Save he that Hermengyld slow with his knyf. This gentil kyng hath caught a greet motyf Of this witnesse, and thoghte he wolde enquere Depper in this, a trouthe for to lere. Allas, Custance, thou hast no champioun! Ne fighte kanstow noght, so weylaway! But he, that starf for our redempcioun, And boond Sathan-and yet lith ther he lay- So be thy stronge champion this day! For but if Crist open myracle kithe, Withouten gilt thou shalt be slayn as swithe. She sette hir doun on knees, and thus she sayde, "Immortal God, that savedest Susanne Fro false blame, and thou, merciful Mayde, Marie I meene, doghter to Seynte Anne, Bifore whos child angeles synge Osanne, If I be giltlees of this felonye, My socour be, for ellis shal I dye." Have ye nat seyn som tyme a pale face Among a prees, of hym that hath be lad Toward his deeth, wher as hym gat no grace, And swich a colour in his face hath had, Men myghte knowe his face, that was bistad, Amonges alle the faces in that route? So stant Custance, and looketh hir aboute. O queenes, lyvynge in prosperitee, Duchesses, and ladyes everichone, Haveth som routhe on hir adversitee; An emperoures doghter stant allone, She hath no wight to whom to make hir mone. O blood roial, that stondest in this drede, Fer been thy freendes at thy grete nede! This Alla kyng hath swich compassioun, As gentil herte is fulfild of pitee, That from hise eyen ran the water doun. "Now hastily do fecche a book," quod he, "And if this knyght wol sweren how that she This womman slow, yet wol we us avyse, Whom that we wole, that shal been oure justise." A Britoun book, written with Evaungiles, Was fet, and on this book he swoor anoon She gilty was, and in the meene-whiles An hand hym smoot upon the nekke-boon, That doun he fil atones, as a stoon; And bothe hise eyen broste out of his face, In sighte of every body in that place. A voys was herd in general audience, And seyde, "Thou hast desclaundred giltelees The doghter of hooly chirche in heigh presence, Thus hastou doon, and yet holde I my pees." Of this mervaille agast was al the prees, As mazed folk they stoden everichone For drede of wreche, save Custance allone. Greet was the drede and eek the repentance Of hem that hadden wronge suspecioun Upon this sely innocent, Custance; And for this miracle, in conclusioun, And by Custances mediacioun, The kyng, and many another in that place, Converted was, thanked be Cristes grace. This false knyght was slayn for his untrouthe, By juggement of Alla hastifly- And yet Custance hadde of his deeth greet routhe- And after this Jesus, of His mercy, Made Alla wedden ful solempnely This hooly mayden, that is so bright and sheene, And thus hath Crist ymaad Custance a queene. But who was woful, if I shal nat lye, Of this weddyng but Donegild, and namo, The kynges mooder, ful of tirannye? Hir thoughte hir cursed herte brast atwo, She wolde noght hir sone had do so, Hir thoughte a despit, that he sholde take So strange a creature unto his make. Me list nat of the chaf nor of the stree Maken so long a tale, as of the corn; What sholde I tellen of the roialtee At mariages, or which cours goth biforn, Who bloweth in the trumpe, or in an horn? The fruyt of every tale is for to seye; They ete, and drynke, and daunce, and synge, and pleye. They goon to bedde, as it was skile and right, For thogh that wyves be ful hooly thynges, They moste take in pacience at nyght Swiche manere necessaries as been plesynges To folk that han ywedded hem with rynges, And leye a lite hir hoolynesse aside As for the tyme, it may no bet bitide. On hir he gat a knave childe anon, And to a bisshop and his constable eke He took his wyf to kepe, whan he is gon To Scotlondward, his foomen for to seke. Now faire Custance, that is so humble and meke, So longe is goon with childe, til that stille She halt hire chambre, abidyng Cristes wille. The tyme is come; a knave child she beer, Mauricius at the fontstoon they hym calle. This constable dooth forth come a messageer, And wroot unto his kyng, that cleped was Alle, How that