The Chanouns Yemannes Tale

The prologe of the Chanons Yemannes Tale.

Whan ended was the lyf of seint Cecyle,

Er we had riden fully fyve myle,

At Boghton under Blee us gan atake

A man, that clothed was in clothes blake,

And undernethe he hadde a whyt surplys.

His hakeney, that was al pomely grys,

So s watte, that it wonder was to see ;

It semed he had priked myles three.

The hors eek that his yeman rood upon

So swatte, that unnethe mighte it gon.

Aboute the peytrel stood the foom ful hye,

He was of fome al flekked as a pye.

A male tweyfold on his croper lay,

It semed that he caried lyte array.

Al light for somer rood this worthy man,

And in myn herte wondren I bigan

What that he was, til that I understood

How that his cloke was sowed to his hood ;

For which, when I had longe avysed me,

I demed him som chanon for to be.

His hat heng at his bak doun by a laas,

For he had riden more than trot or paas ;

He had ay priked lyk as he were wood.

A clote-leef he hadde under his hood

For swoot, and for to kepe his heed from hete.

But it was joye for to seen him swete !

His forheed dropped as a stillatorie,

Were ful of plantain and of paritorie.

And whan that he was come, he gan to crye,

God save,’ quod he, ‘ this joly companye !

Faste have I priked,’ quod he, ‘ for your sake,

By-cause that I wolde yow atake,

To ryden in this mery companye.’

His yeman eek was ful of curteisye,

And seyde, ‘ sires, now in the morwe-tyde

Out of your hostelrye I saugh you ryde,

And warned heer my lord and my soverayn,

Which that to ryden with yow is ful fayn,

For his desport ; he loveth dAllaunce.’

‘ Freend, for thy warning god yeve thee good chaunce,’

Than seyde our host, ‘ for certes, it wolde seme

Thy lord were wys, and so I may wel deme ;

He is ful jocund also, dar I leye.

Can he oght telle a mery tale or tweye,

With which he glade may this companye ? ‘

‘ Who, sire ? my lord ? ye, ye, withouten lye,

He can of murthe, and eek of jolitee

Nat but ynough ; also sir, trusteth me,

And ye him knewe as wel as do I,

Ye wolde wondre how wel and craftily

He coude werke, and that in sondry wyse.

He hath take on him many a greet empryse,

Which were ful hard for any that is here

To bringe aboute, but they of him it lere.

As homely as he rit amonges yow,

If ye him knewe, it wolde be for your prow ;

Ye wolde nat forgoon his aqueyntaunce

For mochel good, I dar leye in balaunce

Al that I have in my possessioun.

He is a man of heigh discrecioun,

I warne you wel, he is a passing man.’

‘ Wel,’ quod our host, ‘ I pray thee, tel me than.

Is he a clerk, or noon ? tel what he is.’

‘ Nay, he is gretter than a clerk, y-wis,’

Seyde this yeman, ‘ and in wordes fewe,

Host, of his craft som-what I wol yow she we.

I seye, my lord can swich subtilitee —

(But al his craft ye may nat wite at me ;

And som-what helpe I yet to his werking) —

That al this ground on which we been ryding,

Til that we come to Caunterbury toun,

He coude al clene turne it up-so-doun,

And pave it al of silver and of gold.’

And whan this yeman hadde thus y-told

Unto our host, he seyde, ‘ ben 1 cite !

This thing is wonder merveillous to me,

Sin that thy lord is of so heigh prudence,

By-cause of which men sholde him reverence,

That of his worship rekketh he so lyte ;

His oversloppe nis nat worth a myte,

As in effect, to him, so mote I go !

It is al baudy and to-tore also.

Why is thy lord so sluttish, I thee preye,

And is of power better cloth to beye,

If that his dede accorde with thy speche ?

Telle me that, and that I thee biseche.’

‘ Why ? ‘ quod this yeman, ‘ wherto axe ye me ?

God help me so, for he shal never thee !

(But I wol nat avowe that I seye,

And therfor kepe it secree, I yow preye).

He is to wys, in feith, as I bileve ;

That that is overdoon, it wol nat preve

Aright, as clerkes seyn, it is a vyce.

Wherfor in that I holde him lewed and nyce.

For whan a man hath over-greet a wit,

Ful oft him happeth to misusen it ;

So dooth my lord, and that me greveth sore.

God it amende, I can sey yow na-more.’

‘ Ther-of no fors, good yeman,’ quod our host ;

‘ Sin of the conning of thy lord thou wost,

Tel how he dooth, I pray thee hertely,

Sin that he is so crafty and so sly.

Wher dwellen ye, if it to telle be ? ‘

‘ In the suburbes of a toun,’ quod he,

‘ Lurkinge in hemes and in lanes blinde,

Wher-as thise robbours and thise theves by kinde

Holden hir privee fereful residence,

As they that dar nat shewen hir presence ;

So faren we, if I shal seye the sothe.’

‘ Now,’ quod our host, ‘ yit lat me talke to the ;

Why artow so discoloured of thy face ? ‘

‘ Peter ! ‘ quod he, ‘ god yeve it harde grace,

I am so used in the fyr to blowe,

That it hath chaunged my colour, I trowe.

