The Legend of Good Women by Geoffrey Chaucer COMPLIMENTS OF WIKISOURCE The Legend of Lucretia 1680 Now moot I seyn the exiling of kinges Of Rome, for hir horrible doinges, And of the laste king Tarquinius, As saith Ovyde and Titus Livius. But for that cause telle I nat this storie, But for to preise and drawen to memorie The verray wyf, the verray trewe Lucressel, That, for her wyfhood and her stedfastnesse, Nat only that thise payens her comende, But he, that cleped is in our legende 1690 The grete Austin, hath greet compassioun Of this Lucresse, that starf at Rome toun; And it what wyse, I wol but shortly trete, And of this thing I touche but the grete. Whan Ardea beseged was aboute With Romains, that ful sterne were and stoute, Ful longe lay the sege, and litel wroghte, So that they were half ydel, as hem thoghte; And in his pley Tarquinius the yonge Gan for to iape, for he was light of tonge, 1700 And seyde, that "it was an ydel lyf; No man did ther no more that his wyf; And lat us speke of wyves, that is best; Praise every man his owne, as him lest, And with our speche lat us ese our herte." A knight, that highte Colatyne, up sterte, And seyde thus, "nay, for hit is no nede To trowen on the word, but on the dede. I have a wyf," quod he, "that, as I trowe, Is holden good of alle that ever her knowe; 1710 Go we to-night to Rome, and we shul see." Tarquinius answerde, "that lyketh me." To Rome be they come, and faste hem dighte To Colatynes hous, and doun they lighte, Tarquinius, and eek this Colatyne. The husbond knew the estres wel and fyne, And privly into the hous they goon; Nor at the gate porter was ther noon; And at the chambre-dore they abyde. This noble wyf sat by her beddes syde 1720 Dischevele, for no malice she ne thoghte; And softe wolle our book seith that she wroghte To kepen her fro slouthe and ydelnesse; And bad her servants doon hir businesse, And axeth hem, "what tydings heren ye? How seith men of the sege, how shal hit be? God wolde the walles weren falle adoun; Myn husbond is so longe out of this toun, For which the dreed doth me so sore smerte, Right as a swerd hit stingeth to myn herte 1730 What I think on the sege or of that place; God save my lord, I preye him for his grace:" -- And ther-with-al ful tenderly she weep, And of her werk she took no more keep, But mekely she leet her eyen falle; And thilke semblant sat her wel with-alle. And eek her teres, ful of honestee, Embelisshed her wyfly chastitee; Her countenaunce is to her herte digne, For they acordeden in dede and signe. 1740 And with that word her husbond Colatyn, Or she of him was war, com sterting in, And seide, "dreed thee noght, for I am here!" And she anoon up roos, with blisful chere, And kiste him, as of wyves is the wone. Tarquinius, this proude kinges sone, Conceived hath her beautee and her chere, Her yelow heer, her shap, and manere, Her hew, her wordes that she hath compleynded, And by no crafte her beautee nas nat feyned; 1750 And caughte to this lady swich desyr, That in his herte brende as any fyr So woodly, that his wit was al forgeten. For wel, thoghte he, she sholde nat be geten And ay the more that he was in dispair, The more he coveteth and thoghte her fair. His blinde lust was al his covetinge. A-morwe, whan the brid bragan to singe, Unto the sege he comth ful privily, And by himself he walketh sobrely, 1760 Thimage of her recording alwey newe; "Thus lay her heer, and thus fresh was her hewe; Thus sat, thus spak, thus span; this was her chere, Thus fair she was, and this was her manere." Al this conceit his herte hath now y-take. And, as the see, with tempest al to-shake, That, after whan the storm is al ago, Yet wol the water quappe a day or two, Right so, thogh that her forme wer absent, The plesaunce of her forme was present; 1770 But natheles, nat plesaunce, but delyt, Or an unrightful talent with despyt; "For, maugre her, she shal my lemman be; Hap helpeth hardy man alday," quod he; "What ende that I make, hit shal be so;" And girt him with his swerde, and gan to go; And forth he rit til he to Rome is come, And al aloon his wey than hath he nome. Unto the house of Colatyn ful right. Doun was the sonne, and day hath lost his light; 1780 And in he com un-to privy halke, And in the night ful theefly gan he stalke, Whan every night was to his reste broght, Ne no wight had of tresoun swich a thoght. Were hit by window or by other gin, With swerde y-drawe, shortly he comth in Ther as she lay, this noble wyf Lucresse. And, as she wook, her bed