this blisful tidyng is bifalle, And othere tidynges spedeful for to seye; He taketh the lettre, and forth he gooth his weye. This messager, to doon his avantage, Unto the kynges mooder rideth swithe, And salueth hir ful faire in his langage, "Madame," quod he, "ye may be glad and blithe, And thanketh God an hundred thousand sithe. My lady queene hath child, withouten doute, To joye and blisse to al this regne aboute. Lo, heere the lettres seled of this thyng, That I moot bere with al the haste I may. If ye wol aught unto youre sone, the kyng, I am youre servant both nyght and day." Donegild answerde, "as now at this tyme, nay, But heere al nyght I wol thou take thy reste, Tomorwe wol I seye thee what me leste." This messager drank sadly ale and wyn, And stolen wer hise lettres prively Out of his box, whil he sleep as a swyn; And countrefeted was ful subtilly Another lettre wroght ful synfully, Unto the kyng direct of this mateere Fro his constable, as ye shal after heere. The lettre spak, the queene delivered was Of so horrible a feendly creature That in the castel noon so hardy was That any while dorste ther endure; The mooder was an elf, by aventure, Yeomen by charmes or by sorcerie, And every wight hateth hir compaignye. Wo was this kyng whan he this lettre had sayn, But to no wight he tolde his sorwes soore, But of his owene hand he wroot agayn: "Welcome the sonde of Crist for everemoore To me, that am now lerned in his loore. Lord, welcome be thy lust and thy plesaunce, My lust I putte al in thyn ordinaunce. Kepeth this child, al be it foul or feire, And eek my wyf, unto myn hoom-comynge; Crist, whan hym list, may sende me an heir Moore agreable than this to my likynge." This lettre he seleth, pryvely wepynge, Which to the messager was take soone And forth he gooth, ther is namoore to doone. O messager, fulfild of dronkenesse, Strong is thy breeth, thy lymes faltren ay, And thou biwreyest alle secreenesse. Thy mynde is lorn, thou janglest as a jay, Thy face is turned in a newe array; Ther dronkenesse regneth in any route, Ther is no conseil hyd, withouten doute. O Donegild, I ne have noon Englissh digne Unto thy malice and thy tirannye; And therfore to the feend I thee resigne, Lat hym enditen of thy traitorie! Fy, mannysh, fy? O nay, by God, I lye! Fy, feendlych spirit! for I dar wel telle, Thogh thou heere walke, thy spirit is in helle. This messager comth fro the kyng agayn, And at the kynges moodres court he lighte And she was of this messager ful fayn, And plesed hym in al that ever she myghte. He drank, and wel his girdel underpighte. He slepeth, and he fnorteth in his gyse Al nyght until the sonne gan aryse. Eft were hise lettres stolen everychon And countrefeted lettres in this wyse, "The king comandeth his constable anon Up peyne of hangyng and on heigh juyse That he ne sholde suffren in no wyse Custance inwith his reawme for tabyde, Thre dayes and o quarter of a tyde. But in the same ship as he hir fond, Hir and hir yonge sone, and al hir geere, He sholde putte, and croude hir fro the lond, And chargen hir she never eft coome theere." O my Custance, wel may thy goost have fere, And slepynge in thy dreem been in penance, Whan Donegild cast al this ordinance. This messager, on morwe whan he wook, Unto the Castel halt the nexte way, And to the constable he the lettre took. And whan that he this pitous lettre say, Ful ofte he seyde, "Allas and weylaway!" "Lord Crist," quod he, "how may this world endure, So ful of synne is many a creature? O myghty God, if that it be thy wille, Sith thou art rightful juge, how may it be That thou wolt suffren innocentz to spille, And wikked folk regnen in prosperitee? O goode Custance, allas, so wo is me, That I moot be thy tormentour, or deye On shames deeth! Ther is noon oother weye!" Wepen bothe yonge and olde in al that place, Whan that the kyng this cursed lettre sente, And Custance, with a deedly pale face, The ferthe day toward the ship she wente; But nathelees she taketh in good entente The wyl of Crist, and knelynge on the