I am nat wont in no mirour to prye,

But swinke sore and lerne multiplye.

We blondren ever and pouren in the fyr,

And for al that we fayle of our desyr,

For ever we lakken our conclusioun.

To mochel folk we doon illusioun,

And borwe gold, be it a pound or two,

Or ten, or twelve, or many sommes mo,

And make hem wenen, at the leeste weye,

That of a pound we coude make tweye !

Yet is it fals, but ay we han good hope

It for to doon, and after it we grope.

But that science is so fer us biforn,

We mowen nat, al- though we hadde it sworn,

It overtake, it slit awey so faste ;

It wol us maken beggers atte laste.’

Whyl this yeman was thus in his talking,

This chanoun drough him neer, and herde al thing

Which this yeman spak, for suspecioun

Of mennes speche ever hadde this chanoun.

For Catoun seith, that he that gilty is

Demeth al thing be spoke of him, y-wis.

That was the cause he gan so ny him drawe

To his yeman, to herknen al his sawe.

And thus he seyde un-to his yeman tho,

‘ Hold thou thy pees, and spek no wordes mo,

For if thou do, thou shalt it dere abye ;

Thou sclaundrest me heer in this companye,

And eek discoverest that thou sholdest hyde.’

‘ Ye,’ quod our host, ‘ telle on, what so bityde ;

Of al his threting rekke nat a myte ! ‘

‘ In feith,’ quod he, ‘ namore I do but lyte.’

And whan this chanon saugh it wolde nat be,

But his yeman wolde telle his privetee,

He fledde awey for verray sorwe and shame.

‘ A ! ‘ quod the yeman, ‘ heer shal aryse game,

Al that I can anon now wol I telle.

Sin he is goon, the foule feend him quelle !

For never her-after wol I with him mete

For peny ne for pound, I yow bihete !

He that me broghte first unto that game,

Er that he dye, sorwe have he and shame !

For it is ernest to me, by my feith ;

That fele I wel, what so any man seith.

And yet, for al my smerte and al my grief,

For al my sorwe, labour, and meschief,

I coude never leve it in no wyse.

Now wolde god my wit mighte suffyse

To tellen al that longeth to that art !

But natheles yow wol I tellen part ;

Sin that my lord is gon, I wol nat spare ;

Swich thing as that I knowe, I wol declare.’ —

Here endeih the Prologe of the Chanouns Yemannes Tale.

Herebiginneth the Chanouns Yeman his Tale.

[Prima Pars.]

With this chanoun I dwelt have seven yeer,

And of his science am I never the neer.

Al that I hadde, I have y-lost ther-by ;

And god wot, so hath many mo than I.

Ther I was wont to be right fresh and gay

Of clothing and of other good array,

Now may I were an hose upon myn heed ;

And wher my colour was bothe fresh and reed,

Now is it wan and of a leden hewe ;

Who-so it useth, sore shal he rewe.

And of my swink yet blered is myn ye,

Lo ! which a vantage is to multiplye!

That slyding science hath me maad so bare,

That I have no good, wher that ever I fare ;

And yet I am endetted so ther-by

Of gold that I have borwed, trewely,

That whyl I live, I shal it quyte never.

Lat every man be war by me for ever !

What maner man that casteth him ther-to,

If he continue, I holde his thrift y-do.

So helpe me god, ther-by shal he nat winne,

But empte his purs, and make his wittes thinne.

And whan he, thurgh his madnes and folye,

Hath lost his owene good thurgh jupartye,

Thanne he excyteth other folk ther-to,

To lese hir good as he him-self hath do.

For unto shrewes joye it is and ese

To have hir felawes in peyne and disese ;

Thus was I ones lerned of a clerk.

Of that no charge, I wol speke of our werk.

Whan we been ther as we shul exercyse

Our elvish craft, we semen wonder wyse,

Our termes been so clergial and so queynte.

I blowe the fyr til that myn herte feynte.

What sholde I tellen ech proporcioun

Of thinges whiche that we werche upon,

As on fyve or sixe ounces, may wel be,

Of silver or som other quantitee,

And bisie me to telle yow the names

Of orpiment, brent bones, yren squames,

That into poudre grounden been ful smal ?

And in an erthen potte how put is al,

And salt y-put in, and also papeer,

Biforn thise poudres that I speke of heer,

And wel y-covered with a lampe of glas,

And mochel other thing which that ther was ?

And of the pot and glasses enluting,

That of the eyre mighte passe out no-thing ?

And of the esy fyr and smart also,

Which that was maad, and of the care and wo

That we hadde in our matires sublyming,

And in amalgaming and calcening

Of quik-silver, y-clept Mercurie crude ?

For alle our sleightes we can nat conclude.

Our orpiment and sublymed Mercurie,

Our grounden litarge eek on the porphurie,

Of ech of thise of ounces a certeyn

Nought helpeth us, our labour is in veyn.

Ne eek our spirites ascencioun,

Ne our materes that lyen al fixe adoun,

Mowe in our werking no-thing us avayle.

For lost is al our labour and travayle,

And al the cost, a twenty devel weye,

Is lost also, which we upon it leye.

