For May will have no sluggardry at night, Season that pricks in every gentle heart, Awaking it from sleep, and bids it start, Saying, ‘Arise! Do thine observance due!’ And this made Emily recall anew The honour due to May and she arose, Her beauties freshly clad. To speak of those, Her yellow hair was braided in a tress Behind her back, a yard in length, I guess, And in the garden at the sun’s uprising, Hither and thither at her own devising, She wandered gathering flowers, white and red, To make a subtle garland for her head, And like an angel sang a heavenly song.

The great, grim tower-keep, so thick and strong, Principal dungeon at the castle’s core Where the two knights, of whom I spoke before And shall again, were shut, if you recall, Was close-adjoining to the garden wall Where Emily chose her pleasures and adornings.

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Bright was the sun this loveliest of mornings And the sad prisoner Palamon had risen, With licence from the jailer of the prison, As was his wont, and roamed a chamber high Above the city, whence he could descry The noble buildings and the branching green Where Emily the radiant and serene Went pausing in her walk and roaming on.

This sorrowful prisoner, this Palamon, Was pacing round his chamber to and fro Lamenting to himself in all his woe. ‘Alas,’ he said, ‘that ever I was born!’ And so it happened on this May day morn, Through a deep window set with many bars Of mighty iron squared with massive spars, He chanced on Emily to cast his eye And, as he did, he blenched and gave a cry As though he had been stabbed, and to the heart. And, at the cry, Arcita gave a start And said, ‘My cousin Palamon, what ails you? How deadly pale you look! Your colour fails you! Why did you cry? Who can have given offence? For God’s love, take things patiently, have sense, Think! We are prisoners and shall always be. Fortune has given us this adversity, Some wicked planetary dispensation, Some Saturn’s trick or evil constellation Has given us this, and Heaven, though we had sworn The contrary, so stood when we were born. We must endure it, that’s the long and short.’

And Palamon in answer made retort, ‘Cousin, believe me, your opinion springs From ignorance and vain imaginings. Imprisonment was not what made me cry. I have been hurt this moment through the eye,

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Into my heart. It will be death to me. The fairness of the lady that I see Roaming the garden yonder to and fro Is all the cause, and I cried out my woe. Woman or Goddess, which? I cannot say. I guess she may be Venus – well she may!’ He fell upon his knees before the sill And prayed: ‘O Venus, if it be thy will To be transfigured in this garden thus Before two wretched prisoners like us, O help us to escape, O make us free! Yet, if my fate already is shaped for me By some eternal word, and I must pine And die in prison, have pity on our line And kindred, humbled under tyranny!’

Now, as he spoke, Arcita chanced to see This lady as she roamed there to and fro, And, at the sight, her beauty hurt him so That if his cousin had felt the wound before, Arcite was hurt as much as he, or more, And with a deep and piteous sigh he said: ‘The freshness of her beauty strikes me dead, ‘Hers that I see, roaming in yonder place! Unless I gain the mercy of her grace, Unless at least I see her day by day, I am but dead. There is no more to say.’

On hearing this young Palamon looked grim And in contempt and anger answered him, ‘Do you speak this in earnest or in jest? ‘ ‘No, in good earnest,’ said Arcite, ‘the best! So help me God, I mean no jesting now.’

Then Palamon began to knit his brow: ‘It’s no great honour, then,’ he said, ‘to you To prove so false, to be a traitor too To me, that am your cousin and your brother,

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Both deeply sworn and bound to one another, Though we should die in torture for it, never To loose the bond that only death can sever, And when in love neither to hinder other, Nor in what else soever, dearest brother, But truly further me in all I do As faithfully as I shall further you. This was our oath and nothing can untie it, And well I know you dare not now deny it. I trust you with my secrets, make no doubt, Yet you would treacherously go about To love my lady, whom I love and serve And ever shall, till death cut my heart’s nerve. No, false Arcite! That you shall never do! I loved her first and told my grief to you As to the brother and the friend that swore To further me, as I have said before, So you are bound in honour as a knight To help me, should it lie within your might; Else you are false, I say, your honour vain!’ Arcita proudly answered back again: ‘You shall be judged as false,’ he said, ‘not me; And false you are, I tell you, utterly! I loved her as a woman before you. What can you say? Just now you hardly knew If she were girl or goddess from above! Yours is a mystical, a holy love, And mine is love as to a human being, And so I told you at the moment, seeing You were my cousin and sworn friend. At worst What do I care? Suppose you loved her first, Haven’t you heard the old proverbial saw “Who ever bound a lover by a law?”? Love is law unto itself. My hat! What earthly man can have more law than that?

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All man-made law, all positive injunction Is broken every day without compunction For love. A man must love, for all his wit; There’s no escape though he should die for it, Be she a maid, a widow or a wife.

‘Yet you are little likely, all your life, To stand in grace with her; no more shall I. You know yourself, too well, that here we lie Condemned to prison both of us, no doubt Perpetually. No ransom buys us out. We’re like two dogs in battle on their own; They fought all day but neither got the bone, There came a kite above them, nothing loth, And while they fought he took it from them both. And so it is in politics, dear brother, Each for himself alone, there is no other. Love if you want to; I shall love her too, And that is all there is to say or do. We’re prisoners and must endure it, man, And each of us must take what chance he can.’

Great was the strife for many a long spell Between them had I but the time to tell, But to the point. It happened that one day, To tell it you as briefly as I may, A certain famous Duke, Perotheus, Friend and companion of Duke Theseus Since they were little children, came to spend A holiday in Athens with his friend, Visiting him for pleasure as of yore, For there was no one living he loved more. His feelings were as tenderly returned; Indeed they were so fond, as I have learned, That when one died (so ancient authors tell) The other went to seek him down in Hell; But that’s a tale I have no time to treat.

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Now this Perotheus knew and loved Arcite In Theban days of old for many years, And so, at his entreaty, it appears, Arcita was awarded his release Without a ransom; he could go in peace And was left free to wander where he would On one condition, be it understood, And the condition, to speak plain, went thus, Agreed between Arcite and Theseus, That if Arcite were ever to be found Even for an hour, in any land or ground Or country of Duke Theseus, day or night, And he were caught, it would to both seem right That he immediately should lose his head, No other course or remedy instead.

Off went Arcite upon the homeward trek. Let him beware! For he has pawned his neck. What misery it cost him to depart! He felt the stroke of death upon his heart, He wept, he wailed. How piteously he cried And secretly he thought of suicide. He said, ‘Alas the day that gave me birth! Worse than my prison is the endless earth, Now I am doomed eternally to dwell Not in Purgatory, but in Hell. Alas that ever I knew Perotheus! For else I had remained with Theseus. Fettered in prison and without relief I still had been in bliss and not in grief. Only to see her whom I love and serve, Though it were never granted to deserve Her favour, would have been enough for me. O my dear cousin Palamon,’ said he, ‘Yours is the victory in this adventure. How blissfully you serve your long indenture

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In prison – prison? No, in Paradise! How happily has Fortune cast her dice For you! You have her presence, I the loss. For it is possible, since your paths may cross And you’re a knight, a worthy one, and able, That by some chance – for Fortune is unstable – You may attain to your desire at last. But I, that am an exile and outcast, Barren of grace and in such deep despair That neither earth nor water, fire nor air, Nor any creature that is made of these Can ever bring me help, or do me ease, I must despair and die in my distress. Farewell my life, my joy, my happiness!

‘Alas, why is it people so dispraise God’s providence or Fortune and her ways, That oft and variously in their scheme Includes far better things than they could dream? One man desires to have abundant wealth, Which brings about his murder or ill-health; Another, freed from prison as he’d willed, Comes home, his servants catch him, and he’s killed. Infinite are the harms that come this way; We little know the things for which we pray. Our ways are drunkard ways – drunk as a mouse; A drunkard knows quite well he has a house, But how to get there puts him in a dither, And for a drunk the way is slip and slither. Such is our world indeed, and such are we. How eagerly we seek felicity, Yet are so often wrong in what we try! Yes, we can all say that, and so can I, In whom the foolish notion had arisen That if I only could escape from prison I should be well, in pure beatitude,

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Whereas I am an exile from my good, For since I may not see you, Emily, I am but dead and there’s no remedy.’

Now, on the other hand, poor Palamon, When it was told him that Arcite had gone, Fell in such grief, the tower where he was kept Resounded to his yowling as he wept. The very fetters on his mighty shins Shine with his bitter tears as he begins, ‘Alas, Arcite, dear cousin! In our dispute And rivalry God knows you have the fruit. I see you now in Thebes, our native city, As free as air, with never a thought of pity For me! You, an astute, determined man Can soon assemble all our folk and clan For war on Athens, make a sharp advance, And by some treaty or perhaps by chance She may become your lady and your wife For whom, needs must, I here shall lose my life. For, in the way of possibility, As you’re a prisoner no more, but free, A Prince, you have the advantage to engage In your affair. I perish in a cage, For I must weep and suffer while I live In all the anguish that a cell can give And all the torment of my love, O care That doubles all my suffering and despair.’