stronde, She seyde, "Lord, ay welcome be thy sonde! He that me kepte fro the false blame, While I was on the lond amonges yow, He kan me kepe from harm and eek fro shame In salte see, al thogh I se noght how. As strong as evere he was, he is yet now; In hym triste I, and in his mooder deere, That is to me myu seyl and eek my steere." Hir litel child lay wepyng in hir arm, And knelynge, pitously to hym she seyde, "Pees, litel sone, I wol do thee noon harm." With that hir coverchief on hir heed she breyde, And over hise litel eyen she it leyde, And in hir arm she lulleth it ful faste, And into hevene hir eyen up she caste. "Mooder," quod she, "and mayde bright, Marie, Sooth is that thurgh wommanes eggement Mankynde was lorn and damned ay to dye, For which thy child was on a croys yrent; Thy blisful eyen sawe al his torment; Thanne is ther no comparison bitwene Thy wo, and any wo man may sustene. Thow sawe thy child yslayn bifore thyne eyen, And yet now lyveth my litel child, parfay. Now, lady bright, to whom alle woful cryen, Thow glorie of wommanhede, thow faire may, Thow haven of refut, brighte sterre of day, Rewe on my child, that of thy gentillesse Ruest on every reweful in distresse. O litel child, allas, what is thy gilt, That nevere wroghtest synne as yet, pardee! Why wil thyn harde fader han thee spilt? O mercy, deere Constable," quod she, "As lat my litel child dwelle heer with thee; And if thou darst nat saven hym for blame, Yet kys hym ones in his fadres name." Therwith she looketh bakward to the londe, And seyde, "Farwel, housbonde routheless!" And up she rist, and walketh doun the stronde, Toward the ship. Hir folweth al the prees, And evere she preyeth hir child to holde his pees, And taketh hir leve, and with an hooly entente She blisseth hir, and into ship she wente. Vitailled was the ship, it is no drede, Habundantly for hir ful longe space; And othere necessaries that sholde nede She hadde ynogh, heried be Goddes grace; For wynd and weder almyghty God purchace, And brynge hir hoom, I kan no bettre seye! But in the see she dryveth forth hir weye. Alla the kyng comth hoom, soone after this, Unto his castel of the which I tolde, And asketh where his wyf and his child is. The constable gan aboute his herte colde, And pleynly al the manere he hym tolde, As ye han herd, I kan telle it no bettre; And sheweth the kyng his seel and eek his lettre, And seyde, "Lord, as ye comanded me, Up peyne of deeth, so have I doon, certein." This messager tormented was, til he Moste biknowe, and tellen plat and pleyn Fro nyght to nyght in what place he had leyn, And thus by wit and sotil enquerynge Ymagined was, by whom this harm gan sprynge. The hand was knowe that the lettre wroot, And al the venym of this cursed dede, But in what wise certeinly I noot. Theffect is this, that Alla, out of drede, His mooder slow, that may men pleynly rede, For that she traitoure was to hir ligeance, Thus endeth olde Donegild, with meschance! The sorwe that this Alla, nyght and day, Maketh for his wyf, and for his child also, Ther is no tonge that it telle may- But now wol I unto Custance go, That fleteth in the see in peyne and wo, Fyve yeer and moore, as liked Cristes sonde, Er that hir ship approched unto londe. Under an hethen castel, atte laste, Of which the name in my text toght I fynde, Custance and eek hir child the see upcaste. Almyghty god that saved al mankynde, Have on Custance and on hir child som mynde, That fallen is in hethen hand eft-soone, In point to spille, as I shal telle yow soone. Doun fro the castel comth ther many a wight To gauren on this ship and on Custance, But shortly from the castel on a nyght The lordes styward, God yeve hym meschance!