Ther is also ful many another thing

That is unto our craft apertening ;

Though I by ordre hem nat reherce can,

By-cause that I am a lewed man,

Yet wol I telle hem as they come to minde,

Though I ne can nat sette hem in hir kinde ;

As bole armoniak, verdegrees, boras,

And sondry vessels maad of erthe and glas,

Our urinales and our descensories,

Violes, croslets, and sublymatories,

Cucurbites, and alembykes eek,

And othere swiche, dere y-nough a leek.

Nat nedeth it for to reherce hem alle,

Watres rubifying and boles galle,

Arsenik, sal armoniak, and brimstoon ;

And herbes coude I telle eek many oon,

As egremoine, valerian, and lunarie,

And othere swiche, if that me liste tarie.

Our lampes brenning bothe night and day,

To bringe aboute our craft, if that we may.

Our fourneys eek of calcinacioun,

And of watres albificacioun,

Unslekked lym, chalk, and gleyre of an ey,

Poudres diverse, asshes, dong, pisse, and cley,

Cered pokets, sal peter, vitriole ;

And divers fyres maad of wode and cole ;

Sal tartre, alkaly, and sal preparat,

And combust materes and coagulat,

Cley maad with hors or mannes heer, and oile

Of tartre, alum, glas, berm, wort, and argoile,

Resalgar, and our materes enbibing ;

And eek of our materes encorporing,

And of our silver citrinacioun,

Our cementing and fermentacioun,

Our ingottes, testes, and many mo.

I wol yow telle, as was me taught also,

The foure spirites and the bodies sevene,

By ordre, as ofte I herde my lord hem nevene.

The firste spirit quik -silver called is,

The second orpiment, the thridde, y-wis,

Sal armoniak, and the ferthe brimstoon.

The bodies sevene eek, lo ! hem heer anoon :

Sol gold is, and Luna silver we threpe,

Mars yren, Mercurie quik-silver we clepe,

Saturnus leed, and Jupiter is tin,

And Venus coper, by my fader kin !

This cursed craft who-so wol exercyse,

He shal no good han that him may suffyse ;

For al the good he spendeth ther-aboute,

He lese shal, ther-of have I no doute.

Who-so that listeth outen his folye,

Lat him come forth, and lerne multiplye ;

And every man that oght hath in his cofre,

Lat him appere, and wexe a philosofre.

Ascaunce that craft is so light to lere ?

Nay, nay, god woot, al be he monk or frere,

Preest or chanoun, or any other wight,

Though he sitte at his book bothe day and night,

In lernyng of this elvish nyce lore,

Al is in veyn, and parde, mochel more !

To lerne a lewed man this subtiltee,

Fy ! spek nat ther-of, for it wol nat be ;

Al conne he letterure, or conne he noon,

As in effect, he shal finde it al oon.

For bothe two, by my savacioun,

Concluden, in multiplicacioun,

Y-lyke wel, whan they han al y-do ;

This is to seyn, they faylen bothe two.

Yet forgat I to maken rehersaille

Of watres corosif and of limaille,

And of bodyes mollificacioun,

And also of hir induracioun,

Oiles, ablucions, and metal fusible,

To tellen al wolde passen any bible

That o-wher is ; wherfor, as for the beste,

Of alle thise names now wol I me reste.

For, as I trowe, I have yow told y-nowe

To reyse a feend, al loke he never so rowe.

A ! nay ! lat be ; the philosophres stoon,

Elixir clept, we sechen faste echoon ;

For hadde we him, than were we siker y-now.

But, unto god of heven I make avow,

For al our craft, whan we han al y-do,

And al our sleighte, he wol nat come us to.

He hath y-maad us spenden mochel good,

For sorwe of which almost we wexen wood,

But that good hope crepeth in our herte,

Supposinge ever, though we sore smerte,

To be releved by him afterward ;

Swich supposing and hope is sharp and hard ;

I warne yow wel, it is to seken ever ;

That futur temps hath maad men to dissever,

In trust ther-of, from al that ever they hadde.

Yet of that art they can nat wexen sadde,

For unto hem it is a bitter swete ;

So semeth it ; for nadde they but a shete

Which that they mighte wrappe hem inne a-night,

And a bak to walken inne by day -light,

They wolde hem selle and spenden on this craft ;

They can nat stinte til no-thing be laft.

And evermore, wher that ever they goon,

Men may hem knowe by smel of brimstoon ;

For al the world, they stinken as a goot ;

Her savour is so rammish and so hoot,

That, though a man from hem a myle be,

The savour wol infecte him, trusteth me ;

Lo, thus by smelling and threedbare array.

If that men liste, this folk they knowe may.

And if a man wol aske hem prively,

Why they been clothed so unthrif tily,

They right anon wol rownen in his ere,

And seyn, that if that they espyed were,

Men wolde hem slee, by-cause of hir science :

Lo, thus this folk bitrayen innocence !

Passe over this ; I go my tale un-to.

Er than the pot be on the fyr y-do,

Of metals with a certein quantitee,

My lord hem tempreth, and no man but he —

Now he is goon, I dar seyn boldely —

For, as men seyn, he can don craftily ;

Algate I woot wel he hath swich a name,

And yet ful ofte he renneth in a blame :

And wite ye how ? ful ofte it happeth so,

The pot to-breketh, and farewel ! al is go !