With that he felt the fire of jealousy start, Flame in his breast and catch him by the heart So madly that he seemed to fade and fail, Cold as dead ashes, or as box-wood pale. He cried, ‘O cruel Gods, whose government Binds all the world to your eternal bent, And writes upon an adamantine table All that your conclave has decreed as stable,

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What more is man to you than to behold A flock of sheep that cower in the fold? For men are slain as much as other cattle, Arrested, thrust in prison, killed in battle, In sickness often and mischance, and fall, Alas, too often for no guilt at all. Where is right rule in your foreknowledge, when Such torments fall on innocent, helpless men? Yet there is more, for added to my load, I am to pay the duties that are owed To God, for Him I am to curb my will In all the lusts that cattle may fulfil. For when a beast is dead, he feels no pain, But after death a man must weep again That living has endured uncounted woe; I have no doubt that it may well be so. I leave the answer for divines to tell, But that there’s pain on earth I know too well.

‘I have seen many a serpent, many a thief Bring down the innocent of heart to grief, Yet be at large and take what turn they will. But I lie languishing in prison still. Juno and Saturn in their jealous rage Have almost quelled our Theban lineage; Thebes stands in waste, her walls are broken wide. And Venus slays me on the other side With jealous fears of what Arcite is doing.’

Now I will turn a little from pursuing Palamon’s thoughts, and leave him in his cell, For I have something of Arcite to tell.

The summer passes, and long winter nights Double the miseries and appetites Of lover in jail and lover free as air. I cannot tell you which had most to bear. To put it shortly, Palamon the pale

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Lies there condemned to a perpetual jail, Chained up in fetters till his dying breath; Arcita is exiled on pain of death For ever from the long-desired shore Where lives the lady he will see no more.

You lovers, here’s a question I would offer, Arcite or Palamon, which had most to suffer? The one can see his lady day by day, But he must dwell in prison, locked away. The other’s free, the world lies all before, But never shall he see his lady more. Judge as you please between them, you that can, For I’ll tell on my tale as I began.

PART II

Now when Arcita got to Thebes again Daylong he languished, crying out in pain ‘Alas!’ for never could he hope to see His lady more. To sum his misery, There never was a man so woe-begone, Nor is, nor shall be while the world goes on. Meat, drink and sleep – he lay of all bereft, Thin as a shaft, as dry, with nothing left. His eyes were hollow, grisly to behold, Fallow his face, like ashes pale and cold, And he went solitary and alone, Wailing away the night and making moan; And if the sound of music touched his ears He wept, unable to refrain his tears. So feeble were his spirits and so low, And changed so much, one could not even know Him by his voice; one heard and was in doubt. And so for all the world he went about Not merely like a lover on the rack Of Eros, but more like a maniac

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In melancholy madness, under strain Of fantasy – those cells that front the brain. Briefly, his love had turned him upside-down In looks and disposition, toe to crown, This poor distracted lover, Prince Arcite.

But I shall take all day if I repeat All that he suffered for the first two years, In cruel torment and in painful tears At Thebes, in his home-country, as I said. Now as he lay one night asleep in bed The winged god Mercury, he thought, came near And stood before him, bidding him have good cheer. His sleep-imbuing wand he held in air, He wore a hat upon his golden hair, Arrayed (Arcita noticed) in the guise He wore when closing up the hundred eyes Of Argus, and he said, ‘You are to go To Athens. There shall be an end to woe.’ He spoke; Arcita started and woke up. ‘Truly, however bitter be my cup, To Athens I will go at once!’ he said, ‘Nor will I change my purpose for the dread Of death, for I will see her. I can die Gladly enough, if she be standing by.’

He rose and snatched a mirror from its place And saw what change had come upon his face, The colour gone, the features redesigned, And instantly it came into his mind That being so disfigured and so wan From the long sickness he had undergone, He might, if he assumed a humble tone, Live out his life in Athens unbeknown And see his lady almost every day. So, on the spot, he doffed his lord’s array, And dressed as a poor labourer seeking hire.

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Then all alone, except for a young squire, Who knew the secret of his misery And was disguised as wretchedly as he, He went to Athens by the shortest way And came to Court. And on the following day Arcita proffered at the gate for hire To do what drudgery they might require. And briefly (there is little to explain) He fell in service with a chamberlain Who had his dwelling there with Emily. The man was cunning and was quick to see What work the servants did and which were good. Arcite could carry water or hew wood, For he was young and powerfully grown, A tall young fellow too, and big of bone, Fit to do any work that was ordained.

Thus, for a year or two, Arcite remained With Emily the bright, her page-of-state, And gave it out his name was Philostrate. And half so well beloved a man as he There never was at Court, of his degree. He was so much a gentleman by breed He grew quite famous through the Court indeed, And it would be a charitable notion (They said) if Theseus offered him promotion And put him to a service less despised In which his virtues might be exercised. Thus in a little while his fame had sprung Both for good deeds and for a courteous tongue, And Theseus took him and advanced him higher, Made him his personal and chamber-squire, And gave him money to maintain his station. There came, moreover, men of his own nation Secretly, year by year, and brought his dues. He spent them cunningly, these revenues,

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But honestly; none wondered at his wealth. Three years went by in happiness and health; He bore himself so well in peace and war That there was no one Theseus valued more. I leave him there in bliss, though bliss is brittle, And turn to speak of Palamon a little.

In darkness horrible and prison tears Poor Palamon has sat for seven years, Pining away in sorrow and distress. Who feels a two-fold grief and heaviness But Palamon, whom love oppresses so That he has lost his very wits for woe? Added to which, he must lie prisoner there Perpetually, not only for a year.

Who could make rhymes in English fit to vie With martyrdom like that? Indeed, not I. Let me pass lightly over it and say It happened in the seventh year, in May, The third of May (my ancient sources give This detail in their fuller narrative), Whether by accident or destiny, For as events are shaped they have to be, Soon after midnight, ere the sun had risen, Helped by a friend, Palamon broke from prison And fled the town as fast as he could go. A drink had proved his jailer’s overthrow, A kind of honeyed claret he had fixed With Theban opium and narcotics mixed. The jailer slept all night; had he been shaken He would have been impossible to waken. So off runs Palamon as best he may. The night was short and it was nearly day, So it was necessary he should hide. Into a grove that flanked the city’s side Palamon stalked with terror-stricken feet.

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Here was, in his opinion, a retreat In which he could conceal himself all day And whence at nightfall he could make his way On towards Thebes and rally at his back A host of friends all eager to attack Duke Theseus. He would either lose his life Or conquer and win Emily to wife. That was his whole intention, fair and plain.

I turn my story to Arcite again. He little knew how close he was to care Till Fortune brought him back into the snare.

The busy lark, the messenger of day, Sings salutation to the morning grey, And fiery Phoebus rising up so bright Sets all the Orient laughing with the light, And with his streams he dries the dewy sheaves And silver droplets hanging on the leaves. And now Arcita, at the royal court, Principal squire to Theseus, seeking sport Has risen from bed and greets the merry day. Thinking to do observances to May, And musing on the point of his desires He rode a courser full of flickering fires Into the fields for pleasure and in play A mile or two from where the palace lay, And to the very grove you heard me mention He chanced to hold his course, with the intention To make himself a garland. There he weaves A hawthorn-spray and honeysuckle leaves And sings aloud against the sunny sheen, ‘O Month of May, with all thy flowers and green, Welcome be thou, O fairest, freshest May, Give me thy green, in hope of happy day!’

Quickly dismounting from his horse, he started To thrust his way into the grove, light-hearted,

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And roamed along the pathway, on and on, Until he came by chance where Palamon Crouched in a bush, scarce daring to draw breath Lest he be seen, in deadly fear of death. He little knew it was Arcite he heard, It would have seemed incredible, absurd; Yet there’s a saying, known these many years: Fields have their eyes, and forests have their ears. It’s well to be upon one’s guard, I mean, Since all day long we meet the unforeseen. And little knew Arcite that there, beside him, Palamon lay, with but a bush to hide him, So close to him, and hearing all he said But keeping still and silent as the dead.

Now when at last Arcite had roamed his fill And sung his roundel with a lusty will He felt a change of humour, for the nonce, And fell into a study all at once, As do these lovers in their quaint desires, Now on the spray, now down among the briars, Now up, now down, like buckets in a well, Just as upon a Friday, truth to tell, It shines one moment, and the next rains fast; For thus can whimsical Venus overcast The spirits of her folk, just as her day, Friday is changeable, and so too are they, Seldom is Friday like the rest of the week. And, having sung, Arcite began to speak, And sat him down, unutterably forlorn. ‘Alas!’ he said, ‘the day that I was born! How long, O Juno, in thy cruelty, Wilt thou make war and bring to misery The city of Thebes, and those that played the lion, The royal blood of Cadmus and Amphion! Cadmus, the first of men to win renown

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By building Thebes, or first in laying down Her strong foundations, first to be crowned her king; And I that share his lineage, I that spring By right descent out of the royal stock, Have fallen captive and am made a mock, Slave to my mortal enemy, no higher Than a contemptible, a menial squire! Yet Juno does me even greater shame; I dare no more acknowledge my own name. Time was Arcita was my name by right; Now I’m called Philostrate, not worth a mite! Alas, fell Mars! Ah, Juno, stern of face, You have undone our lineage and our race Save for myself and Palamon, who dwells In martyrdom, poor wretch, in Theseus’ cells. On top of this, to slay me utterly, The fiery dart of love so burningly Thrusts through my faithful heart with deadly hurt! My death was shaped for me before my shirt. You kill me with your eyes, my Emily, You are the cause that brings my death on me! All the remainder of my cares and needs I’d rate no higher than a mound of weeds Could I but please or earn a grateful glance!’

And on the word he fell into a trance A long, long time, then woke and moved apart.

