The Maunciples Tale

Here folweth the Prologe of the Maunciples Tale.

Wite ye nat wher ther stant a litel toun

Which that y-cleped is Bob-up- and-doun,

Under the Blee, in Caunterbury weye ?

Ther gan our hoste for to jape and pleye,

And seyde, ‘ sirs, what ! Dun is in the myre !

Is ther no man, for preyere ne for hyre,

That wol awake our felawe heer bihinde ?

A theef mighte him ful lightly robbe and binde.

See how he nappeth ! see, for cokkes bones,

As he wol falle from his hors at ones.

Is that a cook of Londoun, with meschaunce ?

Do him come forth, he knoweth his penaunce,

For he shal telle a tale, by my fey !

Al-though it be nat worth a botel hey.

Awake, thou cook,’ quod he, ‘ god yeve thee sorwe,

What eyleth thee to slepe by the morwe ?

Hastow had fleen al night, or artow dronke,

Or hastow with som quene al night y-swonke,

So that thou mayst nat holden up thyn heed ? ‘

This cook, that was ful pale and no -thing reed,

Seyde to our host, ‘ so god my soule blesse,

As ther is falle on me swich hevinesse,

Noot I nat why, th#t me were lever slepe

Than the beste galoun wyn in Chepe.’

‘ Wei,’ quod the maunciple, ‘ if it may doon ese

To thee, sir cook, and to no wight displese

Which that heer rydeth in this companye,

And that our host wol, of his curteisye,

I wol as now excuse thee of thy tale ;

For, in good feith, thy visage is ful pale,

Thyn yen daswen eek, as that me thinketh,

And wel I woot, thy breeth ful soure stinketh,

That sheweth wel thou art not wel disposed ;

Of me, certein, thou shalt nat been y-glosed.

Se how he ganeth, lo, this dronken wight,

As though he wolde us swolwe anon-right.

Hold cloos thy mouth, man, by thy fader kin !

The devel of helle sette his foot ther-in !

Thy cursed breeth infecte wol us alle ;

Fy, stinking swyn, fy ! foule moot thee falle !

A ! taketh heed, sirs, of this lusty man.

Now, swete sir, wol ye justen atte fan ?

Ther-to me thinketh ye been wel y-shape !

I trowe that ye dronken han wyn ape, >

And that is whan men pleyen with a straw.’

And with this speche the cook wex wrooth and wraw,

And on the maunciple he gan nodde faste

For lakke of speche, and doun the hors him caste,

Wher as he lay, til that men up him took ;

This was a fayr chivachee of a cook !

Allas ! he nadde holde him by his ladei !

And, er that he agayn were in his sadel,

Ther was greet showving bothe to and fro,

To lifte him up, and muchel care and wo,

So unweldy was this sory palled gost.

And to the maunciple thanne spak our host,

* By-cause drink hath dominacioun

Upon this man, by my savacioun

I trowe he lewedly wolde telle his tale.

For, were it wyn, or old or moysty ale,

That he hath dronke, he speketh in his nose,

And fneseth faste, and eek he hath the pose.

He hath also to do more than y-nough

To kepe him and his capel out of slough ;

And, if he falle from his capel eft-sone,

Than shul we alle have y-nough to done,

In lifting up his hevy dronken cors.

Telle on thy tale, of him make I no fors.

But yet, maunciple, in feith thou art to ityce,

Thus openly repreve him of his vyce.

Another day he wol, pera venture,

Reclayme thee, and bringe thee to lure ;

I mene, he speke wol of smale thinges,

As for to pinchen at thy rekeninges,

That wer not honeste, if it cam to preef.’

‘ No,’ quod the maunciple, ‘ that were a greet mescheef !

So mighte he lightly bringe me in the snare.

Yet hadde I lever payen for the mare

Which he rit on, than he sholde with me stryve ;

I wol nat wratthe him, al-so mote I thryve !

That that I spak, I seyde it in my bourde ;

And wite ye what ? I have heer, in a gourde,

A draught of wyn, ye, of a rype grape,

And right anon ye shul seen a good jape.