Thise metals been of so greet violence,

Our walles mowe nat make hem resistence,

But if they weren wroght of lym and stoon ;

They percen so, and thurgh the wal they goon.

And somme of hem sinken in-to the ground —

Thus han we lost by tymes many a pound —

And somme are scatered al the floor aboute,

Somme lepe in-to the roof ; with-outen doute,

Though that the feend noght in our sighte him shewe,

I trowe he with us be, that ilke shrewe !

In helle wher that he is lord and sire,

Nis ther more wo, ne more rancour ne ire.

Whan that our pot is broke, as I have sayd,

Every man chit, and halt him yvel apayd.

Som seyde, it was long on the fyr-making,

Som seyde, nay ! it was on the blowing ;

(Than was I fered, for that was myn office) ;

* Straw ! ‘ quod the thridde, ‘ ye been lewed and nyce,

It was nat tempred as it oghte be.’

‘ Nay ! ‘ quod the ferthe, a stint, and herkne me ;

By-cause our fyr ne was nat maad of beech,

That is the cause, and other noon, so theech ! ‘

I can nat telle wher-on it was long,

But wel I wot greet stryf is us among.

‘ What ! ‘ quod my lord, ‘ ther is na-more to


Of thise perils I wol be war eft-sone ;

I am right siker that the pot was erased.

Be as be may, be ye no -thing amased ;

As usage is, lat swepe the floor as swythe,

Plukke up your hertes, and beth gladde and blythe.’

The mullok on an hepe y-sweped was,

And on the floor y-cast a canevas,

And al this mullok in a sive y-throwe,

And sifted, and y-piked many a throwe.

‘ Pardee,’ quod oon, ‘ somwhat of our metal

Yet is ther heer, though that we han nat al.

Al-though this thing mishapped have as now,

Another tyme it may be wel y-now,

Us moste putte our good in aventure ;

A marchant, parde ! may nat ay endure

Trusteth me wel, in his prosperitee ;

Somtyme his good is drenched in the see,

And somtym comth it sauf un-to the londe.’

‘ Pees ! ‘ quod my lord, ‘ the next tyme I wol fonde

To bringe our craft al in another plyte ;

And but I do, sirs, lat me han the wyte ;

Ther was defaute in som-what, wel I woot.’

Another seyde, the fyr was over hoot : —

But, be it hoot or cold, I dar seye this,

That we concluden evermore amis.

We fayle of that which that we wolden have,

And in our madnesse evermore we rave.

And whan we been togidres everichoon,

Every man semeth a Salomon.

But al thing which that shyneth as the gold

Nis nat gold, as that I have herd it told ;

Ne every appel that is fair at ye

Ne is nat good, what-so men clappe or crye.

Right so, lo ! fareth it amonges us ;

He that semeth the wysest, by Jesus !

Is most fool, whan it cometh to the preef ;

And he that semeth trewest is a theef ;

That shul ye knowe, er that I fro yow wende,

By that I of my tale have maad an ende.

Explicit prima pars.

Et sequitur pars secunda.

Ther is a chanoun of religioun

Amonges us, wolde infecte al a toun,

Though it as greet were as was Ninivee,

Rome, Alisaundre, Troye, and othere three.

His sleightes and his infinit falsnesse

Ther coude no man wryten, as I gesse,

Thogh that he mighte liven a thousand yeer.

In al this world of falshede nis his peer ;

For in his termes so he wolde him winde,

And speke his wordes in so sly a kinde,

Whan he commune shal with any wight,

That he wol make him doten anon right,

But it a feend be, as him-selven is.

Ful many a man hath he bigyled er this,

And wol, if that he live may a whyle ;

And yet men ryde and goon ful many a myle

Him for to seke and have his aqueyntaunce,

Noght knowinge of his false governaunce.

And if yow list to yeve me audience,

I wol it tellen heer in your presence.

But worshipful chanouns religious,

Ne demeth nat that I sclaundre your hous,

Al- though my tale of a chanoun be.

Of every ordre som shrewe is, parde,

And god forbede that al a companye

Sholde rewe a singuler mannes folye.

To sclaundre yow is no-thing myn entente,

But to correcten that is mis I mente.

This tale was nat only told for yow,

But eek for othere mo ; ye woot wel how

That, among Cristes apostelles twelve,

Ther nas no traytour but Judas him-selve.

Than why sholde al the remenant have blame

That giltlees were ? by yow I seye the same.

Save only this, if ye wol herkne me,

If any Judas in your covent be,

Remeveth him bitymes, I yow rede,

If shame or los may causen any drede.

And beth no-thing displesed, I yow preye,

But in this cas herkneth what I shal seye. ,

In London was a preest, an annueleer,

That therin dwelled hadde many a yeer,

Which was so plesaunt and so servisable

Unto the wyf, wher-as he was at table,

That she wolde suffre him no-thing for to paye

For bord ne clothing, wente he never so gaye ;

And spending-silver hadde he right y-now.