Palamon felt a cleaving in his heart As of a cold sword suddenly gliding through. He quaked with anger; hiding would not do Now that he’d listened to Arcita’s tale, And with a madman’s face, extinct and pale, He started up out of his bushy thicket And cried, ‘Arcita! Traitor! False and wicked, Now you are caught that love my lady so, For whom I suffer all this pain and woe,

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And of my blood – sworn friend – for so we swore As I have told you many times before, And you have cheated Theseus with this game, False as you are, of a pretended name! Let it be death for you or death for me. You shall not love my lady Emily. I, no one else, will love her! Look and know That I am Palamon your mortal foe. And though I have no weapon in this place, Having escaped from prison by God’s grace, I doubt it not you shall be slain by me Or else yield up the love of Emily. You shan’t escape me, therefore choose your part!’

Arcite, however, full of scorn at heart, Knowing his face and hearing what he said, Fierce as a lion drew his sword instead And answered him, ‘By God that sits above, Were you not sick, and lunatic for love, And weaponless moreover in this place, You never should so much as take a pace Beyond this grove, but perish at my hand. And I denounce all covenants that stand Or are alleged, as between you and me. Fool that you are, remember love is free And I will love her! I defy your might. Yet, as you are an honourable knight Willing by battle to decide your claim, Tomorrow, by the honour of my name I will not fail you, nor will make it known To anyone. To-morrow, here, alone You’ll find me as a knight, and on my oath I shall bring arms and harness for us both; And you shall have the right of choosing first, Taking the best and leaving me the worst. I’ll bring you meat and drink, let that be said,

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Enough for you, and clothes to make your bed. As for my lady, should you chance to win And kill me in this thicket we are in, Then you can have your lady, as for me.’ And Palamon gave answer, ‘I agree.’ And thus they parted at the coppice-edge Until the morning. Each had given pledge.

O Cupid, Cupid, lost to charity! O realm that brooks no fellow-king in thee! Well is it said that neither love nor power Admit a rival, even for an hour. Arcite and Palamon had found that out.

So back to town Arcite turned about, And the next morning, ere the day was light, He filched two suits of armour by a sleight, Fully sufficient for the work in hand, The battle in the fields, that they had planned. Alone as at his birth Arcita rode And carried all the armour in a load. There in the grove where time and place were set This Palamon and this Arcite are met.

Then slowly changed the colour in each face Just as when hunters in the realm of Thrace That standing in the gap will poise a spear And wait for bear or lion to appear, Then hear him coming, breaking through the branches, And hear the swish of leaves upon his haunches, And think, ‘Here comes my mortal enemy! It’s either death for him or death for me. For either I must slay him at this gap Or he slay me, if I should have mishap.’ Just so these knights changed colour when they met, Knowing each other and the purpose set.

There was no salutation, no ‘Good day’, But without word or prelude straight away

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Each of them gave his help to arm the other As friendly as a brother with his brother; And after that with spears of sharpened strength They fought each other at amazing length. You would have thought, seeing Palamon engage, He was a lion fighting-mad with rage, Arcite a cruel tiger, as they beat And smote each other, or as boars that meet And froth as white as foam upon the flood. They fought till they were ankle-deep in blood. And in this rage I leave them fighting thus And turn once more to speak of Theseus.

Now Destiny, that Minister-General Who executes on earth and over all What God, from everlasting, has foreseen, Is of such strength, that though the world had been Sure of the contrary, by Yea and Nay, That thing will happen on a certain day, Though never again within a thousand years. And certainly our appetites and fears, Whether in war or peace, in hate or love, Are governed by a providence above.

Thus must explain why mighty Theseus found A sudden wish to hunt with horse and hound Especially the hart in early May. About his bed there never dawned a day But he was up and ready dressed to ride With horn and hound and hunter at his side. Hunting to him was such a keen delight It was his ruling joy and appetite To be a stag’s destroyer, for the stars Ruled he should serve Diana after Mars.

Clear was the day, as I have told ere this, And Theseus, bathed in happiness and bliss, With fair Hippolyta, his lovely Queen,

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And Emily, who was arrayed in green, Rode out to hunt; it was a royal band. And to the coppice lying near at hand In which a hart – or so they told him – lay, He led his gathering by the shortest way. And pressing on towards a glade in sight Down which the hart most often took to flight Over a brook and off and out of view, The Duke had hopes to try a course or two With certain hounds that he had singled out; And when he reached the glade he looked about. Glancing towards the sun he thereupon Beheld Arcita fighting Palamon. They fought like boars in bravery. There go The shining swords in circle, to and fro, So hideously that with their lightest stroke It seemed as if they would have felled an oak. What they could be he did not know, of course, But he clapped spur at once into his horse And, at a bound, he parted blow from blow, And pulling out his sword he shouted, ‘Ho! No more on pain of death! Upon your head! By mighty Mars, he is as good as dead That dares to strike a blow in front of me! Tell me, what sort of fellows may you be That have the impudence to combat here Without a judge or other overseer, Yet as if jousting at a royal tilt?’

Palamon answered quickly and in guilt, ‘O Sir, what need of further word or breath? Both of us have deserved to die the death, Two wretched men, your captives, met in strife, And each of them encumbered with his life. If to judge righteously has been your fashion, Show neither of us mercy nor compassion,

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And kill me first for holy charity! But kill my fellow too, the same as me. Or kill him first, for little though you know, This is Arcita and your mortal foe, Banished by you on forfeit of his head, For which alone he merits to be dead. This is the man that waited at your gate And told you that his name was Philostrate. This is the man that mocked you many a year, And you have made him chief equerry here. This is the man who dares love Emily. Now, since my day of death has come to me, I will make full confession and go on To say I am that woeful Palamon That broke out of your jail feloniously. And it is I, your mortal enemy, That am in love with Emily the Bright And glad to die this moment in her sight. And so I ask for judgement and for death; But slay my fellow in the self-same breath, Since we have both deserved that we be slain!’

And noble Theseus answered back again, ‘This is a short conclusion. It shall stand. Your own confession damns you out of hand. I shall record your sentence as it stood; There needs no torturing to make it good. Death you shall have, by mighty Mars the Red!’

On hearing this, the Queen began to shed Her womanly tears, and so did Emily And all the ladies in the company. It seemed so very piteous to them all That ever such misfortune should befall For they were noblemen of great estate And love the only cause of their debate. They saw their bloody gashes gaping wide

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And, from the greatest to the least, they cried, ‘Have mercy, Lord, upon us women all!’ Down on their knees they then began to fall, Ready to kiss his feet as there he stood.

Abated in the end his angry mood; Pity runs swiftly in a noble heart. Though he had quaked with anger at the start He had reflected, having time to pause, Upon their trespass and upon its cause, And though his anger at their guilt was loth To pardon either, reason pardoned both. For thus he argued: almost any man Will help himself to love, if so he can, And anyone will try to break from prison; And then compassion in his heart had risen Seeing these ladies weeping there together, And in his noble heart he wondered whether He should not show his clemency, and ‘Fie,’ He thought, ‘on lords who show no mercy! why, To be a lion both in word and deed To a penitent in fear, is not to heed His change of heart, and equal him with one Proudly persisting in an evil done. A lord will lack discretion among his graces Who does not make distinction in such cases, But weighs humility and pride as one.’ And, to be brief, his anger being done, His eyes began to sparkle and uncloud And having taken thought he said aloud: ‘The God of Love! Ah, Benedicite! How mighty and how great a lord is he! No obstacles for him make any odds; His miracles proclaim his power a God’s. Cupid can make of every heart and soul Just what he pleases, such is his control.

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Look at Arcita here and Palamon! Both had escaped scot-free and could have gone To Thebes and lived there royally; they know That I have ever been their mortal foe; Their lives are mine, they can make no defence; Yet Cupid in the teeth of common sense Has brought them here to die in melancholy! Consider, is it not the height of folly? What is so foolish as a man in love? Look at them both! By God that sits above See how they bleed! Are they not well arrayed? Thus has their lord, the God of Love, repaid Their services; these are his fees and wages! And yet, in spite of that, they pose as sages, These devotees of Love, as I recall. But still this is the finest stroke of all, That she, the cause of all these jolly pranks, Has no more reason to return them thanks Than I, and knows no more of this affair, By God, than does a cuckoo or a hare! Well, well, try anything once, come hot, come cold! If we’re not foolish young, we’re foolish old. I long have known myself what Love can do, For, in my time, I was a lover too. And therefore, knowing something of love’s pain, How violently it puts a man to strain, As one so often caught in the same snare I readily forgive the whole affair, Both at the Queen’s request, that on her knees Petitions, and my sister Emily’s. But you shall swear to me and give your hands Upon it never to attack my lands, Or levy war on me by night or day, But be my friends in everything you may. I pardon you your fault. You are forgiven.’

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They swore as he had asked, and, having striven To gain his patronage and further grace, Were satisfied, and Theseus summed the case:

‘So far as riches go, and nobleness, Were she a queen in question, or princess, You would be worthy when the moment came, Either of you, to marry. All the same, Speaking as for my sister Emily, The cause of all your strife and jealousy, You are aware yourselves that she can never Wed both at once, though you should fight for ever. And one of you, come joy to him or grief, Must go pipe tunes upon an ivy-leaf; That is to say she cannot have you both, However jealous you may be, or loth. And so, to put the matter in good order, Let Destiny herself be your Awarder, And shape your fortune. Listen to the close, For here is the solution I propose.