she felte presse. "What beste is that," quod she, "that weyeth thus?" "I am the kinges sone, Tarquinius," 1790 Quod he, "but and thou crye, or noise make, Or if thou any creature awake, By thilke god that formed man on lyve, This swerd through-out thyn herte shal I ryve." And ther-withal unto her throte he sterte, And sette the point al sharp upon her herte. No word she spak, she hath no might therto. What shal she sayn? her wit is al ago. Right as a wolf that fynt a lomb aloon, To whom shal she compleyne, or make moon? 1800 What! shal she fighte with an hardy knight? Wel wot men that a woman hath no might. What! shal she crye, or how shal she asterte That hath her by the throte, with swerde at herte? She axeth grace, and seith al that she can. "Ne wolt thou nat," quod he, this cruel man, "As wisly Iupiter my soule save, As I shal in the stable slee thy knave, And leye him in thy bed, and loude crye, That I thee finde in suche avouterye; 1810 And thus thou shalt be deed, and also lese Thy name, for thou shalt non other chese." Thise Romain wyves loveden so hir name At thilke tyme, and dredden so the shame, That, what for fere of slaundre and drede of deeth, She loste bothe at-ones wit and breeth, And in a swough she lay and wex so deed, Men mighte smyten of her arm or heed; She feleth no-thing, neither foul ne fair. Tarquinas, that art a kinges eyr, 1820 And sholdest, as by linage and by right, Doon as a lord and as a verray knight, Why hastow doon dispyt to chivalrye? Why hastow doon this lady vilanye? Allas! of thee this was a vileins dede! But now to purpos; in the story I rede, Whan he was goon, al this mischaunce is falle. This lady sente after her frendes alle, Fader, moder, husbond, al y-fere; And al dischevele, with her heres clere, 1830 In habit swich as women used tho Unto the burying of her frendes go, She sit in halle with a sorweful sighte. Her frendes axen what her aylen mighte, And who was deed? And she sit ay wepinge, A word for shame ne may she forth out-bringe, Ne upon hem she dorste nat beholde. But atte laste of Tarquiny she hem tolde, This rewful cas, and al this thing horrible. The wo to tellen hit were impossible, 1840 That she and alle her frendes made atones. Al hadde folkes hertes been of stones, Hit mighte have maked hem upon her rewe, Her herte was so wyfly and so trewe. She seide, that, for her gilt ne for her blame, He husbond sholde nat have the foule name, That wolde she nat suffre, by no wey. And they answerden alle, upon hir fey, That they foryeve hit her, for hit was right; Hit was no gilt, hit lay nat in her might; 1850 And seiden her ensamples many oon. But al for noght; for thus she seide anoon, "Be as be may," quod she, "of forgiving, I wol nat have no forgift for no-thing." But prively she caughte forth a knyf, And therwith-al she rafte her-self her lyf; And as she fel adoun, she caste her look, And of her clothes yit she hede took; For in her falling yit she hadde care Lest that her feet or swiche thing lay bare; 1860 So wel she loved clennesse and eek trouthe. Of her had al the toun of Rome routhe, And Brutus by her chaste blode hath swore That Tarquin sholde y-banisht be ther-fore, And al his kin; and let the peple calle, And openly the tale he tolde hem alle, And openly let carie her on a bere Through al the toun, that men may see and here The horrible deed of her oppressioun. Ne never was ther king in Rome toun 1870 Sin thilke day; and she was holden there A seint, and ever her day y-halwed dere As in hir lawe: and thus endeth Lucresse, The noble wyf, as Titus bereth witnesse. I tell hit, for she was of love so trewe, Ne in her wille she chaunged for no newe. And for the stable herte, sad and kinde, That in these women men may alday finde; Ther as they caste hir herte, ther hit dwelleth. For wel I wot, that Crist him-selve telleth, 1880 That in Israel, as wyd as is the lond, That so gret feith in al the lond he ne fond As in a woman; and this is no lye. And as of men, loketh which tirannye They doon alday; assay hem who so liste, The trewest is ful brotel for to triste. Explicit Legenda Lucrecie Rome, Martiris. The Legend of Ariadne Artiles Neymar Jr. Oficial Iuge Infernal, Minos, of Crete king, Now cometh thy lot, now comestow on the ring; Nat for thy sake only wryte I this storie, But for to clepe agein unto memorie 1890 Of Theseus the grete untrouthe of love; For which the goddes of the heven above Ben wrothe, and wreche han take for thy sinne. Be reed for shame! now I thy lyf beginne. Minos, that was the mighty king of Crete, That hadde an hundred citees stronge and grete, To scole hath sent his sone Androgeus, To Athenes; of the whiche hit happed thus, That he was slayn, lerning philosphye, Right in that citee, nat but for envye. 