Therof no fors ; I wol procede as now,

And telle forth my tale of the chanoun,

That broghte this preest to confusioun.

This false chanoun cam up-on a day

Unto this preestes chambre, wher he lay,

Biseching him to lene him a certeyn

Of gold, and he wolde quyte it him ageyn.

‘ Lene me a mark,’ quod he, ‘ but dayes three,

And at my day I wol it quyten thee.

And if so be that thou me finde fals,

Another day do hange me by the hals ! ‘

This preest him took a mark, and that as swythe,

And this chanoun him thanked ofte sythe,

And took his leve, and wente forth his weye,

And at the thridde day broghte his moneye,

And to the preest he took his gold agayn,

Wherof this preest was wonder glad and fayn.

‘ Certes,’ quod he, ‘ no- thing anoyeth me

To lene a man a noble, or two or three,

Or what thing were in my possessioun,

Whan he so trewe is of condicioun,

That in no wyse he breke wol his day ;

To swich a man I can never seye nay.’

‘ What ! ‘ quod this chanoun, ‘ sholde I be untrewe ?

Nay, that were thing y-fallen al of-newe.

Trouthe is a thing that I wol ever kepe

Un-to that day in which that I shal crepe

In-to my grave, and elles god forbede ;

Bileveth this as siker as is your crede.

God thanke I, and in good tyme be it sayd,

That ther was never man yet yvel apayd

For gold ne silver that he to me lente,

Ne never falshede in myn herte I mente.

And sir,’ quod he, ‘ now of my privetee,

Sin ye so goodlich han been un-to me,

And kythed to me so greet gentillesse,

Somwhat to quyte with your kindenesse,

I wol yow shewe, and, if yow list to lere,

I wol yow teche pleynly the manere,

How I can werken in philosophye.

Taketh good heed, ye shul wel seen at ye,

That I wol doon a maistrie er I go.’

‘ Ye,’ quod the preest, ‘ ye, sir, and wol ye so ?

Marie ! ther-of I pray yow hertely ! ‘

‘ At your comandement, sir, trewely,’

Quod the chanoun, ‘ and elles god forbede ! ‘

Lo, how this theef coude his servyse bede !

Ful sooth it is, that swich profred servyse

Stinketh, as witnessen thise olde wyse ;

And that ful sone I wol it verifye

In this chanoun, rote of al trecherye,

That ever-more delyt hath and gladnesse —

Swich feendly thoughtes in his herte impresse —

How Cristes peple he may to meschief bringe ;

God kepe us from his fals dissimulinge !

Noght wiste this preest with whom that he delte,

Ne of his harm cominge he no-thing felte.

O sely preest ! O sely innocent !

With coveityse anon thou shalt be blent !

O gracelees, ful blind is thy conceit,

No-thing ne artow war of the deceit

Which that this fox y-shapen hath to thee !

His wyly wrenches thou ne mayst nat flee.

Wherfor, to go to the conclusioun

That refereth to thy confusioun,

Unhappy man ! anon I wol me hye

To tellen thyn unwit and thy folye,

And eek the falsnesse of that other wrecche,

As ferforth as that my conning may strecche.

This chanoun was my lord, ye wolden wene ?

Sir host, in feith, and by the hevenes quene,

It was another chanoun, and nat he,

That can an hundred fold more subtiltee !

He hath bitrayed folkes many tyme ;

Of his falshede it dulleth me to ryme.

Ever whan that I speke of his falshede,

For shame of him my chekes wexen rede ;

Algates, they biginnen for to glowe,

For reednesse have I noon, right wel I knowe,

In my visage ; for fumes dyverse

Of metals, which ye han herd me reherce,

Consumed and wasted han my reednesse.

Now tak heed of this chanouns cursednesse !

‘ Sir,’ quod he to the preest, ‘ lat your man gon

For quik-silver, that we it hadde anon ;

And lat him bringen ounces two or three ;

And whan he comth, as faste shul ye see

A wonder thing, which ye saugh never er this.’

‘ Sir,’ quod the preest, ‘ it shal be doon, y-wis.’

He bad his servant fecchen him this thing,

And he al redy was at his bidding,

And wente him forth, and cam anon agayn

With this quik-silver, soothly for to sayn,

And took thise ounces three to the chanoun ;

And he hem leyde fayre and wel adoun,

And bad the servant coles for to bringe,

That he anon mighte go to his werkinge.

The coles right anon weren y-fet,

And this chanoun took out a crosselet

Of his bosom, and shewed it the preest.

‘This instrument,’ quod he, ‘ which that thou seest,

Tak in thyn hand, and put thy-self ther-inne

Of this quik -silver an ounce, and heer biginne,

In the name of Crist, to wexe a philosofre.

Ther been ful fewe, whiche that I wolde profre

To shewen hem thus muche of my science.

For ye shul seen heer, by experience,

That this quik-silver wol I mortifye

Right in your sighte anon, withouten lye,

‘ And make it as good silver and as fyn

As ther is any in your purs or myn,

Or elleswher, and make it malliable ;

And elles, holdeth me fals and unable

Amonges folk for ever to appere !