‘My will is this, to make a flat conclusion And end all counterpleading and confusion, (And you will please to take it for the best) That each shall take his freedom, east or west, And without ransom or constraint of war; And, a year later, neither less nor more, Each shall return, bringing a hundred knights, Armed for the lists and everything to rights, Ready by battle to decide his claim To Emily. To this I give my name, My faith and honour, as I am a knight. Whichever of you proves of greater might, Or, more precisely, whether you or he, Backed by the hundred knights allowed by me, Can drive his foe to stake, or take his life, To him I shall give Emily to wife,

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To whom kind Fortune gives so fair a grace. I’ll build the lists upon this very place, And God in wisdom deal my soul its due As I shall prove an even judge and true. There is no other way, let that be plain; One of you must be taken or else slain. And if this seems to you to be well said, Think yourselves lucky, sirs, and nod your head. That’s the conclusion I’ve decided on.’

Who looks delighted now but Palamon? And who springs up rejoicing but Arcite? And who could tell, what poetry repeat The joy of all those present in the place That Theseus had vouchsafed so fair a grace? Down on their knees went everyone in sight Returning thanks with all their heart and might, Especially the Thebans, time on time. Thus in good hope, with beating heart a-climb, Each took his leave, and they began to ride To Thebes and to her ancient walls and wide.

PART III

I judge it would be held for negligence If I forgot to tell of the dispense Of money by the Duke who set about To make the lists a royal show throughout. A theatre more noble in its plan I dare well say was never seen by man. It had a circuit of a mile about, Well walled with stone; there was a ditch without. Shaped like a circle there it stood complete In tier on tier, the height of sixty feet, So that a man set in a given row Did not obstruct his neighbour from below.

Eastward there stood a gate of marble white,

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And westward such another rose to sight; Briefly, there never was upon the face Of earth so much within so small a space. No craftsmen in the land that had the trick Of pure geometry, arithmetic, Portraiture, carving and erecting stages, But Theseus found him and supplied his wages To build this theatre and carve devices. And, to observe due rites and sacrifices, Eastward he built upon the gate, above, An oratory to the Queen of Love, To Venus and her worship, and he dressed An altar there; and like it, to the west, In reverence to Mars he built a second; The cost in gold was hardly to be reckoned. Yet, northward, in a turret on the wall He built a third, an oratory tall And rich, of whitest alabaster, set With crimson coral, to discharge the debt Of worship to Diana of Chastity. And it was thus that Theseus built these three Temples in great magnificence of style.

But yet I have forgotten all this while To tell you of the portraits that there were, The shapes, the carvings and the figures there To grace these temples high above the green.

First, in the temple of Venus, you had seen Wrought on the wall, and piteous to behold, The broken sleeps and sighings manifold, The sacred tears and the lamenting songs And every fiery passion that belongs To those that suffer love, the long-endured, Their taken oaths, their covenants assured, Pleasure and Hope, Desire, Foolhardiness, Beauty and Youth, Lasciviousness, Largesse,

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Philtres and Force, Falsehood and Flattery, Extravagance, Intrigue and Jealousy Gold-garlanded, with many a yellow twist, That had a cuckoo sitting on her wrist. Stringed instruments, and carols, feasts and dances, Joy and display, and all the circumstances Of love, as I have told you and shall tell Were in due order painted there as well, And more than I can mention or recount. Truly the whole of Citherea’s Mount, Where Venus has her dwelling above all Her other playgrounds, figured on the wall With all her garden in its joyful dress. Nor was forgotten her porter, Idleness, Nor yet Narcissus, beauty’s paragon In times gone by, nor doting Solomon, Nor the unmastered strength of Hercules. Medea and her enchantments next to these, And Circe’s too, and Turnus fierce and brave, And rich King Croesus, captive and a slave, That men might see that neither wit nor wealth, Beauty or cunning, bravery or health Can challenge Venus or advance their worth Against that goddess who controls the earth. And all these people captured in her noose Cried out, ‘Alas!’ but it was little use. Suffice these few examples, but the score Could well be reckoned many thousands more.

Her statue, glorious in majesty, Stood naked, floating on a vasty sea, And from the navel down there were a mass Of green and glittering waves as bright as glass. In her right hand a cithern carried she And on her head, most beautiful to see, A garland of fresh roses, while above

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There circles round her many a flickering dove. Cupid her son was standing to behold her

Fronting her statue, winged on either shoulder, And he was blind, as it is often seen; He bore a bow with arrows bright and keen.

Why should I not go on to tell you all The portraiture depicted on the wall Within the Temple of Mighty Mars the red? The walls were painted round and overhead Like the recesses of that grisly place Known as the Temple of Great Mars in Thrace, That frosty region under chilling stars Where stands the sovereign mansion of King Mars.

First on the walls a forest with no plan Inhabited by neither beast nor man Was painted – tree-trunks, knotted, gnarled and old, Jagged and barren, hideous to behold, Through which there ran a rumble and a soughing As though a storm should break the branches bowing Before it. Downwards from a hill there went A slope; the Temple of Armipotent Mars was erected there in steel, and burnished. The Gateway, narrow and forbidding, furnished A ghastly sight, and such a rushing quake Raged from within, the portals seemed to shake. In at the doors a northern glimmer shone Onto the walls, for windows there were none; One scarce discerned a light, it was so scant. The doors were of eternal adamant, And vertically clenched, and clenched across For greater strength with many an iron boss, And every pillar to support the shrine Weighed a full ton of iron bright and fine.

And there I saw the dark imaginings Of felony, the stratagems of kings,

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And cruel wrath that glowed an ember-red, The pick-purse and the image of pale Dread, The smiler with the knife beneath his cloak, The out-houses that burnt with blackened smoke; Treason was there, a murder on a bed, And open war, with wounds that gaped and bled; Dispute, with bloody knife and snarling threat; A screaming made the place more dreadful yet. The slayer of himself, I saw him there With all his heart’s blood matted in his hair; The driven nail that made the forehead crack, Cold Death, with gaping mouth, upon its back.

And in the middle of the shrine Mischance Stood comfortless with sorry countenance. There I saw madness cackling his distress, Armed insurrection, outcry, fierce excess, The carrion in the undergrowth, slit-throated, And thousands violently slain. I noted The raping tyrant with his prey o’ertaken, The levelled city, gutted and forsaken, The ships on fire dancingly entangled, The luckless hunter that wild bears had strangled, The sow, munching the baby in the cradle, The scalded cook, in spite of his long ladle – Nothing forgotten of the unhappy art Of Mars: the carter crushed beneath his cart, Flung to the earth and pinned beneath the wheel; Those also on whom Mars has set his seal, The barber and the butcher and the smith Who forges things a man may murder with. And high above, depicted in a tower, Sat Conquest, robed in majesty and power, Under a sword that swung above his head, Sharp-edged and hanging by a subtle thread.

And Caesar’s slaughter stood in effigy

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And that of Nero and Mark Antony; Though to be sure they were as yet unborn, Their deaths were there prefigured to adorn This Temple with the menaces of Mars, As is depicted also in the stars Who shall be murdered, who shall die for love; Such were the portraits on the walls above. Let these examples from the past hold good, For all I cannot reckon, though I would.

The statue of Mars was in a cart, and clad In armour, grim and staring, like the mad, Above his head there shone with blazing looks Two starry figures, named in ancient books, Puella one, the other Rubeus. The God of Battles was encompassed thus: There stood a wolf before him at his feet, His eyes glowed red, he had a man to eat. Subtle the pencil was that told this story Picturing Mars in terror and in glory.

To the temple of Diana, now, the Chaste, I briefly turn, for I will use what haste I can in trying to describe it all. Here there were many paintings on the wall Of hunting and of shamefast chastity. There I perceived the sad Callisto, she Whom in her rage Diana did not spare But changed her from a woman to a bear, Then to a star, and she was painted so (She is the lode-star, that is all I know; Her son, too, is a star, as one can see). There I saw Dana, turned into a tree* (No, not Diana, she was not the same, But Penneus’ daughter, Dana was her name). I saw Actaeon turned into a stag; This was Diana’s vengeance, lest he brag

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Of having seen her naked. There they show him Caught and devoured – his own hounds did not know him. Close by there was a painting furthermore Of Atalanta hunting a wild boar, And Meleager; there were others too Diana chose to harry and undo, And many other wonders on the wall Were painted, that I need not now recall.

High on a stag the Goddess held her seat, And there were little hounds about her feet; Below her feet there was a sickle moon, Waxing it seemed, but would be waning soon. Her statue bore a mantle of bright green, Her hand a bow with arrows cased and keen; Her eyes were lowered, gazing as she rode Down to where Pluto has his dark abode. A woman in her travail lay before her, Her child unborn; she ceased not to implore her To be delivered and with piteous call Cried, ‘Help, Lucina, thou the best of all!’ It was a lively painting, every shade Had cost the painter many a florin paid.

So now the lists were made, and Theseus Who, at huge cost, had bidden them produce These temples in a theatre so stately, Saw it was finished, and it pleased him greatly. No more of Theseus now; I must pass on To speak of Arcite and of Palamon.