- A theef that hadde reneyed oure creance, Cam into the ship allone, and seyde he sholde Hir lemman be, wherso she wolde or nolde. Wo was this wrecched womman tho bigon! Hir child cride, and she cride pitously, But blisful Marie heelp hir right anon, For with hir struglyng wel and myghtily, The theef fil over bord al sodeynly, And in the see he dreynte for vengeance, And thus hath Crist unwemmed kept Custance. O foule lust of luxurie, lo, thyn ende! Nat oonly that thou feyntest mannes mynde, But verraily thou wolt his body shende. Thende of thy werk or of thy lustes blynde Is compleynyng; hou many oon may men fynde, That noght for werk somtyme, but for thentente To doon this synne, been outher slayn or shente! How may this wayke womman han this strengthe Hir to defende agayn this renegat? O Golias, unmesurable of lengthe, Hou myghte David make thee so maat, So yong, and of armure so desolaat? Hou dorste he looke upon thy dredful face? Wel may men seen, it nas but Goddes grace! Who yaf Judith corage or hardynesse To sleen hym, Olofernus, in his tente, And to deliveren out of wrecchednesse The peple of God? I seyde, for this entente That right as God spirit of vigour sente To hem, and saved hem out of meschance, So sente he myght and vigour to Custance. Forth gooth hir ship thurghout the narwe mouth Of Jubaltar and Septe, dryvynge alway, Somtyme west, and somtyme north and south, And somtyme est, ful many a wery day; Til Cristes mooder-blessed be she ay!- Hath shapen, thurgh hir endelees goodnesse, To make an ende of al hir hevynesse. Now lat us stynte of Custance but a throwe, And speke we of the Romayn Emperour, That out of Surrye hath by lettres knowe The slaughtre of cristen folk, and dishonour Doon to his doghter by a fals traytour, I mene the cursed wikked Sowdanesse, That at the feeste leet sleen both moore and lesse; For which this emperour hath sent anon His senatour with roial ordinance, And othere lordes, God woot many oon, On Surryens to taken heigh vengeance. They brennen, sleen, and brynge hem to meschance Ful many a day, but shortly, this is thende, Hoomward to Rome they shapen hem to wende. This senatour repaireth with victorie To Romeward saillynge ful roially, And mette the ship dryvynge, as seith the storie, In which Custance sit ful pitously. No thyng ne knew he what she was, ne why She was in swich array, ne she nyl seye Of hir estat, thogh that she sholde deye. He bryngeth hir to Rome, and to his wyf He yaf hir, and hir yonge sone also, And with the senatour she ladde hir lyf. Thus kan oure Lady bryngen out of wo Woful Custance, and many another mo. And longe tyme dwelled she in that place, In hooly werkes evere, as was hir grace. The senatoures wyf hir aunte was, But for all that she knew hir never the moore- I wol no lenger tarien in this cas, But to kyng Alla, which I spake of yoore, That wepeth for his wyf and siketh soore, I wol retourne, and lete I wol Custance Under the senatoures governance. Kyng Alla, which that hadde his mooder slayn, Upon a day fil in swich repentance That, if I shortly tellen shal and playn, To Rome he comth, to receyven his penance, And putte hym in the popes ordinance In heigh and logh, and Jesu Crist bisoghte Foryeve hise wikked werkes that he wroghte. The fame anon thurgh Rome toun is born How Alla kyng shal comen on pilgrymage, By herbergeours that wenten hym biforn, For which the Senatour, as was usage, Rood hym agayns, and many of his lynage, As wel to shewen his heighe magnificence As to doon any kyng a reverence. Greet cheere dooth this noble Senatour To kyng Alla, and he to hym also, Everich of hem dooth oother greet honour; And so bifel, that inwith a day or two This senatour is to kyng Alla go To feste; and shortly, if I shal nat lye, Custances sone wente in his compaignye. Som men wolde seyn, at requeste of Custance This senatour hath lad this child to feeste; I may nat tellen every circumstance, Be as be may, ther was he at the leeste, But sooth is this, that at his moodres heeste Biforn Alla durynge the metes space, The child stood lookynge in the kynges face. This Alla kyng hath of this child greet wonder, And to the senatour he seyde anon, "Whos is that faire child, that stondeth yonder?" "I noot," quod he, "by God and by Seint John! A mooder he hath, but fader hath he noon, That I of woot." But shortly, in a stounde, He tolde Alla how that this