I have a poudre heer, that coste me dere,

Shal make al good, for it is cause of al

My conning, which that I yow shewen shal.

Voydeth your man, and lat him be ther-oute,

And shet the dore, whyls we been aboute

Our privetee, that no man us espye

Whyls that we werke in this philosophye.’

Al as he bad, fulfilled was in dede,

This ilke servant anon -right out yede,

And his maister shette the dore anon,

And to hir labour speedily they gon.

This preest, at this cursed chanouns bidding,

Up-on the fyr anon sette this thing,

And blew the fyr, and bisied him ful faste ;

And this chanoun in -to the croslet caste

A poudre, noot I wher-of that it was

Y-maad, other of chalk, other of glas,

Or som-what elles, was nat worth a flye

To blynde with the preest ; and bad him hye

The coles for to couchen al above

The croslet ; ‘ for, in tokening I thee love,’

Quod this chanoun, ‘ thyn owene hondes two

Shul werche al thing which that shal heer be do.’

‘Graunt mercy,’ quod the preest, and was ful glad,

And couched coles as the chanoun bad.

And whyle he bisy was, this feendly wrecche,

This fals chanoun, the foule feend him fecche !

Out of his bosom took a bechen cole,

In which ful subtilly was maad an hole,

And ther-in put was of silver lymaille

An ounce, and stopped was, with-outen fayle,

The hole with wex, to kepe the lymail in.

And understondeth, that this false gin

Was nat maad ther, but it was maad bifore ;

And othere thinges I shal telle more

Herafterward, which that he with him broghte ;

Er he cam ther, him to bigyle he thoghte,

And so he dide, er that they wente a-twinne ;

Til he had terved him, coude he not blinne.

It dulleth me whan that I of him speke,

On his falshede fayn wolde I me wreke,

If I wiste how ; but he is heer and ther :

He is so variaunt, he abit no-wher.

But taketh heed now, sirs, for goddes love !

He took his cole of which I spak above,

And in his hond he baar it prively.

And whyls the preest couchede busily

The coles, as I tolde yow er this,

This chanoun seyde, ‘ freend, ye doon amis ;

This is nat couched as it oghte be ;

But sone I shal amenden it,’ quod he.

* Now lat me med’le therwith but a whyle,

For of yow have I pitee, by seint Gyle !

Ye been right hoot, I see wel how ye swete,

Have heer a cloth, and wype awey the wete.’

And whyles that the preest wyped his face,

This chanoun took his cole with harde grace,

And leyde it above, up -on the middeward

Of the croslet, and blew wel afterward,

Til that the coles gonne faste brenne.

‘ Now yeve us drinke,’ quod the chanoun thenne,

1 As swythe al shal be wel, I undertake ;

Sitte we doun, and lat us mery make.’

And whan that this chanounes bechen cole

Was brent, al the lymaille, out of the hole,

Into the croslet fil anon adoun ;

And so it moste nedes, by resoun,

Sin it so even aboven couched was ;

But ther-of wiste the preest no-thing, alas !

He demed alle the coles y-liche good,

For of the sleighte he no-thing understood.

And whan this alkamistre saugh his tyme,

‘ Rys up,’ quod he, ‘ sir preest, and stondeth by me ;

And for I woot wel ingot have ye noon,

Goth, walketh forth, and bring us a chalk-stoon ;

For I wol make oon of the same shap

That is an ingot, if I may han hap.

And bringeth eek with yow a bolle or a panne,

Ful of water, and ye shul see wel thanne

How that our bisinesse shal thry ve and preve.

And yet, for ye shul han no misbileve

Ne wrong conceit of me in your absence,

I ne wol nat been out of your presence,

But go with yow, and come with yow ageyn.’

The chambre-dore, shortly for to seyn,

They opened and shette, and wente hir weye.

And forth with hem they carieden the keye,

And come agayn with-outen any delay.

What sholde I tarien al the longe day ?

He took the chalk, and shoop it in the wyse

‘ Of an ingot, as I shal yow devyse.

I seye, he took out of his owene sieve

A teyne of silver (yvele mote he cheve !)

Which that ne was nat but an ounce of weighte ;

And taketh heed now of his cursed sleighte !

He shoop his ingot, in lengthe and eek in brede,

Of this teyne, with-outen any drede,

So slyly, that the preest it nat espyde ;

And in his sieve agayn he gan it hyde ;

And fro the fyr he took up his matere,

And in th’ingot putte it with mery chere,

And in the water- vessel he it caste

Whan that him luste, and bad the preest as faste,

‘ Look what ther is, put in thyn hand and grope,

Thow finde shalt ther silver, as I hope ;

What, devel of helle ! sholde it elles be ?

Shaving of silver silver is, pardee ! ‘

He putte his hond in, and took up a teyne

Of silver fyn, and glad in every veyne

Was this preest, whan he saugh that it was so.

‘ Goddes blessing, and his modres also,

And alle halwes have ye, sir chanoun,’

Seyde this preest, ‘ and I hir malisoun,

But, and ye vouche-sauf to techen me

This noble craft and this subtilitee,

I wol be youre, in al that ever I may ! ‘

Quod the chanoun, ‘ yet wol I make assay

The second tyme, that ye may taken hede

And been expert of this, and in your nede

Another day assaye in myn absence

This disciplyne and this crafty science.