The day approached for trial of their rights When each should bring with him a hundred knights To settle all by battle, as I said; So, back to Athens each of them had led His hundred knights, all helmeted and spurred And armed for war. They meant to keep their word. And it was said indeed by many a man

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That never since the day the world began In all God’s earth, wide seas and reach of land, Had so few men made such a noble band As in respect of knighthood and degree. Everyone with a taste for chivalry And keen (you bet!) to win a glorious name Had begged to be allowed to join the game. Lucky the man to whom they gave the word! And if, tomorrow, such a thing occurred You know quite well that every lusty knight Who loved the ladies and had strength to fight, Whether in England here, or anywhere, Would wish – you cannot doubt it – to be there. Fight for a lady? Benedicite! That would be something for a man to see.

And that was just the case with Palamon. With him there rode his comrades – many a one; Some were in coat of mail and others wore A breastplate and a tunic, little more. Some carried heavy plating, front and back, And some a Prussian shield to ward attack; Some cased their legs in armour, thigh to heel, Some bore an axe and some a mace of steel – There’s never a new fashion but it’s old – And so they armed themselves as I have told. Each man according to his own opinion.

You might have seen arrive from his dominion Mighty Lycurgus, famous King of Thrace; Black was his beard and manly was his face. To see the circling eye-balls of the fellow Set in his head and glowing red and yellow! And like a gryphon he would stare and rouse The shaggy hair upon his beetling brows. Huge were his limbs, his muscles hard and strong, His back was broad, his bulging arms were long.

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True to his country’s custom from of old He towered in a chariot of gold And four white bulls were harnessed in the traces. Over his armour, which in many places Was studded with bright nails of yellow gold, He wore a coal-black bear-skin, fold on fold, Instead of surcoat, and behind his back His fell of hair was combed and shone as black As raven’s feather, and a golden wreath, Thick as your arm, weighted the head beneath. It was immensely heavy, and was bright With many precious stones of fiery light, With finest rubies and with diamonds. About his chariot, white enormous hounds, Twenty and more, each larger than a steer, And trained to hunt the lion and the deer, Went following him. Their muzzles were fast bound; Their collars were of gold with rings set round. He had a hundred nobles in his rout Armed to the teeth; their hearts were stern and stout.

And with Arcita, so the poets sing, Went great Emetrius the Indian king On a bay steed whose trappings were of steel Covered in cloth of gold from haunch to heel Fretted with diaper. Like Mars to see, His surcoat was in cloth of Tartary, Studded with great white pearls; beneath its fold A saddle of new-beaten, burnished, gold. He had a mantle hanging from his shoulders, Which, crammed with rubies, dazzled all beholders. His hair was crisped in ringlets, as if spun Of yellow gold, and glittered like the sun. Aquiline nose and eyes with lemon light And rounded lips he had, his colour bright, With a few freckles sprinkled here and there,

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Some yellow and some black. He bore an air As of a lion when he cast a glance. He was some twenty-five years old, to chance A guess at it; a healthy beard was springing. His voice resounded like a trumpet ringing. He had a wreath of laurel on his head For he was freshly, greenly garlanded. And on his hand he bore for his delight An eagle; it was tame and lily-white. He had a hundred lords beside him there, In all their armour (though their heads were bare) And sumptuously decked with furnishings. For take my word for it that dukes and kings Were gathered in this noble company For love and for the spread of chivalry. Many a lion tame and spotted pard Gambolled about this king of stern regard. And in this manner in their fine adorning These lords came to the city on Sunday morning, Round about nine o’clock, and lighted down.

The noble Theseus led them through his town (So it became him as a duke and knight), And housed them each according to his right. He feasted them and took great pains to please, To honour and to set them all at ease, And to this day it’s said no human wit However lofty could have bettered it.

What minstrelsy, what service at the feast, What gifts bestowed on greatest as on least, How richly decked the palace, what the place Ordained for first and last upon the dais, What ladies loveliest in the dancing throng, And which most exquisite in dance and song And which to speak most feelingly of love, Or what the falcons that were perched above,

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And what the hounds that couched upon the floor – Of all such questions I shall say no more Than the result of it; I will not tease you, Here comes the point, so listen if it please you.

That Sunday night ere day began to spring There was a lark which Palamon heard sing (Although two hours before the day came on, Yet the lark sang, and so did Palamon). With holy heart and in a lofty mood He rose on pilgrimage and he pursued His path to Citherea, the benign And blissful Venus, to her honoured shrine. And in her hour, among the early mists, He stepped towards her Temple in the lists And down he knelt in humbleness and fear With aching heart, and said as you shall hear:

‘Fairest of Fair, O Venus, Lady mine, Consort of Vulcan, Daughter of Jove Divine, Giver of joy upon the heights above The Mount of Citherea, by that love Thou gavest to Adonis, heal my smart And take my humble prayer into thy heart. Alas! I have no language that can tell The ravages and torments of my hell, Which heart is all unable to convey, And I am so confused I cannot say More than: “O Lady bright, that art aware Of all my thought and seest my despair, Consider this, have pity on my pain As I shall ever struggle to maintain Thy service, in so far as it shall be Within my power to combat chastity.” This is my vow, if only thou wilt help! I am not one of those who brag and yelp Of victory, nor ask for it tomorrow,

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Or for renown; I neither beg nor borrow Vainglorious praise, nor do I make profession Of prowess – but would fully have possession Of Emily, and die thy worshipper. Choose Thou the means for this, administer The ways, I care not how, whether it be By my defeat of them, or theirs of me, So that I have my lady in my arms. Though Mars be god of battles and alarms Thy power is so great in Heaven above That if thou please I well may have my love. And I will worship at thy shrine for ever; Ride where I may, to thee my whole endeavour Shall be in sacrifice and kindling fires Upon thy altars. Yet if my desires, Sweet lady, cannot please thee, end my sorrow With death upon Arcita’s spear to-morrow. I shall not care when I have lost my life Though he should win my Emily to wife. This is the sum and purpose of my prayer, Give me my love, sweet Goddess ever fair!’

When Palamon had done his orison He then did sacrifice with woe-begone Devotion and with ceremonial rite More than I now have leisure to recite. And in the end the statue of Venus shook And made a sign; and by that sign he took His prayer had been accepted on that day, For though the sign had hinted a delay He knew for certain that his boon was granted, And home he went at once, his soul enchanted.

In the third hour after Palamon Had sought out Venus for his orison, Up rose the sun, and up rose Emily And hastened to Diana’s sanctuary,

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Taking such maidens as she might require, And they were ready furnished with the fire, The incense and the vestments and a throng Of other necessaries that belong To sacrifices, horns of brimming mead, As was the custom, all that they could need. The Temple smoked and the adornments there Glittered in beauty. Emily the fair Joyfully washed her body in a well, But how she did her rite I dare not tell Save in a general way, though I for one Think that to hear the detail would be fun. If one means well why bother to feel queasy? It’s good for people to be free and easy. Her shining hair untressed upon her cloak They combed and set a crown of cerrial oak Green on her golden head with fitting grace. Two fires she kindled in the proper place And did her rites, as he will find who looks In Statius’ Book of Thebes and other books, And when the fires were kindled she drew near With piteous heart, and prayed as you shall hear:

‘O Goddess Chaste of all the woodlands green, That seest earth and heaven and sea, O Queen Of Pluto’s kingdom, dark and deep below, Goddess of virgins that from long ago Hast known my heart, and knowest my desire, As I may shun the vengeance of thine ire Such as upon Actaeon once was spent, Thou knowest well, O chaste omnipotent, That I would be a virgin all my life And would be neither mistress, no, nor wife. I am, thou knowest, of thy company, A huntress, still in my virginity, And only ask to walk the woodlands wild,

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And not to be a wife or be with child, Nor would I know the company of man. O help me, Goddess, for none other can, By the three Forms that ever dwell in thee,* And as for Palamon who longs for me And for Arcita’s passion, I implore This favour of thy grace and nothing more; Set them in amity and let them be At peace, and turn their hearts away from me. Let all their violent loves and hot desires, Their ceaseless torments and consuming fires, Be quenched, or turned towards another place. Yet if thou wilt not do me so much grace, Or if my destiny ordains it so That one shall have me whether I will or no, Then send me him that shall desire me most. Clean Goddess of the chaste and virgin host, Look down upon the bitter tears that fall Upon my cheeks, O keeper of us all, Keep thou my maidhood, prosper my endeavour, And while I live a maid I’ll serve thee ever.’

The fires flamed up upon the altar fair And clear while Emily was thus in prayer; But all at once she saw a curious sight, For suddenly one fire quenched its light And then rekindled; as she gazed in doubt The other fire as suddenly went right out; As it was quenched it made a whistling sound As of wet branches burning on the ground. Then, from the faggot’s tip, there ran a flood Of many drops that had the look of blood.

Now at the sight she was so terrified It almost drove her from her wits, she cried, Not knowing what it was to signify, For it was fear alone that made her cry,

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She wept and it was pitiful to hear. And then began Diana to appear, With bow in hand, garbed as a Hunteress, And said, ‘My daughter, cease your heaviness. For thee the Gods on high have set their term, And by eternal word and writ confirm That thou shalt be espoused to one of those That have for thee endured so many woes. But unto which of them I may not tell. Longer I cannot tarry, fare thee well. And yet the fires of sacrifice that glow Upon my altar shall, before thou go, Make plain thy destiny in this for ever.’

And on the word the arrows in her quiver Clattered together and began to ring And forth she went and made a vanishing.

Wholly amazed at what had come to pass, Emily thought, ‘What can this mean? Alas! O take me, take me under thy protection, Diana, for I yield to thy direction!’ Then she went homeward by the shortest way And that was all, there is no more to say.

