 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Gordon McKenzie. The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer The Miller's Tale The Prologue When that the night had thus his tale told, In all the route was neither young nor old, That he not said it was a noble story, And worthy to be drawn to memory, And, namely, the gentles everyone. Our host then laughed and swore, So may I gone! This goes aright, unbuckled is the male, Let's see now who shall tell another tale, For truly this game is well begun. Now telleth ye, Sir Monk, if that you can, Somewhat too quitten with the night's tale, The Miller, that for drunken was all pale, So that, unneths upon his horse he sat, He would avail neither hood nor hat, Nor abide no man for his courtesy. But in Pilate's voice he gone to cry, And swore by arms and by blood and bones, I can a noble tale for the nuns, With which I will now quite the night's tale. Our host saw well how drunk he was of ale, And said, Robin, abide my leave, brother, Some better man shall tell us first another, Abide and let us work thriftly. By God's soul, quoth he, that will not I, For I will speak, or else go my way. Our host answered, Tell on a devil way, though art a fool, Thy wit is overcome. Now harken, quoth the Miller, all and some, For first I make a protestation, That I am drunk, I know it by my sound, And therefore if that I misspeak, Or say, white it the ale of Southwark, I you pray, For I will tell a legend and a life, Both of a carpenter and of his wife, How that a clerk hath set the right's cap. The reave answered and said, Stint thy clap? That be thy lewd drunken harlotry. It is sin, and eek a great folly To appear in any man, or him defame, And eek to bring wives in evil name, Thou mayest enough of other things sayin'. This drunken Miller spake full swoon again, And said, Weave brother us world, who hath no wife, He is no cuckold, But I say not therefore that thou art one, There be full good wives many one. Why art thou angry with my tale now? I have a wife, party, as well as thou, Yet no old I, For the oxen in my plough Taken upon me more than enough To demon of myself that I am one. I will believe well that I am none. An husband should not be inquisitive Of God's privity nor of his wife, So he may find God's foison there Of the remnant needeth not to inquire. What should I more say? But that this Miller he would his words For no man forbear, But told his churlish tale in his manner, Me thinketh that I shall rehearse it here. And therefore every gentle white I pray For God's love to deem not that I say Of evil intent, but that I must rehearse their tales all, Be they better or worse, Or else falson some of my mature, And therefore whoso listeth not to hear Turn o'er the leaf and choose another tale, For he shall find enough both great and smell Of storial thing that toucheth gentleness, And eek morality and holiness, Blame not me if that ye choose amiss. The Miller is a churl, ye know well this. So was the Reeve, with many other Moe, And harlotry they told both, too, Of eyes you now, and put me out of blame, And eek men should not make earnest of game. The tale. Willem there was dwelling in oxenford, A rich knoff that guests held to board, And of his crafty was a carpenter. With him there was dwelling a poor scholar, Had learnt art, but all his fantasy was turned to learn astrology. He could a certain love conclusions To deem by interrogations if that men Asked him in certain hours, When that men should have drought or else showers, Or if men asked him what should fall Of everything I may not reckon all. This clerk was called Hendy Nichols Of Dern love he knew and of solace, And therewith he was sly and full privy, And like a maiden meek for to see. A chamber had he in that hostelry Alone without in any company. Full fettishly I'd dite with herb's swoot, And he himself was sweet as is the root Of licorice or any set-a-wall. His Almagest and book's great and small His astrolabe, belonging to his art, His ogrim stones laid fair Apart on shelves couched at his bed's head, His pressy covered with a folding red, And all above there lay a gay sultry, On which he made at night's melody So sweetly all the chamber rang. And Angelus at virginum he sang, And after that he sung the king's note, Full often blessed was his merry throat, And thus this sweet clerk his time spent, Under his friend's finding and his rent. This carpenter had wedded knew a wife Which that he