Lat take another ounce,’ quod he tho,

‘ Of quik-silver, with-outen wordes mo,

And do ther-with as ye han doon er this

With that other, which that now silver is.’

This preest him bisieth in al that he can

To doon as this chanoun, this cursed man,

Comanded him, and faste he blew the fyr,

For to come to th’effect of his desyr.

And this chanoun, right in the mene whyle,

Al redy was, the preest eft to bigyle,

And, for a countenance, in his hande he bar

An holwe stikke (tak keep and be war !)

In the ende of which an ounce, and na-more,

Of silver lymail put was, as bifore

Was in his cole, and stopped with wex weel

For to kepe in his lymail every deel.

And whyl this preest was in his bisinesse,

This chanoun with his stikke gan him dresse

To him anon, and his pouder caste in

As he did er ; (the devel out of his skin

Him terve, I pray to god, for his falshede ;

For he was ever fals in thoght and dede) ;

And with this stikke, above the croslet,

That was ordeyned with that false get,

He stired the coles, til relente gan

The wex agayn the fyr, as every man,

But it a fool be, woot wel it mot nede,

And al that in the stikke was out yede,

And in the croslet hastily it fel.

Now gode sirs, what wol ye bet than wel ?

Whan that this preest thus was bigyled ageyn,

Supposing noght but trouthe, soth to seyn,

He was so glad, that I can nat expresse

In no manere his mirthe and his gladnesse ;

And to the chanoun he profred eftsone

Body and good ; ‘ye,’ quod the chanoun sone,

‘ Though povre I be, crafty thou shalt me finde ;

I warne thee, yet is ther more bihinde.

Is ther any coper her-inne ? ‘ seyde he.

4 Ye,’ quod the preest, ‘ sir, I trowe wel ther be.’

‘ Elles go bye us som, and that as swythe,

Now, gode sir, go forth thy wey and hy the.’

He wente his wey, and with the coper cam,

And this chanoun it in his handes nam,

And of that coper weyed out but an ounce.

Al to simple is my tonge to pronounce,

As ministre of my wit, the doublenesse

Of this chanoun, rote of al cursednesse.

He semed freendly to hem that knewe him noght,

But he was feendly bothe in herte and thoght.

It werieth me to telle of his falsnesse,

And nathelees yet wol I it expresse,

To th’ entente that men may be war therby,

And for noon other cause, trewely.

He putte his ounce of coper in the croslet,

And on the fyr as swythe he hath it set,

And caste in poudre, and made the preest to blowe,

And in his werking for to stoupe lowe,

As he dide er, and al nas but a jape ;

Right as him liste, the preest he made his ape ;

And afterward in th’ingot he it caste,

And in the panne putte it at the laste

Of water, and in he putte his owene hond.

And in his sieve (as ye biforn-hond

Herde me telle) he hadde a silver teyne.’

He; slyly took it out, this cursed heyne —

Unwiting this preest of his false craft —

And in the pannes botme he hath it laft ;

And in the water rombled to and fro,

And wonder prively took up also

The coper teyne, noght knowing this preest,

And hidde it, and him hente by the breest,

And to him spak, and thus seyde in his game,

* Stoupeth adoun, by god, ye be to blame,

Helpeth me now, as I dide yow whyl-er,

Putte in your hand, and loketh what is ther.’

This preest took up this silver teyne anon,

And thanne seyde the chanoun, ‘ lat us gon

With thise three teynes, which that we han wroght,

To som goldsmith, and wite if they been oght.

For, by my feith, I nolde, for myn hood,

But-if that they were silver, fyn and good,

And that as swythe preved shal it be.’

Un-to the goldsmith with thise teynes three

They wente, and putte thise teynes in assay

To fyr and hamer ; mighte no man sey nay,

But that they weren as hem oghte be.

This sotted preest, who was gladder than he ?

Was never brid gladder agayn the day,

Ne nightingale, in the sesoun of May,

Nas never noon that luste bet to singe ;

Ne lady lustier in carolinge

Or for to speke of love and wommanhede,

Ne knight in armes to doon an hardy dede

To stonde in grace of his lady dere,

Than had this preest this sory craft to lere ;

And td the chanoun thus he spak and seyde,

‘ For love of god, that for us alle deyde,

And as I may deserve it un-to yow,

What shal this receit coste ? telleth now ! ‘

‘ By our lady,’ quod this chanoun, ‘ it is dere,

I warne yow wel ; for, save I and a frere,

In Engelond ther can no man it make.’

‘ No fors,’ quod he, ‘ now, sir, for goddes sake,

What shal I paye ? telle th me, I preye.’

‘ Y-wis,’ quod he, ‘ it is ful dere, I seye ;

Sir, at o word, if that thee list it have,

Ye shul paye fourty pound, so god me save !

And, nere the freendship that ye dide er this

To me, ye sholde paye more, y-wis.’

This preest the somme of fourty pound anon

Of nobles fette, and took hem everichon

To this chanoun, for this ilke receit ;

Al his werking nas but fraude and deceit.