Now in the hour of Mars next after this Arcite rose up and sought the edifice Of fiery Mars, to do beneath his banner His sacrifice, as was the pagan manner, In high devotion with a piteous heart, And thus he said his orison apart: ‘O thou strong God of War that art adored In the cold realms of Thrace and held for Lord, That hast of every monarchy and land Of warlike men the bridle in thine hand, And dealest them their fortunes by thy choice, Accept my sacrifice and hear my voice. And if my youth be such as to deserve

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Thy favour, if my strength be fit to serve Thy godhead, if I may be one of thine, I pray thee then, pity this pain of mine.

‘By that same suffering and burning fire That long ago consumed thee with desire, Having in use the incomparable flesh Of fair free-hearted Venus, young and fresh, Holding her in thine arms and at thy will, – Albeit that once the time was chosen ill, Seeing that Vulcan caught thee in his net And found thee lying with his wife – but yet By all the pain and passion of thy heart Pity me too that suffer the same smart! Thou knowest I am ignorant and young And, as I think, more passionately stung By love than any creature dead or living; Little she thinks, in all the grief she’s giving, Of me, or cares whether I swim or sink, And well I know ere she can learn to think Kindly of me that force must have its place, And well I know without thy help or grace The little strength I have is all too slight; Then help me, Lord, tomorrow, in the fight, Not only for the flames that burnt in thee But for the fire that now is burning me. Grant victory tomorrow to my sword! Mine be the labour, thine the glory, Lord; Thy sovereign temple I will honour above All other places, it shall be my love To work for thy delight, to use thy arts, And hang my banner, yea, my heart of hearts Above thy altar. All my Company Shall do the same for ever, there shall be Eternal fires burning before thy Shrine. Nay, further to this binding vow of mine,

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My beard and hair, whose length and excellence Has never suffered yet from the offence Of razor or of shear, to Thee I give, And I’ll be thy true servant while I live. Now, Lord, have pity on a heart so sore; And give me victory, I ask no more.’

His prayer was over, and the rings that hung Upon the portals of the Temple swung; So did the doors and clattered far and near, At which Arcita felt the touch of fear. The fires blazed, the altar glistened bright, So that the Temple was suffused with light, A scented air rose upward from the ground. Arcita lifted up his hand and found More incense and he cast it on the flame With other rituals. At last the frame Of mighty Mars began to shake and ring Its hauberk, and he heard a murmuring, Low-voiced and dim, that answered ‘Victory’; And giving thanks and glorifying he, Filled with the joyful hope that he would win, Returned at once and went to seek his inn, As happy as a bird is of the sun.

Immediately an uproar was begun Over this granted boon in Heaven above As between Venus, fairest Queen of Love, And the armipotent Mars; it did not cease, Though Jupiter was busy making peace, Until their father Saturn, pale and cold, Who knew so many stratagems of old, Searched his experience and found an art To please the disputants on either part. Age has a great advantage over youth In wisdom and by custom, that’s the truth. The old may be out-run but not out-reasoned.

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And Saturn stopped their argument and seasoned Their fears, although it’s not his nature to, And found a remedy for this to-do.

‘My dearest daughter Venus,’ said old Saturn, ‘My heavenly orbit marks so wide a pattern It has more power than anyone can know; In the wan sea I drown and overthrow, Mine is the prisoner in the darkling pit, Mine are both neck and noose that strangles it, Mine the rebellion of the serfs astir, The murmurings, the privy poisoner; And I do vengeance, I send punishment, And when I am in Leo it is sent. Mine is the ruin of the lofty hall, The falling down of tower and of wall On carpenter and mason, I their killer. ‘Twas I slew Samson when he shook the pillar; Mine are the maladies that kill with cold, The dark deceits, the stratagems of old; A look from me will father pestilence. Then weep no more, for by my diligence This Palamon, your dedicated knight, Shall have his lady, as you swore he might. Though Mars should help his champion, none the less Peace must be made between you soon, I guess, Although you do not share the same complexions; That is what brings these daily insurrections. I am your grandfather and, as before, I’ll do my best to please you; weep no more.’

Now I shall cease to speak of Gods above, Of angry Mars and Venus Queen of Love, And tell you all, as plainly as I can, The grand result for which I first began.

PART IV

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Great was the festival they held that day In Athens, and the lusty time of May Put everyone so well in countenance They spent all Monday at a joust and dance And the high services of Venus. Yet Because they knew that up they’d have to get, And early too, to witness the great fight, They went to bed betimes on Monday night.

Next morning when the day began to spring Clattering horse and noise of harnessing Echoed through all the hostelries about. Up to the palace cantered rout on rout Of lords on palfreys, stallions, many a steed; And what device of harness too indeed, So rich and so outlandish, what a deal Of goldsmith work, embroidery and steel! Bright shields and trappings, headpieces and charms, Great golden helmets, hauberks, coats of arms, Lords on apparelled coursers, squires too And knights belonging to their retinue, Spears being nailed and helmets buckled strong, Strapping of shields and lacing up of thong, The work was urgent, not a man was idle. The foamy steeds gnawing the golden bridle, The armourers up and down and round about Racing with file and hammer through the rout, Yeomen on foot and commonalty come With pipe and clarion, trump and kettle-drum, Armed with short sticks and making such a rattle It sounded like the blast of bloody battle. The palace full of people up and down, Here three, there ten, in all the talk of town And making bets about the Theban knights. Says one, ‘He’ll win’; another, ‘Not by rights’; Some backed the man whose beard was black and squared,

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Some backed the skin-heads, some the shaggy-haired; Said one, ‘There’s a grim fellow, I’ll be bound He’ll fight, his battle-axe weighs twenty pound!’ And prophecy went seething round the hall Long after day had risen on them all.

Great Theseus was awoken out of sleep By minstrelsy and noise about the keep, But kept his chamber – a resplendent room – Till the two Theban knights, to both of whom An equal honour was done, were brought in presence.

Throned in a window giving on a pleasance Sat Theseus like a god in panoply, And all the people crowded there to see The Duke and offer him their reverence And hear what orders he might issue thence. A herald on a scaffold shouted ‘Ho!’ Till all the noise was quieted below; Seeing at last the people hushed and still He thus declared the mighty Theseus’ will:

‘Our Lord the Duke has in his high discretion Considered the destruction and suppression Of gentle blood, were he to jeopardize The lives of those engaging under guise Of mortal battle. Wishing none to die, His Grace now purposes to modify His ordinance. On forfeit of your lives No cross-bow darts, no poleaxes or knives May pass into the lists or be conveyed Thither, no stabbing-sword with pointed blade Be drawn or even carried at the side. Further, no pair of combatants shall ride More than one course with spears, descending thence To thrust on foot only in self-defence. If any man be injured, none shall take His life; he shall be carried to the stake

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That is to be ordained on either side, And there conveyed by force he shall abide. And should the principal of either faction Be taken to the stake, or killed in action, All fighting shall determine thereupon. God speed you all, go forward and lay on! With mace and long-sword you may fight your fill. Now go your ways. This is his Grace’s will.’

The people rifted heaven with a shout Of merriest good humour, crying out, ‘God bless our Duke for doing what he can To save the blood of many a gentleman!’

Up go the trumpets and the melody, Forth to the lists canter the company, As they were bidden, to the city verge; The streets were hung in cloth-of-gold, not serge.

And like a lord the Duke began to ride, With him a Theban knight, on either side. Behind them rode the Queen and Emily, And behind them another company Of one or other according to their rank, Threading through the city with the clank Of hoof and armour to the lists that lay Beyond. It was not fully prime of day When Theseus took his seat in majesty. Hippolyta the Queen and Emily Were with him, other ladies ranked about, And round the scaffoldage a seething rout.

And westward, look! Under the Martian Gate Arcita and his hundred knights await, And now, under a banner of red, march on. And at the self-same moment Palamon Enters by Venus’ Gate and takes his place Under a banner of white, with cheerful face. You had not found, though you had searched the earth,

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Two companies so equal in their worth. Never were two so splendidly arrayed And there was none so wise as to have weighed Which of them had the advantage of his foe In valiance, age, degree or strength of show; They were so equal one could only guess.

In two formations they began to dress And when the roll was called that all might see Their number was not swelled by treachery, The gates were shut, and then the herald cried: ‘Young knights, now do your duty, show your pride!’

The heralds then withdrew, their work was done; Out blared the trumpet and the clarion. There is no more to say, but east and west In go the spears in readiness, at the ‘rest’, In go the spurs into the horse’s side. It’s easy seeing which can joust and ride. There the shafts shiver on the shields so thick; One through his breast-bone feels the thrust and prick. Up spring the spears to twenty foot in height, Out go the long-swords flashing silver-bright, Hewing the helmets as they shear and shred; Out bursts the blood in streams of sternest red, The mighty maces swing, the bones are bashed, One thrusting through the thickest throng has crashed, There the strong steeds have stumbled, down goes all, Man under foot and rolling like a ball. Another on his feet with truncheon pound Hurtles a rider and his horse to ground; One’s wounded in the body, whom they take, Spite of his teeth, and bear him to the stake As was ordained, and there he has to stay; One more is carried off the other way. From time to time the Duke decrees a rest To drink and be refreshed as they think best.