loved more than his life. Of eighteen-year I guess she was of age, Jealous he was and held her narrow in cage, For she was wild and young, And he was old and deemed himself be like a cuckold. He knew not Cato, for his wit was rude, That bade a man wed his similitude. Men should wedden after their estate, For youth and eld are often at debate. But since that he was fallen in the snare He must endure as other folk his care. Fair was this young wife, And therewith all as any weasel Her body gent and small. A saint she weared, barred all of silk, A barm cloth, eek as white as morning milk, Upon her lens full of many a gore, White was her smock, and broidered all before, And eek behind on her collar a bout Of coal-black silk, within and eek without. The tapes of her white veloupeire Were of the same suit of her colour. Her fillet broad of silk, And set full high, and sickerly she had a lycorous eye. Full small it pulled were her brows, too, And they were bent and black as any slow. She was well more blissful on to see Than is the new pergenit tree, And softer than the wool is of a weather, And by her girdle hung a purse of leather Tassled with silk and purled with laton. In all this world, to seek an up and down, There is no man so wise that could thench So gay a populate or such a wench. Full brighter was the shining of her hue, Than in the tower the noble forged knew, But of her song it was as loud and yearn As any swallow chittering on a burn. There, too, she could skip and make a game As any kid or calf following his dame. Her mouth was sweet as bracket or as meath, Or horde of apples laid in hay or heath. Winsing she was as is a jolly colt, Long as a mast and upright as a bolt. A brooch she bear upon her low colare, As broad as is the boss of a buckler. Her shun were laced on her legs high. She was a primeral, a bigizni, For any lord to have licking in his bed, Or yet for any good yeoman to wed. Now, sir, and effed, sir, so befell the case, That all a day this hendi Nicholas fell With this young wife to rage and play, While that her husband was at Ossene. As clerks be full subtle and full quaint, And privily he caught her by the quaint, And said, I wish, but if I have my will, For darn love of thee, the man I spill, And held her fast by the haunch bones, And said, Lemon, love me well at once, Where I will die an' all so God me save. And she sprang as a colt doth in the trave, And with her head she writhed fast away, And said, I will not kiss thee by my fey. Why, let be, quoth she, Let be Nicholas, or I will cry out hero and alas. Do away your hands for your courtesy. This Nicholas began mercy for to cry, And spake so fair and proffered him so fast, That she her love him granted at the last, And swore her oath by St. Thomas of Kent, That she would be at his commandment, When that she may her leisure well aspire. My husband is so full of jealousy, That but ye wait well, and be privy, I what right well I am but dead, quoth she. And must be full durn as in this case. Nay, thereof, care thee not, quoth Nicholas. A clerk had litherly beset his wile, But if he could a carpenter beguile. And thus they were accorded and esworn To wait a time, as I have said before, When Nicholas had done thus every deal, And thwacked her about the lens well, He kissed her sweet, and taketh his sultry, And playeth fast and maketh melody. Then fell it thus, that to the parish church Of Christ's own works for to work, His good wife went upon a holy day. Her forehead shone as bright as any day, So was it washin' when she left her work. Now was there of that church a parish clerk, The which that was eclept absalon? Curled was his hair, and as the gold it shone, And strutted as a fan, large and broad, Full straight and even lay his jolly shod. His road was red, his iron gray as goose, With Paul's windows carvin' on his shoes, In hose and red he went full fetishly. He clad he was full small and properly, All in a kirtle of light-wadget. And thereupon he had a gaze her place, As white as is the blossom on the rise. A merry child he was, so God me save! Well could he letten blood, and clip, and shave, And make a charter of land and acquittance? In twenty manners could he trip and dance, After the school of Oxenford, though, And with his legs cast to and fro, And playin' songs on a small re-bible. There too he sung sometimes a loud quen-ni-ble. And as well could he play on a Gatern, In all the town was Bruhaus nor Tavern, That he not