1900 The grete Minos, of the whiche I speke, His sones deeth is comen for to wreke; Alcathoe he bisegeth harde and longe, But natheles the walles be so stronge, And Nisus, that was king of that citee, So chivalrous, that litel dredeth he; Of Minos or his ost took he no cure, Til on a day befel an aventure, That Nisus doghter stood upon the wal, And of the sege saw the maner al, 1910 So happed hit, that, at a scarmishing, She caste her herte upon Minos the king, For his beautee and for his chivalrye, So sore, that she wende for to dye. And, shortly of this proces for to pace, She made Minos winnen thilke place, So that the citee was al at his wille, To saven whom him list, or elles spille; But wikkedly he quitte her kindenesse, And let her drenche in sorowe and distresse, 1920 Nere that the goddes hadde of her pite; But that tale were to long as now for me. Athenes wan this king Minos also, And Alcathoe and other tounes mo; And this theffect, that Minos hath so driven Hem of Athenes, that they mote him yiven Fro yere to yere her owne children dere For to be slayn, as ye shul after here. This Minos hath a monstre, a wikked beste, That was so cruel that, without areste, 1930 Whan that a man was broght in his presence, He wolde him ete, ther helpeth no defence. And every thridde yeer, with-outen doute, They casten lot, and, as hit com aboute On riche, on pore, he moste his sone take, And of his child he moste present make Unto Minos, to save him or to spille, Or lete his beste devoure him at his wille. And this hath Minos don, right in despyt; To wreke his sone was set al his delyt, 1940 And maken hem of Athenes his thral Fro yere to yere, whyl that he liven shal; And hoom he saileth whan this toun is wonne. This wikked custom is so longe y-ronne Til that of Athenes king Egeus Mot sende his owne sone, Theseus, Sith that the lot is fallen him upon, To be devoured, for grace is ther non. And forth is lad this woful yonge knight Unto the court of king Minos ful right, 1950 And in a prison, fetered, cast is he Til thilke tyme he sholde y-freten be. Wel maystow wepe, O woful Theseus, That art a kinges sone, and dampned thus. Me thinketh this, that thou were depe y-holde To whom that saved thee fro cares colde! And now, if any woman helpe thee, Wel oughtestow her servant for to be, And been her trewe lover yeer by yere! But now to come ageyn to my matere. 1960 The tour, ther as this Theseus is throwe Doun in the botom derke and wonder lowe, Was ioyning in the walle to a foreyne; And hit was longing to the doghtren tweyne Of king Minos, that in hir chambres grete Dwelten above, toward the maister-strete, In mochel mirthe, in Ioye and in solas. Not I nat how, hit happed ther, per cas, As Theseus compleyned him by nighte, The kinges doghter, Adrian that highte, 1970 And eek her suster Phedra, herden al His compleyning, as they stode on the wal And lokeden upon the brighte mone; Hem leste nat to go to bedde sone. And of his wo they had compassioun; A kinges sone to ben in swich prisoun And be devoured, thoughte hem gret pitee. Than Adrian spak to her suster free, And seyde, "Phedra, leve suster dere, This woful lordes sone may ye nat here, 1980 How pitously compleyneth he his kin, And eek his pore estat that he is in, And gilteless? now certes, hit is routhe! And if ye wol assenten, by my trouthe, He shal be holpen, how so that we do!" Phedra answerde, "y-wis, me is as wo For him as ever I was for any man; And, to his help, the beste reed I can Is that we doon the gayler prively To come, and speke with us hastily, 1990 And doon this woful man with him to come. For if he may this monstre overcome, Than were he quit; ther is noon other bote. Lat us wel taste him at his herte-rote, That, if so be that he a wepen have, Wher that he dar, his lyf to kepe and save, Fighten with this fend, and him defende. For, in the prison, ther he shal descende, Ye wite wel, that the beste is in a place That nis nat derk, and hath roum eek and space 2000 To welde an ax or swerd or staf or knyf, So that, me thinketh, he sholde save his lyf; If that he be a man, he shal do so. And we shul make him balles eek also Of wexe and towe, that, whan he gapeth faste, Into the bestes throte he shal hem caste To slake his hunger and encombre his teeth; And right