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Many a time our Thebans in the flow Of battle met and did each other woe, And each unhorsed the other. There could be No tiger in the vale of Galgophy Raging in search after a stolen cub So cruel as Arcite with spear and club For jealousy of heart to Palamon. No lion is so fierce to look upon In all Benamarin, and none so savage Being hunted, nor so hunger-mad in ravage For blood of prey as Palamon for Arcite. The blows upon their helmets bite and beat And the red blood runs out on man and steed.

There comes at last an end to every deed, And ere into the west the sun had gone Strong King Emetrius took Palamon As he was fighting with Arcite, still fresh, And made his sword bite deeply in his flesh; It asked the strength of twenty men to take The yet-unyielded Palamon to stake. Seeking a rescue, King Lycurgus coursed Towards Palamon but was himself unhorsed, And King Emetrius for all his strength Was flung out of the saddle a sword’s length By Palamon’s last stroke in sweeping rake. But all for nought, they brought him to the stake; Nothing could help, however hard he fought, His hardy heart must stay there, he was caught By force and by the rules decided on.

Who clamours now in grief but Palamon That may no more go in again and fight? And when the noble Theseus saw this sight He rose and thundered forth to every one, ‘Ho! Stop the fight! No more, for it is done! I will be true judge and no partisan.

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The Theban Prince Arcita is the man And shall have Emily, won by Fortune’s grace.’

A tumult of rejoicing filled tall space From every throat in such a caterwaul It seemed as if the very lists would fall.

What now can lovely Venus do above? What is she saying, hapless Queen of Love? Wanting her will her eyes were filled with mists And shining tears fell down upon the lists.

She cried, ‘I am disgraced and put to shame!’ But Saturn said, ‘Peace, daughter, watch the game. Mars has his will, his knight has had his boon, But, by my head, it shall be your turn soon.’

The trumpeters with loudest minstrelsy And the shrill heralds shouting frenziedly Were in high joy for honour of Arcite. But listen quietly and keep your seat, See what a miracle happened thereupon!

The fierce Arcita, with no helmet on, Riding his courser round to show his face Cantered the whole length of the jousting-place, Fixing his eye on Emily aloft; And her returning gaze was sweet and soft, For women, speaking generally, are prone To follow Fortune’s favours, once they’re known. She was his whole delight, his joy of heart.

Out of the ground behold a fury start, By Pluto sent at the request of Saturn. Arcita’s horse in terror danced a pattern And leapt aside and foundered as he leapt, And ere he was aware Arcite was swept Out of the saddle and pitched upon his head Onto the ground, and there he lay for dead; His breast was shattered by the saddle-bow. As black he lay as any coal or crow

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For all the blood had run into his face. Immediately they bore him from the place Sadly to Theseus’ palace. What avail Though he was carved out of his coat of mail And put to bed with every care and skill? Yet he was still alive, and conscious still, And calling ceaselessly for Emily.

Theseus, attended by his company, Came slowly home to Athens in full state Of joyous festival, no less elate For this misfortune, wishing not to cast A gloom upon them all for what had passed. Besides they said Arcita would not die, He would recover from his injury. And then there was another thing that filled All hearts with pleasure, no one had been killed, Though some were badly hurt among the rest, Especially the man with stoven breast. As for the other wounds and broken arms Some produced salves and some relied on charms, Herb pharmacies and sage to make them trim; They drank them off, hoping to save a limb.

For such as these Duke Theseus did his best, He comforted and honoured every guest And ordered revelry to last the night For all the foreign princes, as was right. None were discouraged or in discontent; It was a jousting, just a tournament. Why should they be discouraged? After all, It’s only an accident to have a fall. There is no shame in being borne by force, Unyielded, to the stake by twenty horse, Alone, with none to help – it must be so, Harried away by arm and foot and toe, And on a horse maddened by sticks and noise,

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By men on foot, by yeomen and their boys – There’s nothing despicable in all this; No one could ever call it cowardice. And therefore Theseus made proclamation To stop all rancour, grudge and emulation, That each side was as valorous as the other And both as like as brother is to brother. He gave them gifts, to each in his degree, And for three days they held festivity. Then he conveyed the Kings in solemn state Out of his city, far beyond the gate, And home went everyone by various ways With no more than ‘Good-bye!’ and ‘Happy days!’

The battle done with, I may now go on To speak of poor Arcite and Palamon. Up swells Arcita’s breast, the grievous sore About his heart increases more and more; The clotting blood, for all the doctor’s skill, Corrupts and festers in his body still, That neither cupping, bleeding at a vein Or herbal drink can make him well again. The expulsive forces, known as ‘animal’, Had lost their power to cleanse the ‘natural’ Of poison, and it could not be expelled.* His lungs began to choke, the vessels swelled. Clotted was every muscle of his chest By poison and corruption in his breast. Nor could he profit, in his will to live, By upward vomit or by laxative. All, all was shattered and beyond repair, Nature no longer had dominion there, And certainly, where nature will not work, Physic, farewell! Go, bear the man to kirk! This is the sum of all, Arcite must die.

And so he sent for Emily to be by,

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And Palamon, the cousin of his heart, And thus he spoke, preparing to depart:

‘Nothing of all the sorrows in my breast Can now declare itself or be expressed To you, O lady that I love the most; But I bequeath the service of my ghost To you, above all creatures in the world, Now that my life is done, and banner furled. Alas the woe! Alas the pain, so strong, That I have suffered for you, and so long! Alas, O Death! Alas, my Emily! Alas the parting of our company! Alas, my heart’s own queen, alas, my wife, O lady of my heart that ends my life! What is this world? What does man ask to have? Now with his love, now in his cold, cold grave, Alone, alone, with none for company! Farewell, my sweetest foe, my Emily! O softly take me in your arms, I pray, For love of God, and hearken what I say.

‘I have here, with my cousin Palamon, Had strife and rancour many a day now gone, For love of you, and for my jealousy. And may Jove’s wisdom touch the soul in me, To speak of love and what its service means Through all the circumstances and the scenes Of life, namely good faith and knightly deed, Wisdom, humility and noble breed, Honour and truth and openness of heart, For, as I hope my soul may have its part With Jove, in all the world I know of none So worthy to be loved as Palamon, Who serves you and will serve you all his life. And should you ever choose to be a wife, Forget not Palamon, that great-hearted man.’

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Speech failed in him, the cold of death began Its upward creeping from his feet to numb The breast, and he was slowly overcome, And further still as from his arms there went The vital power; all was lost and spent. Only the intellect, and nothing more, That dwelt within his heart, so sick and sore, Began to falter when the heart felt death. Dusked his two eyes at last and failed his breath, And yet he gazed at her while he could see And his last word was ‘Mercy … Emily!’ His spirit changed its house and went away Where I came never – where I cannot say, And so am silent. I am no divine. Souls are not mentioned in this tale of mine, I offer no opinion, I can tell You nothing, though some have written where they dwell. Arcite is cold. Mars guide him on his way! Something of Emily I have to say.

Palamon howls and Emily is shrieking, And Theseus leads away his sister, seeking To bear her from the corpse; she faints away. Why tarry on her tears or spend the day Telling you how she wept both eve and morrow? For in these cases women feel such sorrow When it befalls their husbands to be taken The greater part seem utterly forsaken And fall into a sickness so extreme That many of them perish, it would seem.

Infinite were the sorrows and the tears Of older folk and those of tender years Throughout the town, all for this Theban’s death. Wept man and boy, and sure a wilder breath Of lamentation never had been heard Since Hector, freshly slaughtered, was interred

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In Troy. Alas to see the mourning there, The scrabbled faces, the dishevelled hair! ‘Must you have died?’ the women wailed. ‘For see, Had you not gold enough – and Emily?’

No one could lighten Theseus of his care Except his father, old Aegeus, there. He knew the transmutations of the world And he had seen its changes as it whirled Bliss upon sorrow, sorrow upon bliss, And gave his son instruction upon this:

‘Just as there never died a man,’ said he, ‘But had in life some station or degree, Just so there never lived a man,’ he said, ‘In all the world but in the end was dead. This world is but a thoroughfare of woe And we are pilgrims passing to and fro. Death is the end of every worldly sore.’ On top of this he said a great deal more To this effect, with wisest exhortation, Heartening the people in their tribulation.

In time the thoughts of Theseus were astir To find a site and build a sepulchre For good Arcite, and how it best might be Ordained to fit his honour and degree. And in the end the place decided on Was where Arcite first met with Palamon In battle for their love, and there between The branches in that very grove of green Where he had sung his amorous desire In sad complaint, and felt love hot as fire, He planned a fire to make, in funeral Observances, and so accomplish all. So he commanded them to hack and fell The ancient oak-trees and to lay them well In rows and bundles faggoted to burn.

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Forth ride his officers and soon return On swiftest foot with his commandments done. And after this, Theseus appointed one To fetch a bier and had it fitly clad In cloth-of-gold, the finest that he had. And in the self-same cloth he clad Arcite And on his hands white gauntlets, as was meet, He placed, and on his head a laurel crown And in his hand the sword of his renown. He laid him, bare his face, upon the bier, And wept upon him, pity was to hear. And that his body might be seen by all, When it was day he bore him to the hall That roared with mourning sounds in unison.