visited with his solas, There as that any Garnard tap-stare was. But sooth to say, he was some deal squamous, Of farting and of speech dangerous. This Absalon, that jolly was and gay, Went with a censor on the holy day, Sensing the wives of the parish fast, And many a lovely look he on them cast, And namely on this carpenter's wife, To look on her him thought a merry life. She was so proper and sweet and lycorous, I dare well say, if she had been a mouse, And he a cat, he would her hint anon. This parish clerk, this jolly Absalon, hath in his heart such a love longing, That of no wife took he none offering For courtesy he said he would none. The moon at night full clear and bright Shawn and Absalon his guitar hath he taken, For peremores he thought for to waken, And forth he went, jolliff and amorous, Till he came to the carpenter's house, A little after the cock had he crow, And dressed him under a shot window, That was upon the carpenter's wall, He singeth in his voice gentle and small. Now, dear lady, if thy will be, I pray that ye will rue on me. Full well, according to his geturning, This carpenter awoke and heard him Sing and spake unto his wife and said anon, What, Allison, here is thou not Absalon, The chanteth thus under our bower wall? And she answered her husband there with all, Yes, God, what, John, I hear him every deal. This passeth forth, what will ye bet than well? For day to day this jolly Absalon so wooeth her, That him his woe be gone, He waketh all the night and all the dayl To comb his locks broad and make him gay, He wooeth her by means and by bro cage, And swore he would be her own page, He singeth brocking as a nightingale, He sent her piment mead and spiced ale, And wafers piping hot out of the glied, And for she was of town he proffered mead, For some folk will be wonnen, For richness, and some for strokes, And some with gentleness. Sometimes to show his likeness and mastery, He playeth herrid on a scaffold high, But what availeth him, as in this case? So loveth she, the hendy Nicholas, That Absalon may blow the buck's horn, He had for all his labour but a scorn, And thus she maketh Absalon her ape, And all his earnest turneth to a jape. For sooth is this proverb, it is no lie, Men say, write thus all way, the nigh sly, Makeeth oft time the far leaf to be loth, For though that Absalon be wood or roth, Because that he far was from her sight, This nigh Nicholas stood Still in his light. Now bear thee well, thou hendy Nicholas, For Absalon may wail and sing alas. And so befell, that on a Saturday this carpenter Had gone to Ozenay, And hendy Nicholas and Allison, Accorded were to this conclusion, That Nicholas shall shape him a while, The silly, jealous husband to beguile, And if so were the game went aright, She should sleepen in his arms all night, For this was her desire and his also. And write anon without words mow, This Nicholas no longer would he tarry, But doth full soft unto his chamber carry Both meat and drink for a day or tway, And to her husband bade her fore to say, If that he asked after Nicholas she should say, She wist not where he was. Of all the day she saw him not with eye, She trod he was in some malady. For no cry that her maiden could him call, He would answer, for not that might befall. Thus passed forth all Filch Saturday, That Nicholas still in his chamber lay, And ate and slept, And did what him list, till Sunday, That the sun went to rest. This silly carpenter had great marveille of Nicholas, Or what thing might him ale, and said, I am a draad by St. Thomas. It standeth not aright with Nicholas. God shielded that he died suddenly. This world is now full fickle, sickerly. I saw today a corpse aborn to church, That now on Monday last I saw him workch. Go up, quote he unto his knave, And non-clep at his door, Or knock with a stone. Look how it is and tell me boldly. This knave went him up, full sturdily, And at the chamber door, While that he stood he cried and knocked, As that he were wood. What how? What do ye, master Nicolai? How may ye sleep in all the long day? But all for naught he heard not a word, And whole he found full low upon the board, Whereas the cat was want in for to creep, And at that whole he looked in full deep, And at the last he had of him a sight, This Nicholas sat ever gaping upright. For he had kiked on the new moon. A down he went and told his master soon In what array he saw this ilk man. This carpenter to blisten him began, and