This cook shal drinke ther-of, if I may ;

Up peyne of deeth, he wol nat seye me nay ! ‘

And certeinly, to tellen as it was,

Of this vessel the cook drank faste, allas !

What neded him ? he drank y-nough biforn.

And whan he hadde pouped in this horn,

To the maunciple he took the gourde agayn ;

And of that drinke the cook was wonder f ayn,

And thanked him in swich wyse as he coude.

Than gan our host to laughen wonder loude,

And seyde, ‘ I see wel, it is necessarie,

Wher that we goon, good drink we with us carie ;

For that wol turne rancour and disese

T’acord and love, and many a wrong apese.

O thou Bachus, y-blessed be thy name,

That so canst turnen ernest in-to game !

Worship and thank be to thy deitee !

Of that matere ye gete na-more of me.

Tel on thy tale, maunciple, I thee preye.’

‘ Wel, sir,’ quod he, ‘ now herkneth what I seye.’

Thus endeth the Prologe of the Manciple.

Here biginneth the Maunciples Tale of the Crowe.

Whan Phebus dwelled here in this erthe adoun,

As olde bokes maken mencioun

He was the moste lusty bachiler

In al this world, and eek the beste archer ;

He slow Phitoun, the serpent, as he lay

Slepinge agayn the sonne upon a day ;

And many another noble worthy dede

He with his bowe wroghte, as men may rede.

Pleyen he coude on every minstralcye,

And singen, that it was a melodye,

To heren of his clere vois the soun.

Certes the king of Thebes, Amphioun,

That with his singing walled that citee,

Coude never singen half so wel as he.

Therto he was the semelieste man

That is or was, sith that the world bigan.

What nedeth it his fetures to discryve ?

For in this world was noon so fair on ly ve.

He was ther-with fulfild of gentillesse,

Of honour, and of parfit worthinesse.

This Phebus, that was flour of bachelrye,

As wel in fredom as in chivalrye,

For his desport, in signe eek of victorie

Of Phitoun, so as telleth us the storie,

Was wont to beren in his hand a bowe.

Now had this Phebus in his hous a crowe,

Which in a cage he fostred many a day,

And taughte it speken, as men teche a jay.

Whyt was this crowe, as is a snow-whyt swan,

And countrefete the speche of every man

He coude, whan he sholde telle a tale.

Ther-with in al this world no nightingale

Ne coude, by an hondred thousand deel,

Singen so wonder merily and weel.

Now had this Phebus in his hous a wyf,

Which that he lovede more than his lyf,

And night and day dide ever his diligence

Hir for to plese, and doon hir reverence,

Save only, if the sothe that I shal sayn,

Jalous he was, and wolde have kept hir fayn ;

For him were looth by -japed for to be.

And so is every wight in swich degree ;

But al in ydel, for it availleth noght.

A good wyf, that is clene of werk and thoght,

Sholde nat been kept in noon await, certayn ;

And trewely, the labour is in vayn

To kepe a shrewe, for it wol nat be.

This holde I for a verray nycetee,

To spille labour, for to kepe wyves ;

Thus writen olde clerkes in hir lyves.

But now to purpos, as I first bigan :

This worthy Phebus dooth all that he can •

To plesen hir, weninge by swich plesaunce,

And for his manhede and his governaunce,

That no man sholde han put him from hir grace.

But god it woot, ther may no man embrace

As to destreyne a thing, which that nature

Hath naturelly set in a creature.

Tak any brid, and put it in a cage,

And do al thyn entente and thy corage

To fostre it tendrely with mete and drinke,

Of alle deyntees that thou canst bithinke,

And keep it al-so clenly as thou may ;

Al-though his cage of gold be never so gay,

Yet hath this brid, by twenty thousand fold,

Lever in a forest, that is rude and cold,

Gon ete wormes and swich wrecchednesse.

For ever this brid wol doon his bisinesse

To escape out of his cage, if he may ;

His libertee this brid desireth ay.

Lat take a cat, and fostre him wel with milk,

And tendre flesh, and make his couche of silk,

And lat him seen a mous go by the wal ;

Anon he weyveth milk, and flesh, and al,

And every deyntee that is in that hous,

Swich appetyt hath he to ete a mous.