anon, whan that Theseus seeth The beste achoked, he shal on him lepe To sleen him, or they comen more to-hepe. 2010 This wepen shal the gayler, or that tyde, Ful privily within the prison hyde; And, for the hous is crinkled to and fro, And hath so queinte weyes for to go -- For hit is shapen as the mase is wroght -- Therto have I a remedie in my thoght, That, by a clewe of twyne, as he hath goon, The same wey he may returne anoon, Folwing alwey the threed, as he hath come. And, what that he this beste hath overcome, 2020 Then may he fleen awey out of this drede, And eek the gayler may he with him lede, And him avaunce at hoom in his contree, Sin that so greet a lordes sone is he. This is my reed, if that he dar hit take." What sholde I lenger sermoun of hit make? The gayler cometh, and with him Theseus. And whan thise thinges been acorded thus, Adoun sit Theseus upon his knee: -- "The righte lady of my lyf," quod he, 2030 "I, sorweful man, y-dampned to the deeth, Fro yow, whyl that me lasteth lyf or breeth, I wol nat twinne, after this aventure, But in your servise thus I wol endure, That, as a wrecche unknowe, I wol yow serve For ever-mo, til that myn herte sterve. Forsake I wol at hoom myn heritage, And, as I seide, ben of your court a page, If that ye vouche-sauf that, in this place, Ye graunte me to han so gret a grace 2040 That I may han nat but my mete and drinke; And for my sustenance yit wol I swinke, Right as yow list, that Minos ne no wight -- Sin that he saw me never with eyen sight -- Ne no man elles, shal me conne espye; So slyly and so wel I shal me gye, And me so wel disfigure and so lowe, That in this world ther shal no man me knowe, To han my lyf, and for to han presence Of yow, that doon to me this excellence. 2050 And to my fader shal I senden here This worthy man, that is now your gaylere, And, him to guerdon, that he shal wel be Oon of the grettest men of my contree. And yif I dorste seyn, my lady bright, I am a kinges sone, and eek a knight; As wolde god, yif that hit mighte be Ye weren in my contree, alle three, And I with yow, to bere yow companyee, Than shulde ye seen yif that I ther-of lye! 2060 And, if I profre yow in low manere To ben your page and serven yow right here, But I yow serve as lowly in that place, I prey to Mara to yive me swiche a grace That shames deeth on me ther mote falle, And deeth and povert to my frendes alle; And that my spirit by nighte mote go After my deeth, and walke to and fro; That I mote of a traitour have a name, For which my spirit go, to do me shame! 2070 And yif I ever claime other degree, But-if ye vouche-sauf to yive hit me, As I have seid, of shames deeth I deye! And mercy, lady! I can nat elles seye!" A seemly knight was Theseus to see, And yong, but of a twenty yeer and three; But who-so hadde y-seyn his countenaunce, He wolde have wept, for routhe of his penaunce; For which this Adriane in this manere Answerde to his profre and to his chere. 2080 "A kinges sone, and eek a knight," quod she, "To been my servant in so low degree, God shilde hit, for the shame of women alle! And leve me never swich a cas befalle! But sende yow grace and sleighte of herte also, Yow to defende and knightly sleen your fo, And leve herafter that I may yow finde To me and to my suster here so kinde, That I repente nat to give yow lyf! Yit were hit better that I were your wyf, 2090 Sin that ye been as gentil born as I, And have a reaume, nat but faste by, Then that I suffred giltles yow to sterve, Or that I let yow as a page serve; Hit is not profit, as unto your kinrede; But what is that that man nil do for drede? And to my suster, sin that hit is so That she mot goon with me, if that I go, Or elles suffre deeth as wel as I, That ye unto your sone as trewely 2100 Doon her be wedded at your hoom-coming. This is the fynal ende of al this thing; Ye swere hit heer, on al that may be sworn." "Ye, lady myn," quod he, "or elles torn Mote I be with the Minotaur to-morwe! And haveth her-of my herte-blood to borwe, Yif that ye wile; if I had knyf or spere, I wolde hit leten out, and ther-on swere, For than at erst I wot ye wil me leve. By Mars, that is the cheef of my bileve, 2110 So that I mighte liven and nat faile To-morwe for tacheve my bataile, I nolde never fro this place flee, Til that ye shuld the verray preve see. For now, if that the sooth I shal yow say, I have y-loved yow ful many a day, Thogh ye ne wiste hit nat, in my contree. And aldermost desyred yow to see Of any erthly living creature; Upon my