child was founde. "But God woot," quod this senatour also, "So vertuous a lyver in my lyf Ne saugh I nevere as she, ne herde of mo Of worldly wommen, mayde, ne of wyf; I dar wel seyn, hir hadde levere a knyf Thurghout hir brest, than ben a womman wikke, There is no man koude brynge hir to that prikke." Now was this child as lyke unto Custance, As possible is a creature to be. This Alla hath the face in remembrance Of dame Custance, and theron mused he, If that the childes mooder were aught she That is his wyf; and prively he sighte And spedde hym fro the table that he myghte. "Parfay," thoghte he, "fantome is in myn heed. I oghte deme, of skilful juggement, That in the salte see my wyf is deed." And afterward he made his argument: "What woot I, if that Crist have hyder ysent My wyf by see, as wel as he hir sente To my contree fro thennes that she wente?" And, after noon, hoom with the senatour Goth Alla, for to seen this wonder chaunce. This senatour dooth Alla greet honour, And hastifly he sente after Custance. But trusteth weel, hir liste nat to daunce Whan that she wiste wherfore was that sonde; Unnethe upon hir feet she myghte stonde. Whan Alla saugh his wyf, faire he hir grette, And weep, that it was routhe for to see. For at the firste look he on hir sette, He knew wel verraily that it was she. And she for sorwe as doumb stant as a tree, So was hir herte shet in hir distresse, Whan she remembred his unkyndenesse. Twyes she swowned in his owene sighte. He weep, and hym excuseth pitously. "Now God," quod he, "and alle hise halwes brighte So wisly on my soule as have mercy, That of youre harm as giltelees am I As is Maurice my sone, so lyk youre face; Elles the feend me fecche out of this place!" Long was the sobbyng and the bitter peyne Er that hir woful hertes myghte cesse, Greet was the pitee for to heere hem pleyne, Thurgh whiche pleintes gan hir wo encresse. I pray yow alle my labour to relesse; I may nat telle hir wo until tomorwe, I am so wery for to speke of sorwe. But finally, whan that the sothe is wist, That Alla giltelees was of hir wo, I trowe an hundred tymes been they kist, And swich a blisse is ther bitwix hem two, That save the joye that lasteth everemo Ther is noon lyk that any creature Hath seyn, or shal, whil that the world may dure. Tho preyde she hir housbonde mekely, In relief of hir longe pitous pyne, That he wolde preye hir fader specially That, of his magestee, he wolde enclyne To vouchesauf som day with hym to dyne. She preyde hym eek, he wolde by no weye Unto hir fader no word of hir seye. Som men wolde seyn, how that the child Maurice Dooth this message unto this emperour, But, as I gesse, Alla was nat so nyce To hym that was of so sovereyn honour, As he that is of cristen folk the flour, Sente any child, but it is bet to deeme He wente hymself, and so it may wel seeme. This emperour hath graunted gentilly To come to dyner, as he hym bisoughte, And wel rede I he looked bisily Upon this child, and on his doghter thoghte. Alla goth to his in, and as him oghte Arrayed for this feste in every wise As ferforth as his konnyng may suffise. The morwe cam, and Alla gan hym dresse And eek his wyf, this emperour to meete, And forth they ryde in joye and in galdnesse, And whan she saugh hir fader in the strete, She lighte doun and falleth hym to feete. "Fader," quod she, "youre yonge child Custance Is now ful clene out of youre remembrance. I am youre doghter Custance," quod she, "That whilom ye han sent unto Surrye. It am I, fader, that in the salte see Was put allone, and dampned for to dye. Now goode fader, mercy I yow crye, Sende me namoore unto noon hethenesse, But thonketh my lord heere of his kyndenesse." Who kan the pitous joye tellen al Bitwix hem thre, syn they been thus ymette? But of my tale make an ende I shal, The day goth faste, I wol no lenger lette. This glade folk to dyner they hem sette, In joye and blisse at mete I lete hem dwelle, A thousand foold wel moore than I kan telle. This child Maurice was sithen emperour Maad by the pope, and