said, Now help us, Saint Frideswide, A man what little what shall him be tied. This man is fallen with his astronomy Into some woodness or some agony. I thought I well how that it should be. Men should know not of God's privity. Ye, blessed be Alway a lewd man, That not but only his believe can. So far'd another clerk with astronomy He walked in the fields for to pry Upon the stars what there should be fall Till he was in a moral pity fall. He saw not that. But yet, by Saint Thomas, Beruith sore of handy Nicholas, He shall be rated of his studying, If that I may by Jesus heaven's king Get me a staff that I may underspore, While that thou robin heavest off the door. He shall out of his studying as I guess, And to the chamber door he gan him dress. His nave was a strong carol for the nonce, And by the hasp he heaved it off at once. Into the floor the door fell down and on. This Nicholas sat I as still as stone, And ever he gaped upward into the air. The carpenter wean'd he were in despair, And hen'd him by the shoulders mightily, And shook him hard and cried Spitiously. What Nicholas? What how, man? Look at down. Awake and think on Christ's passion. I crouched thee from elves and from whites. Therewith the night spell he said he anon writes, And the four halves of the house about, And on the threshold of the door without. Lord Jesus Christ and Saint Benedict, Bless this house from every wicked white, From the nightmare the white Peter Noster, Where one is thou now, Saint Peter's sister. And at the last this hen'dy Nicholas Ganned for to sigh full sore and said, Alas, shall all time world be lost if soons now? This carpenter answered, What sayest thou? What think on God as we do men that swink? This Nicholas answered, Fetch me a drink, and after will I speak In privity of certain thing that touches thee and me, I will tell it no other man certain. This carpenter went down and came again, And brought of mighty ale a large quart, And when that each of them had drunk his part, This Nicholas his chamber door fast shet, And down the carpenter by him he set, And said, John, my host full leaf and dear, Thou shalt upon thy truth swear me here, The to no white thou shalt my counsel ray. For it is Christ's counsel that I say, And if thou tell it man, thou art forlorn, For this vengeance thou shalt have therefore, That if thou ray me, thou shalt be wood. Nay, Christ forbid it for his holy blood, Quote then this silly man, I am no blab, Nor though I say it am I leaf to gab. Say, what thou wilt I shall it never tell to child Or wife by him that herried hell? Now, John, quote Nicholas, I will not lie, I have, if found in my astrology, As I have looked in the moon bright, That now, on Monday next, at quarter night, Shall fall a rain, And that so wild and wood, That never half so great as Noah's flood, This world, he said, in less than half an hour Shall all be drank, So hideous is the shower, Thus shall mankind drench and lose their life. This carpenter answered, Alas, my wife, and shall she drench, Alas, my allison. For sorrow of this he fell almost a down, And said, Is there no remedy in this case? Why, yes, for God, quote Hendy Nicholas, If thou wilt worken after lore and red, Thou mayest not worken after thine own head, For thus, saith Solomon, that was full true, Work all by counsel, And thou shalt not rue, And if thou work wilt by good counsel, I undertake without mast or sail, Yet shall I savor, and thee and me. Hast thou not heard how saved was Noah, When that our Lord had warned him before, That all the world with water should be lorn? Yes, quote this carpenter, full your ago. Hast thou not heard, quote Nicholas, also the sorrow of Noah, That his fellowship, that he had ere he got his wife to ship? Him had been lever I dare well undertake, At thilk time than all his weather's black, That she had had a ship herself alone, And therefore knowest thou what is best to be done. This ascheth haste, and of an hasty thing, Man may not preach or make tarrying, Anon go get us fast into this inn, A kneading trough, or else a chemolin, For each of us, but look that they be large, In which we shall swim as in a barge, And have therein vitile sufficient, But for one day, Fie on the remnant, the water shall asslake, And go away, about prime upon the next day. But Robin may not know of this thy nave, Nor ick thy maiden gill I may not save, Ask me not why, for though thou ask me, I will not tell God's privity. Suffice it thee, but