Lo, here hath lust his dominacioun,

And appetyt flemeth discrecioun.

A she-wolf hath also a vileins kinde ;

The lewedeste wolf that she may finde,

Or leest of reputacion wol she take,

In tyme whan hir lust to han a make.

Alle thise ensamples speke I by thise men

That been untrewe, and no-thing by wommen.

For men han ever a likerous appetyt

On lower thing to parfourne hir delyt

Than on hir wyves, be they never so faire,

Ne never so trewe, ne so debonaire. »

Flesh is so newef angel, with meschaunce,

That we ne conne in no-thing han plesaunce

That souneth in-to vertu any whyle.

This Phebus, which that thoghte upon no gyle,

Deceyved was, for al his jolitee ;

For under him another hadde she,

A man of litel reputacioun,

Noght worth to Phebus in comparisoun.

The more harm is ; it happeth ofte so,

Of which ther cometh muchel harm and wo.

And so bifel, whan Phebus was absent,

His wyf anon hath for hir lemman sent ;

Hir lemman ? certes, this is a knavish speche !

Foryeveth it me, and that I yow biseche.

The wyse Plato seith, as ye may rede,

The word mot nede accorde with the dede.

If men shal telle proprely a thing,

The word mot cosin be to the werking.

I am a boistous man, right thus seye I,

Ther nis no difference, trewely,

Bitwixe a wyf that is of heigh degree,

If of hir body dishonest she be,

And a povre wenche, other than this —

If it so be, they werke bothe amis —

But that the gentile, in estaat above,

She shal be cleped his lady, as in love ;

And for that other is a povre womman,

She shal be cleped his wenche, or his lemman.

And, god it woot, myn owene dere brother,

Men leyn that oon as lowe as lyth that other.

Right so, bitwixe a titlelees tiraunt

And an outlawe, or a theef erraunt,

The same I seye, ther is no difference.

To Alisaundre told was this sentence ;

That, for the tyrant is of gretter might,

By force of meynee for to sleen doun-right,

And brennen hous and hoom, and make al plain,

Lo ! therfor is he cleped a capitain ;

And, for the outlawe hath but snial meynee,

And may nat doon so greet an harm as he,

Ne bringe a contree to so greet mescheef,

Men clepen him an outlawe or a theef.

But, for I am a man noght textuel,

I wol noght telle of textes never a del ;

I wol go to my tale, as I bigan.

Whan Phebus wyf had sent for hir lemman,

Anon they wroghten al hir lust volage.

The whyte crowe, that heng ay in’ the cage,

Biheld hir werk, and seyde never a word.

And whan that hoom was come Phebus,’ the lord,

This crowe sang ‘ cokkow ! cokkow ! cokkow ! ‘

‘ What, brid ? ‘ quod Phebus, ‘ what song singestow ?

Ne were thow wont so merily to singe

That to myn herte it was a rejoisinge

To here thy vois ? allas ! what song is this ? ‘

‘ By god,’ quod he, ‘ I singe nat amis ;

Phebus,’ quod he, ‘ for al thy worthinesse,

For al thy beautee and thy gentilesse,

For al thy song and al thy minstralcye,

For al thy waiting, blered is thyn ye

With oon of litel reputacioun,

Noght worth to thee, as in comparisoun,

The mountance of a gnat ; so mote I thryve !

For on thy bed thy wyf I saugh him swyve.’

What wol ye more ? the crowe anon him tolde,

By sadde tokenes and by wordes bolde,

How that his wyf had doon hir lecherye,

Him to gret shame and to gret vileinye ;

And tolde him ofte, he saugh it with his yen.

This Phebus gan aweyward for to wryen,

Him though te his sorweful herte brast a-two’;

His bowe he bente, and sette ther-inne a flo,

And in his ire his wyf thanne hath he slayn.

This is th’effect, ther is na-more to sayn ;

For sorwe of which he brak his minstralcye,

Bothe harpe, and lute, and giterne, and sautrye ;

And eek he brak his arwes and his bowe.

And after that, thus spak he to the crowe :

‘ Traitour,’ quod he, ‘ with tonge of scorpioun,

Thou hast me broght to my confusioun !

Allas ! that I was wroght ! why nere I deed ?