lyved cristenly. To Cristes chirche he dide greet honour; But I lete all his storie passen by- Of Custance is my tale specially- In the olde Romayn geestes may men fynde Maurices lyf, I bere it noght in mynde. This kyng Alla, whan he his tyme say, With his Custance, his hooly wyf so sweete, To Engelond been they come the righte way, Wher as they lyve in joye and in quiete. But litel while it lasteth, I yow heete, Joye of this world, for tyme wol nat abyde, Fro day to nyght it changeth as the tyde. Who lyved evere in swich delit o day That hym ne moeved outher conscience Or ire, or talent, or som-kyn affray, Envye, or pride, or passion, or offence? I ne seye but for this ende this sentence, That litel while in joye or in plesance Lasteth the blisse of Alla with Custance. For deeth, that taketh of heigh and logh his rente, Whan passed was a yeer, evene as I gesse, Out of this world this kyng Alla he hente, For whom Custance hath ful greet hevynesse. Now lat us praye God his soule blesse, And dame Custance, finally to seye, Toward the toun of Rome goth hir weye. To Rome is come this hooly creature, And fyndeth ther hir freendes hoole and sounde. Now is she scaped al hire aventure, And whan that she hir fader hath yfounde, Doun on hir knees falleth she to grounde, Wepynge for tendrenesse, in herte blithe, She heryeth God an hundred thousande sithe. In vertu and in hooly almus-dede They lyven alle, and never asonder wende Til deeth departed hem; this lyf they lede;- And fareth now weel, my tale is at an ende. Now Jesu Crist, that of his myght may sende Joye after wo, governe us in his grace, And kepe us alle that been in this place. Amen. Heere endeth the tale of the Man of Lawe. Part 8 PROLOGUE TO THE SHIPMANNES TALE Here endith the man of lawe his tale. And next folwith the Shipman his prolog. Oure Ost upon his stiropes stood anoon, And seide, "Good men, herkeneth everychoon; This was a thrifty tale for the nonys. Sir parisshe preste," quod he, "for Godis bonys, Telle us a tale, as was thi forward yore; I se wel, that ye lernede men in lore Can meche good, bi Godis dignite." The parson him answerde, "Benedicite, What eyleth the man so synfully to swere?" Oure Ost answerde, "O Jankyn, be ye there? I smelle a Lollere in the wynde," quod he, "Howe, goodmen," quod oure Hoste, "herkeneth me, Abyde for Godis digne passioun, For we shul han a predicacioun, This Lollere here wol prechen us somwhat." "Nay, bi Godis soule, that shal he nat," Seyde the Shipman, "here shal he not preche, He shal no gospel glosen here, ne teche. We leven alle in the grete God," quod he, "He wolde sowen som difficulte Or sprengen cokkel in oure clene corn. And therfore, Ost, I warne the biforn, My joly body shal a tale telle And I shal clynkyn yow so mery a belle That I shal wakyn al this companye; But it shal not ben of Philosophie, Ne phislyas, ne termes queynte of lawe; Ther nis but litil Latyn in my mawe." Here endith the Shipman his prolog. And next folwyng he bigynneth his tale. THE TALE. (Daun John, a monk of Paris, beguiles the wife of a merchant of St. Denis by money borrowed from her husband. She saves herself, on the point of discovery, by a ready answer.) END-LINK Bihoold the murie wordes of the Hoost to the Shipman and to the lady Prioresse. "Wel seyd, by corpus dominus," quod our Hoost, "Now longe moote thou saille by the cost, Sir gentil maister, gentil maryneer. God yeve this monk a thousand last quade yeer! A ha! felawes, beth ware of swich a jape. The monk putte in the mannes hood an ape, And in his wyves eek, by Seint Austyn; Draweth no monkes moore unto your in. But now passe over, and lat us seke aboute Who shal now telle first of al this route Another tale?" and with that word he sayde, As curteisly as it had ben a mayde, "My lady Prioresse, by youre leve, So that I wiste I sholde yow nat greve, I wolde demen that ye tellen sholde A tale next, if so were that ye wolde. Now wol ye vouchesauf, my lady deere?" "Gladly," quod she, and seyde as ye shal heere. Part 9 THE PRIORESSES TALE The