if thy wit be mad, To have as great a grace as Noah had, Thy wife shall I well saven out of doubt, Go now thy way, and speed thee hereabout. But when thou hast, for her and thee and me, Egotten us these kneading tubs three, Then shalt thou hang them in the roof, Full high, so that no man Are purveillance a spy. And when thou hast done thus, as I have said, And hast our vitile fair in them elade, And ick an axe to smite the cord in two, When that the water comes, that we may go And break an ole on high upon the gable, Into the garden word over the stable, That we may freely pass forth our way, When that great shower is gone away, Then shalt thou swim, as Mary I undertake, As doth the white duck after her drake, Then will I clep. How Allyson, how John, Be Mary, for the flood will pass anon, And thou wilt say, Hail, Master Nicolay, Good morrow, I see thee well, for it is day, And then shall we be lords All our life of all the world, As Noah and his wife. But, of one thing, I warn thee full right, Be well advised on that iltken night, When we be entered into ship's board, That none of us not speak a single word, Nor clip, nor cry, but be in his prayer, For that is God's own haste, dear. Thy wife and thou must hang in far between, For that betwixt you shall be no sin, No more in looking than there shall indeed, This ordinance is said, Go, God, thee speed, Tomorrow night, when men be all asleep In our kneading tubs, We will creep and sit there, Abiding God's grace. Go now, thy way, I have no longer space To make of this no longer sermoning. Men, say thus, Send the wise and say nothing. Thou art so wise, it needeth thee not teach. Go, save our lives, And that I thee beseech. This silly carpenter went forth his way, Full off he said, Alas, and well a day! And to his wife he told his privity, And she was where and better new than he, What all this quaint cast was for to say. But, nay the less, she feared as she would day, And said, Alas, go forth thy way and on, Help us to scape, Or we be dead each one. I am thy true and very wedded wife. Go, dear spouse, and help to save our life. Lo, what a great thing is affection. Men may die of imagination, So deeply may impression be take. This silly carpenter begins to quake. He thinketh verily that he may see This new flood come weltering as the sea, To drench in allison his honey dear. He weepeth, wayless, maketh, sorry cheer, He sigheth with full many a sorry sow. He goeth and geteth him a kneading trow, And after that tub and the chemolin, And privily he sent them to his inn, And hung them in the roof full privily, With his own hand then made he ladders, Three to climb by the ranges and the stalks, Upon the tubs hanging in the bulks, And victualed them, chemolin, trough, and tub, With bread and cheese and good ale in a jub, Sufficing right enough as for a day. But ere that he had made all this array, He sent his nave, and eek his wench also, Upon his need to London for to go, And on the Monday when it drew to night, He shut his door without candle-light, And dressed everything as it should be. And shortly up they climbed all the three. They sat still well a furlong way. Now, Peter Noster, clumb, said Nicolet, And clumb, quote John, and clumb, said Allison. This carpenter said his devotion, And still he sat and bided his prayer, Awaking on the rain, if he it hear. The dead sleep, for weary business fell On this carpenter right, as I guess, About the curfew time, or little more. For travail of his ghost he groaned, Soar, and effed he routed, For his head mislay. A down the latter stalked Nicolet, and Allison, Full soft a down she sped, Without words more they went to bed. There, as the carpenter was want to lie, There was the revel, and the mellow die. And thus lay Allison, and Nicholas, In business of mirth, and in solace, Until the bell of lords gone to ring, And friars in the chancel went to sing. This parish clerk, this amorous absalon, That is for love always so woe be gone, Upon the Monday was at Ociné, With company him to despot and play, And asked upon a casse, a cloisterer, Full privily after John the carpenter, And he drew him apart out of the church, and said, I not, I saw him not here work. Since Saturday I trough that he be went for timber, Where our abbot hath him sent, And dwell in that the grange a day or two, For he is want for timber for to go, Or else he is at his own house certain, Where that he be I cannot soothly sayne. This absalon full