Then came that woeful Theban, Palamon, With fluttering beard and ash-besprinkled hair, In sable garments stained with many a tear. Yet, passing all in weeping, Emily Was the most sorrowful of the company. And that the service to be held might be The nobler, more befitting his degree, Duke Theseus commanded them to bring Three steeds, all trapped in steel and glittering, And mantled with the arms of Prince Arcite. Upon these huge white steeds that paced the street On these rode one who bore Arcita’s shield, A second bore the spear he used to wield; His Turkish bow and quiver of burnished gold Was given to the third of them to hold; Slowly they paced, their countenances drear, Towards the destined grove, as you shall hear. Upon the shoulders of the noblest men Among the Greeks there came the coffin then. Their eyes were red with tears, their slackened feet Paced through the city by the master-street;

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The way was spread with black, and far on high Black draperies hung downwards from the sky.

The old Aegeus to the right was placed With Theseus on his left, and so they paced Bearing gold vessels of a rare design Brimming with honey and milk, with blood and wine; And then came Palamon with his company, And after that came woeful Emily With fire in her hand, the custom then Used in the obsequies of famous men.

High was the labour, rich was the attire And service, at the making of the fire That reached to heaven in a cone of green. The arms were twenty fathoms broad – I mean The boughs and branches heaped upon the ground – And straw in piles had first been loaded round.

But how they made the funeral fires flame, Or what the trees by number or by name – Oak, fir-tree, birch, aspen and poplar too, Ilex and alder, willow, elm and yew, Box, chestnut, plane, ash, laurel, thorn and lime, Beech, hazel, whipple-tree – I lack the time To tell you, or who felled them, nor can tell How their poor gods ran up and down the dell All disinherited of habitation, Robbed of their quiet and in desolation, The nymph and dryad of the forest lawn, The hamadryad and the subtle faun, These I pass over, birds and beasts as well That fled in terror when the forest fell; Nor shall I say how in the sudden light Of the unwonted sun the dell took fright, Nor how the fire first was couched in straw, Then in dry sticks thrice severed with a saw, Then in green wood with spice among the stems

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And then in cloth-of-gold with precious gems And many a flower-garland in the stir Of breathing incense and the scent of myrrh; Nor how Arcita lay among it all, Nor of the wealth and splendour of his pall, Nor yet how Emily thrust in the fire As custom was and lit the funeral pyre, Nor how she fainted when they fed the flame, Nor what she said or thought; and I shall name None of the jewels that they took and cast Into the fire when it flamed at last, Nor shall I tell how some threw shield and spear, Or what their garments, by the burning bier, Nor of the cups of wine and milk and blood That others poured upon the fiery flood, Nor tell you how the Greeks in mighty rout Left-handedly went thrice and thrice about The flaming pyre, and shouted as they drove, And thrice they clashed their spears about the grove; Nor yet relate how thrice the ladies wept Nor who supported Emily and kept Pace with her homeward, nor shall it be told How Prince Arcita burnt to ashes cold; Nor how the wake was held in the delight Of funeral games that lasted all the night. What naked wrestler, glistening with oil, Made the best showing in his dangerous toil I will not say, nor say how one by one They all went home after the games were done; But shortly to the point; for I intend To bring my long narration to an end.

In course of time, and after certain years, Mourning had been accomplished and their tears Were shed no more, by general consent. And then it seems they held a parliament

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At Athens touching certain points and cases; And among these they dealt with certain places With which to form alliances abroad To keep the Thebans fully overawed, And noble Theseus ordered thereupon That summons should be sent for Palamon.

Not knowing for what reason ordered back, And still in melancholy suit of black, Palamon came on this authority In haste. Then Theseus sent for Emily.

When all were seated there and hushed the place, The noble Duke kept silent for a space And ere he spoke the wisdom in his breast He let his eyes fall where it pleased him best. Then with a sober visage and the still Sound of a sigh, he thus expressed his will:

‘The First Great Cause and Mover of all above When first He made that fairest chain of love, Great was the consequence and high the intent. He well knew why He did, and what He meant. For in that fairest chain of love He bound Fire and air and water and the ground Of earth in certain limits they may not flee. And that same Prince and Mover then,’ said he, ‘Stablished this wretched world, appointing ways, Seasons, durations, certain length of days, To all that is engendered here below, Past which predestined hour none may go, Though they have power to abridge those days. I need not quote authority or raise More proof than what experience can show, But give opinion here from what I know.

‘Since we discern this order, we are able To know that Prince is infinite and stable. Anyone but a fool knows, in his soul,

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That every part derives from this great whole. For nature cannot be supposed to start From some particular portion or mere part, But from a whole and undisturbed perfection Descending thence to what is in subjection To change, and will corrupt. And therefore He In wise foreknowledge stablished the decree That species of all things and the progression Of seed and growth continue by succession And not eternally. This is no lie, As any man can see who has an eye.

‘Look at the oak; how slow a tree to nourish From when it springs until it comes to flourish! It has so long a life, and yet we see That in the end it falls, a wasted tree.

‘Consider too how hard the stone we tread Under our feet! That very rock and bed On which we walk is wasting as it lies. Time will be when the broadest river dries And the great cities wane and last descend Into the dust, for all things have an end.

‘For man and woman we can plainly see Two terms appointed so it needs must be – That is to say, the terms of youth and age. For every man will perish, king and page, Some in their beds and some in the deep sea, And some upon the battle-field, maybe. There is no help for it, all take the track, For all must die and there is none comes back.

‘Who orders this but Jupiter the King, The Prince and Cause of all and everything, Converting all things back into the source From which they were derived, to which they course? And against this no creature here alive Whatever his degree may hope to strive.

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‘Then hold it wise, for so it seems to me, To make a virtue of necessity, Take in good part what we may not eschew, Especially whatever things are due To all of us; his is a foolish soul That’s rebel against Him who guides the whole, And it is honour to a man whose hour Strikes in his day of excellence and flower, When he is certain of his own good name And never known in any act of shame. And gladder should a friend be of his death Where there is honour in the yielded breath, Gladder than for a name by age made pale, And all forgotten the heroic tale. Then is the time, if you would win a name, To die, upon the moment of your fame.

‘The contrary of this is wilfulness; Why do we murmur? Where is the distress If good Arcite, the flower of chivalry, Is gone in honour and in duty, free Of the foul prison of this life? Shall those he loved, his cousin and his wife, Murmur against his welfare, or suppose He can return them thanks? Not he, God knows. Offending so against him, they offend Themselves, and are no happier in the end.

‘So what conclusion can I draw from this Except that after grief there should be bliss And praise to Jupiter for all his grace? So, ere we make departure from this place, I rule that of two sorrows we endeavour To make one perfect joy, to last for ever. Then let us look, and where we find herein The greatest grief let happiness begin.

‘Sister,’ he said, ‘it has my full assent,

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And is confirmed by this my parliament, That gentle Palamon, your own true knight, Who loves and serves you, heart and soul and might, And always has since first he saw your face, Shall move you to feel pity, gain your grace And so become your husband and your lord. Give me your hand, for this is our award. Let us now see your womanly compassion. By God, he’s a king’s nephew! Were his fashion No more than that of a knight-bachelor, What with the years he served and suffered for Your love (unless his sufferings deceive me) He would be worth considering, believe me. A noble mercy should surpass a right.’

And then he said to Palamon the knight, ‘I think there needs but little sermoning To gain your own assent to such a thing. Come near, and take your lady by the hand.’ And they were joined together by the band That is called matrimony, also marriage, By counsel of the Duke and all his peerage.

And thus with every bliss and melody Palamon was espoused to Emily, And God that all this wide, wide world has wrought, Send them his love, for it was dearly bought! Now Palamon’s in joy, amid a wealth Of bliss and splendour, happiness and wealth. He’s tenderly beloved of Emily And serves her with a gentle constancy, And never a jealous word between them spoken Or other sorrow in a love unbroken. Thus ended Palamon and Emily,

And God save all this happy company! Amen.

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THE MILLER’S TALE

WORDS BETWEEN THE HOST AND THE MILLER

When we heard the tale the Knight had told, Not one among the pilgrims, young or old, But said it was indeed a noble story Worthy to be remembered for its glory, And it especially pleased the gentlefolk. Our Host began to laugh and swore in joke: ‘It’s going well, we’ve opened up the bale; Now, let me see. Who’ll tell another tale? Upon my soul the game has begun well! Come on, Sir Monk, if you’ve a tale to tell, Repay the Knight a little for his tale!’

The Miller, very drunk and rather pale, Was straddled on his horse half-on half-off And in no mood for manners or to doff His hood or hat, or wait on any man, But in a voice like Pilate’s he began* To huff and swear. ‘By blood and bones and belly, I’ve got a noble story I can tell ’ee, I’ll pay the Knight his wages, not the Monk.’

Our Host perceived at once that he was drunk And said, ‘Now hold on, Robin, dear old brother; We’ll get some better man to tell another; You wait a bit. Let’s have some common sense.’ ‘God’s soul, I won’t!’ said he. ‘At all events I mean to talk, or else I’ll go my way.’ Our Host replied, ‘Well, blast you then, you may. You fool! Your wits have gone beyond recall.’

‘Now listen,’ said the Miller, ‘one and all,

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To what I have to say. But first I’m bound To say I’m drunk, I know it by my sound. And if the words get muddled in my tale Just put it down to too much Southwark ale. I will relate a legend and a life Of an old carpenter and of his wife, And how a student came and set his cap …’

The Reeve looked up and shouted, ‘Shut your trap! Give over with your drunken harlotry. It is a sin and foolishness,’ said he, ‘To slander any man or bring a scandal On wives in general. Why can’t you handle Some other tale? There’s other things beside.’