trouthe I swere, and yow assure, 2120 Thise seven yeer I have your servant be; Now have I yow, and also have ye me, My dere herte, of Athenes duchesse!" This lady smyleth at his stedfastnesse, And at his hertly wordes, and his chere, And to her suster seide in this manere, Al softely, "now, suster myn," quod she, "Now be we duchesses, bothe I and ye, And sikered to the regals of Athenes, And bothe her-after lykly to be quenes, 2130 And saved fro his deeth a kinges sone, As ever of gentil women is the wone To save a gentil man, emforth hir might, In honest cause, and namely in his right. Me thinketh no wight oghte her-of us blame, Ne beren us ther-for an evel name." And shortly of this matere for to make, This Theseus of her hath leve y-take, And every point performed was in dede As ye have in this covenant herd me rede. 2140 His wepen, his clew, his thing that I have said, Was by the gayler in the hous y-laid Ther as this Minotaur hath his dwelling, Right faste by the dore, at his entring. And Theseus is lad unto his deeth, And forth un-to this Minotaur he geeth, And by the teching of this Adriane He overcom this beste, and was his bane; And out he cometh by the clewe again Ful prevely, whan he this beste hath slain; 2150 And by the gayler geten hath a barge, And of his wyves tresor gan hit charge, And took his wyf, and eek her suster free, And eek the gayler, and with hem alle three Is stole awey out of the lond by nighte, And to the contre of Ennopye him dighte Ther as he had a frend of his knowinge. Ther fasten they, ther dauneen they and singe; And in his armes hath this Adriane, That of the beste hath kept him from his bane; 2160 And gat him ther a newe barge anoon, And of his contree-folk a ful gret woon, And taketh his leve, and hoomward saileth he. And in an yle, amid the wilde see, Ther as ther dwelte creature noon Save wilde bestes, and that ful many oon, He made his ship a-londe for to sette; And in that yle half a day he lette, And seide, that on the lond he moste him reste. His mariners han doon right as him leste; 2170 And, for to tellen shortly in this cas, Whan Adriane his wyf a-slepe was, For that her suster fairer was than she, He taketh her in his hond, and forth goth he To shippe, and as a traitour stal his way Whyl that this Adriane a-slepe lay, And to his contree-ward he saileth blyve -- A twenty devil way the wind him dryve! -- And fond his fader drenched in the see. Me list no more to speke of him, parde; 2180 Thise false lovers, poison be hir bane! But I wol turne again to Adriane That is with slepe for werinesse atake. Ful sorwefully her herte may awake. Allas! for thee my herte hath now pite! Right in the dawning awaketh she, And gropeth in the bedde, and fond right noght. "Allas!" quode she, "that ever I was wroght! I am betrayed!" and her heer to-rente, And to the stronde bar-fot faste she wente, 2190 And cryed, "Theseus! myn herte swete! Wher be ye, that I may nat with yow mete, And mighte thus with bestes been y-slain?" The holwe rokkes answerde her again; No man she saw, and yit shyned the mone, And hye upon a rokke she wente sone, And saw his barge sailing in the see. Cold wex her herte, and right thus seide she. "Meker than ye finde I the bestes wilde!" Hadde he nat sinne, that her thus begylde? 2200 She cryed, "O turne again, for routhe and sinne! Thy barge hath nat al his meiny inne!" Her kerchef on a pole up stikked she, Ascaunce that he sholde hit wel y-see, And him remembre that she was behinde, And turne again, and on the stronde her finde; But al for noght; his wey he is y-goon. And doun she fil a-swown upon a stoon; And up she rist, and kiste, in al her care, The steppes of his feet, ther he hath fare, 2210 And to her bedde right thus she speketh tho: -- "Thou bed," quod she, "that hast receyved two, Thou shalt answere of two, and nat of oon! Wher is thy gretter part away y-goon? Allas! wher shal I, wrecched wight, become! For, thogh so be that ship or boot heer come, Hoom to my contree dar I nat for drede; I can my-selven in this cas nat rede!" What shal I telle more her compleining? Hit is so long, hit were an hevy thing. 2220 In her epistle Naso telleth al; But shortly to the ende I telle shal. The goddes have her holpen, for pitee; And, in the signe of Taurus, men may see The stones of her coroun shyne clere. -- I wol no more speke of this matere; But thus this false lover can begyle His trewe love. The devil quyte him his wyle! Explicit Legenda Adriane de Athenes
Posted on: Thu, 26 Sep 2013 16:29:03 +0000