‘ Sir preest,’ he seyde, ‘ I kepe han no loos

Of my craft, for I wolde it kept were cloos ;

And as ye love me, kepeth it secree ;

For, and men knewe al my subtilitee,

By god, they wolden han so greet envye

To me, by-cause of my philosophye,

I sholde be deed, ther were non other weye.’

‘ God it forbede ! ‘ quod the preest, ‘ what sey ye?’

Yet hadde I lever spenden al the good

Which that I have (and elles wexe I wood !)

Than that ye sh olden falle in swich mescheef.’

‘ For your good wil, sir, have ye right good preef,’

Quod the chanoun, ‘ and far-wel, grant mercy ! ‘

He wente his wey and never the preest him sy

After that day ; and whan that this preest sholde

Maken assay, at swich tyme as he wolde,

Of this receit, far-wel ! it wolde nat be !

Lo, thus byjaped and bigyled was he !

Thus maketh he his introduccioun

To bringe folk to hir destruccioun. —

Considereth, sirs, how that, in ech estaat,

Bitwixe men and gold ther is debaat

So ferforth, that unnethes is ther noon.

This multiplying blent so many oon,

That in good feith I trowe that it be

The cause grettest of swich scarsetee.

Philosophres speken so mistily

In this craft, that men can nat come therby,

For any wit that men han now a-dayes.

They mowe wel chiteren, as doon thise jayes,

And in her termes sette hir lust and peyne,

But to hir purpos shul they never atteyne.

A man may lightly lerne, if he have aught,

To multiplye, and bringe his good to naught !

Lo ! swich a lucre is in this lusty game,

A mannes mirthe it wol tome un-to grame,

And empten also grete and hevy purses,

And maken folk for to purchasen curses

Of hem, that han hir good therto y-lent.

! f y ! for shame ! they that han been brent,

Allas ! can they nat flee the fyres hete ?

Ye that it use, I rede ye it lete,

Lest ye lese al ; for bet than never is late.

Never to thryve were to long a date.

Though ye prolle ay, ye shul it never finde ;

Ye been as bolde as is Bayard the blinde,

That blundreth forth, and peril casteth noon ;

He is as bold to renne agayn a stoon

As for to goon besydes in the weye.

So faren ye that multiplye, I seye.

If that your yen can nat seen aright,

Loke that your minde lakke nought his sight.

For, though ye loke never so brode, and stare,

Ye shul nat winne a myte on that chaffare,

But wasten al that ye may rape and renne.

Withdrawe the fyr, lest it to faste brenne ;

Medleth na-more with that art, I mene,

For, if ye doon, your thrift is goon ful clene.

And right as swythe I wol yow tellen here,

What philosophres seyn in this matere.

Lo, thus seith Arnold of the Newe Toun,

As his Rosarie maketh mencioun ;

He seith right thus, with-outen any lye,

‘ Ther may no man Mercurie mortifye,

But it be with his brother knowleching.

How that he, which that first seyde this thing,

Of philosophres fader was, Hermes ;

He seith, how that the dragoun, doutelees,

Ne deyeth nat, but-if that he be slayn

With his brother ; and that is for to say n,

By the dragoun, Mercurie and noon other

He understood ; and brimstoon by his brother,

That out of sol and luna were y-drawe.

And therfor,’ seyde he, ‘ tak heed to my sawe,

Let no man bisy him this art for to seche,

But-if that he th’entencioun and speche

Of philosophres understonde can ;

And if he do, he is a lewed man.

For this science and this conning,’ quod he,

* Is of the secree of secrees, parde.’

Also ther was a disciple of Plato,

That on a tyme seyde his maister to,

As his book Senior wol bere witnesse,

And this was his demande in soothfastnesse :

‘ Tel me the name of the privy stoon ? ‘

And Plato answerde unto him anoon,

* Tak the stoon that Titanos men name.’

‘ Which is that ? ‘ quod he. ‘ Magnesia is the same,’

Seyde Plato. ‘ Ye, sir, and is it thus ?

This is ignotum per ignotius.

What is Magnesia, good sir, I yow preye ? ‘

‘ It is a water that is maad, I seye.

Of elementes foure,’ quod Plato.

‘ Tel me the rote, good sir,’ quod he tho,

‘ Of that water, if that it be your wille ? ‘

‘ Nay, nay,’ quod Plato, ‘ certein, that I nille.

The philosophres sworn were everichoon,

That they sholden discovere it un-to noon,

Ne in no book it wryte in no manere ;

For un-to Crist it is so leef and dere

That he wol nat that it discovered be,

But wher it lyketh to his deitee

Man for t’enspyre, and eek for to defende

Whom that him lyketh ; lo, this is the ende-‘

Thanne conclude I thus ; sith god of hevene

Ne wol nat that the philosophres nevene

How that a man shal come un-to this stoon,

I rede, as for the beste, lete it goon.

For who-so maketh god his adversarie,

As for to werken any thing in contrarie

Of his wil, certes, never shal he thryve,

Thogh that he multiplye terme of his lyve.

And ther a poynt ; for ended is my tale ;

God sende every trewe man bote of his bale ! —


Here is ended the Chanouns Yemannes Tale.