jolly was, and light and thought, Now is the time to wake all night, For sickerly I saw him not stirring about his door, Since day began to spring. So may I thrive, but I shall at cock crow, Full privily go knock at his window, That stands full low upon his bower wall. To Allison then will I tell in all my love longing, For I shall not miss that at the least way I shall her kiss. Some manner comfort shall I have, Parfait. My mouth hath itched all this live long day, That is a sign of kissing at the least. All night I met, Eek I was at a feast. Therefore I will go sleep an hour or tway, And all the night then will I wake and play. When that the first cock crowed had, Anon up rose this jolly lover absalon, And he arrayed gay at point devise. But first he chewed grains and liquorize To smell sweet ere he had combed his hair, Under his tongue a true love he bear, For thereby thought he to be gracious. Then came he to the carpenter's house, And still he stood under the shot window, On to his breast it rocked. It was so low, and soft he coughed with a semi-son. What do you, honeycomb, sweet Allison, My fair bird, my sweet cinnamon? Awaken, lemon-mine, and speak to me, Full little think ye upon my woe, That for your love I sweat there as I go. No wonder is that I do sweat and sweat. I mourn as doth a lamb after the teat. I whistle a man, I have such love longing, That like a turtle true is my mourning. I may not eat no more than a maid. Go from the window thou jack-fool, she said. As help me, God, it will not be. Come, bar me. I love another else I were to blame. Well, better than thee by Jesus absalon, Go forth thy way, or I will cast a stone, And let me sleep a twenty-devil way. Alas, quote Absalon, and well away, That true love ever was so ill be set, Then kiss me, since it may be no bet For Jesus' love and for the love of me. Will thou then go thy way therewith? Quote she. Ye certs, lemon, quote this Absalon. Then make thee ready, quote she, I come anon. And unto Nicholas she said, Full still, Now peace, and thou shalt laugh anon thy fill. This Absalon downset him on his knees and said, I am a lord at all degrees, for after this I hope there cometh more. Lemon, thy grace, and sweet bird, thine oar. The window she undid, and that in haste. Have done, quote she, come off and speed thee fast, Less that our neighbours should thee spy. Then Absalon can wipe his mouth full dry. Dark was the night, as pitch, Or as the coal, and at the window, She put out her whole, And Absalon him fell ne' bet ne' worse. But with his mouth he kissed her naked Arse, full savourly. When he was aware of this, a back he start, And thought it was a miss. For well he wist, A woman hath no beard. He felt a thing, all rough, And long he haired, and said, Fie, alas, what have I do? Tee hee, quote she, and clapped the window too, And Absalon went forth at sorry pace. A beard, a beard, said Handy Nicholas, Pied God's corpus this game went fair and well. This silly Absalon heard every deal, And on his lip he began for anger bite, And to himself he said, I shall thee quite. He rubbeth now, who frotteth now his lips, With dust, with sand, with straw, with cloth, With chips, but Absalon, that saith full oft, Alas, my soul be take, I on to Sathanas, But me were lever than all this town. Quote he, I this despite, are rockin' for to be. Alas, alas, that I have been, I blent, His hote love is cold, And all it quent. For from that time that he had kissed her arse, Of paramours he set not a curse. For he was healed of his malady, Full often, paramours he gan'd defy, And weep as doth a child that hath been beat. A soft pace he went over the street, Unto a smith, men callin' Dan Garvis, That in his forge smithed plough harness He sharped, share, and cultur busily, This Absalon knocked all easily, And said, Undo, Garvis, and that anon. What? Who art thou? It is I, Absalon. What? Absalon, what? Christ's sweet tree, why rise so wrath. Hey, Benedicite, what aileth you, Some gay girl, God, it wo't, Hath brought you thus upon the vire tote. By St. Neat ye what well what I mean, This Absalon he wrought not a bean, Of all his play no word again he gaff, For he had more tau on his disstaff, Than Garvis knew and said, Friend, so dear, that hot cultur In the chimney here lend it to me, I have therewith to dawn. I would it bring again to thee full soon. Garvis answered, Sirts were gold or in a poke, Nobles all untold, Thou shouldst it have, as I am a true