prologe of the Prioresses tale. Domine dominus noster. O lord oure lord, thy name how merveillous Is in this large world ysprad-quod she- For noght oonly thy laude precious Parfourned is by men of dignitee, But by the mouth of children thy bountee Parfourned is, for on the brest soukynge Somtyme shewen they thyn heriynge. Wherfore in laude, as I best kan or may, Of thee, and of the whyte lylye flour Which that the bar, and is a mayde alway, To telle a storie I wol do my labour; Nat that I may encreessen hir honour, For she hirself is honour, and the roote Of bountee, next hir sone, and soules boote. O mooder mayde! O mayde mooder fre! O bussh unbrent, brennynge in Moyses sighte, That ravysedest doun fro the deitee Thurgh thyn humblesse, the goost that in thalighte, Of whos vertu, whan he thyn herte lighte, Conceyved was the Fadres sapience, Help me to telle it in thy reverence. Lady, thy bountee, thy magnificence, Thy vertu, and thy grete humylitee, Ther may no tonge expresse in no science, For somtyme, lady, er men praye to thee, Thou goost biforn of thy benyngnytee And getest us the lyght, thurgh thy preyere, To gyden us unto thy sone so deere. My konnyng is so wayk, O blisful queene, For to declare thy grete worthynesse, That I ne may the weighte nat susteene, But as a child of twelf monthe oold, or lesse, That kan unnethes any word expresse, Right so fare I; and therfore I yow preye, Gydeth my song that I shal of yow seye. Heere begynneth the Prioresses Tale. Ther was in Asye, in a greet citee, Amonges cristene folk a Jewerye, Sustened by a lord of that contree For foule usure and lucre of vileynye, Hateful to Crist and to his compaignye, And thurgh this strete men myghte ride or wende, For it was free and open at eyther ende. A litel scole of cristen folk ther stood Doun at the ferther ende, in which ther were Children an heep, ycomen of cristen blood, That lerned in that scole yeer by yeer Swich manere doctrine as men used there, This is to seyn, to syngen and to rede, As smale children doon in hir childhede. Among thise children was a wydwes sone, A litel clergeoun, seven yeer of age, That day by day to scole was his wone, And eek also, wher as he saugh thymage Of Cristes mooder, he hadde in usage As hym was taught, to knele adoun, and seye His Ave Marie, as he goth by the weye. Thus hath this wydwe hir litel sone ytaught Oure blisful lady, Cristes mooder deere, To worshipe ay; and he forgate it naught, For sely child wol alday soone leere. But ay, whan I remembre on this mateere, Seint Nicholas stant evere in my presence, For he so yong to Crist dide reverence. This litel child, his litel book lernynge, As he sat in the scole at his prymer, He "Alma redemptoris" herde synge As children lerned hir anthiphoner; And as he dorste, he drough hym ner and ner, And herkned ay the wordes and the noote, Til he the firste vers koude al by rote. Noght wiste he what this Latyn was to seye, For he so yong and tendre was of age, But on a day his felawe gan he preye Texpounden hym this song in his langage, Or telle hym why this song was in usage; This preyde he hym to construe and declare Ful often tyme upon hise knowes bare. His felawe, which that elder was than he, Answerde hym thus, "This song, I have herd seye, Was maked of oure blisful Lady free, Hir to salue, and eek hir for to preye To been our help, and socour whan we deye. I kan namoore expounde in this mateere, I lerne song, I kan but smal grammere." "And is this song maked in reverence Of Cristes mooder?" seyde this innocent. "Now, certes, I wol do my diligence To konne it al, er Cristemasse is went; Though that I for my prymer shal be shent And shal be beten thries in an houre, I wol it konne, oure lady for to honoure." His felawe taughte hym homward prively Fro day to day, til he koude it by rote; And thanne he song it wel and boldely Fro word to word acordynge with the note. Twies a day it passed thurgh his throte, To scolew
Posted on: Wed, 25 Sep 2013 23:58:12 +0000
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