O dere wyf, gemme of lustiheed,

That were to me so sad and eek so trewe,

Now lystow deed, with face pale of he we,

Ful giltelees, that dorste I swere, y-wis !

O rakel hand, to doon so foule amis !

O trouble wit, O ire recchelees,

That unavysed smytest giltelees !

O wantrust, ful of fals suspecioun,

Where was thy wit and thy discrecioun ?

O every man, be-war of rakelnesse,

Ne trowe no- thing with-outen strong witnesse ;

Smyt nat to sone, er that ye witen why,

And beeth avysed wel and sobrely

Er ye doon any execucioun,

Up-on your ire, for suspecioun.

Allas ! a thousand folk hath rakel ire

Fully fordoon, and broght hem in the mire.

Allas ! for sorwe I wol my-selven slee ! ‘

And to the crowe, ‘ O false theef ! ‘ seyde he,

‘ I wol thee quyte anon thy false tale !

Thou songe whylom lyk a nightingale ;

Now shaltow, false theef, thy song forgon,

And eek thy whyte fetheres everichon,

Ne never in al thy lyf ne shaltou speke.

Thus shal men on a traitour been awreke ;

Thou and thyn of -spring ever shul be blake,

Ne never swete noise shul ye make,

But ever crye agayn tempest and rayn,

In tokeninge that thurgh thee my wyf is slayn.’

And to the crowe he stirte, and that anon,

And pulled his whyte fetheres everichon,

And made him blak, and refte him al his song,

And eek his speche, and out at dore him slong

Un-to the devel, which I him bitake ;

And for this caas ben alle crowes blake. —

Lordings, by this ensample I yow preye,

Beth war, and taketh kepe what I seye :

Ne telleth never no man in your lyf

How that another man hath dight his wyf ;

He wol yow haten mortally, certeyn. 3

Daun Salomon, as wyse clerkes seyn,

Techeth a man to kepe his tonge wel ;

But as I seyde, I am noght textuel.

But nathelees, thus taughte me my dame :

‘ My sone, thenk on the crowe, a goddes name ;

My sone, keep wel thy tonge and keep thy freend.

A wikked tonge is worse than a feend.

My sone, from a feend men may hem blesse ;

My sone, god of his endelees goodnesse

Walled a tonge with teeth and lippes eke,

For man sholde him avyse what he speke.

My sone, ful ofte, for to muche speche,

Hath many a man ben spilt, as clerkes teche ;

But for a litel speche avysely

Is no men shent, to speke generally.

My sone, thy tonge sholdestow restreyne

At alle tyme, but whan thou doost thy peyne

To speke of god, in honour and preyere.

The firste vertu, sone, if thou wolt lere,

Is to restreyne and kepe wel thy tonge. —

Thus lerne children whan that they ben yonge. —

My sone, of muchel speking yvel-avysed,

Ther lasse speking hadde y-nough suffysed,

Comth muchel harm, thus was me told and taught.

In muchel speche sinne wanteth naught.

Wostow wher-of a rakel tonge serveth ?

Right as a swerd forcutteth and forkerveth

An arm a-two, my dere sone, right so

A tonge cutteth frendship al a-two.

A jangler is to god abhominable ;

Reed Salomon, so wys and honurable ;

Reed David in his psalmes, reed Senekke.

My sone, spek nat, but with thyn heed thou bekke.

Dissimule as thou were deef, if that thou here

A jangler speke of perilous matere.

The Fleming seith, and lerne it, if thee leste,

That litel jangling causeth muchel reste.

My sone, if thou no wikked word hast seyd,

Thee thar nat drede for to be biwreyd ;

But he that hath misseyd, I dar wel sayn,

He may by no wey clepe his word agayn.

Thing that is seyd, is seyd ; and forth it gooth,

Though him repente, or be him leef or looth.

He is his thral to whom that he hath sayd

A tale, of which he is now y vel apayd.

My sone, be war, and be non auctour newe

Of tydinges, whether they ben false or trewe.

Wher-so thou come, amonges hye or lowe,

Kepe wel thy tonge, and thenk up-on the crowe.’

Here is ended the Maunciples Tale of the Crowe.