smith. May, Christ's foot, what will you do therewith? Thereof, quote Absalon, be as be may, I shall well tell it thee another day. And caught the cultur by the cold steel. Full soft out at the door he ganned to steel, And went unto the carpenter's wall. He coughed first and knocked therewith all upon the window, Light as he did ere. This Allison answered, Who is there that knocketh so? I warrant him a thief. Nay, nay, quote he, God what my sweet left, I am thine Absalon, my own darling, of gold. I have thee brought a ring, my mother gave it me, So God me save, full fine it is, and there too may he grave. This will I give to thee, if thou me kiss. Now Nicholas was rising up to piss, And thought he would amenden all the jaype. He should kiss his arse ere that he scape, And up the window did he hastily, And out his arse he put full prively, Over the buttock to the haunch bone, And therewith spake this clerk, this Absalon. Speak, sweet bird, I know not where thou art. This Nicholas anon let fly afart, As great as it had been a thunder-dent, That with the stroke he was well nigh he blent. But he was ready with his iron hot, And Nicholas amid the arse he smote. Off went the skin and hand-breath all about, The whole cultur burned so his tout, That for the smart he weaned he would die, As he were wood for woe he began to cry, Help! Water, water, help for God's heart! This carpenter, out of his slumber, Start and heard one cry, Water! As he were wood, and thought, Alas, now cometh Noah's flood! He sat him up without words mow, And with his axe he smote the cord in two, And down went all. He found neither to sell nor bread nor ale, Till he came to the cell upon the floor, And there in swoon he lay. Up started Allison and Nicolet, And cried out, A hero in the street, The neighbors all both small and great, In ran for to garren on this man, That yet in swoon lay both pale and wan. For with the fall he broken had his arm, But stand he must unto his own harm, For when he spake he was a non-born down, With Hendy, Nicholas, and Allison. They told to every man that he was wood. He was a ghast, so of Noah's flood. Through fantasy, that of his vanity, He had bought him kneading tubs three, And had them hanged in the roof above, And that he prayed them for God's love To sit in the roof for company. The folk gand laughin' at his fantasy, Into the roof they kikin' and they gape, And turned all his harm into a jade. For what so ere this carpenter answered, It was for naught, no man his reason heard. With oaths great he was so sworn a down, That he was holdin' wood in all the town. For every clerk a non-right held with other, They said, the man was wood my leave brother, And every white gand laughin' at his strife. Thus swived was the carpenter's wife, For all his keeping and his jealousy, And Absalon hath kissed her nether eye, And Nicholas is scalded in the tout. This tale is done, and God save all the route. End of the Miller's Tale. This reading is based on the book The Canterbury Tales and Other Poems. The original text contains poem by Chaucer and a lot of notes and explanations by the editor. To view these, please click on the Gutenberg E-text link on the LibriVox catalogue page of The Canterbury Tales. When folk had laughed all at this nice case of Absalon and Hendy Nicholas, diversifoke diversely they said, But for the more part they laughed and played. And at this tale I saw no man him grieve, But it were only Ozzowold the Reeve, Because he was of carpenter's craft, And little Iyer is in his heart to laugh. He gant a grudge, and blamed it a light. So the eye, quoth he, full well could I him quite, With blearing of a proudy Miller's eye, If that me list to speak of Ribble-dry. But I am old, me list not play for age, Grass-time is done, my fodder is now forage. This whiter top righteth mine older years, Mine heart is also moulded as mine hairs, And I do far as doth an open airs, That Ilka fruit is ever longer worse. Till it be rotten in mollocorin stray, We older men I dread so far away. Till we be rotten, can we not be ripe? We hop away, while that the world will pipe, For in our will the stricketh iron nail, To have a hoary head and a green tail, As hath a leak, for though our might be gone, Our will desireth folly ever in one. For when we may not do, then will we speak, Yet in our ashes cold does fire wreak. For glides have we which I shall devise, Vaunting and lying anger covetise. These forest-sparks belong an unto-eld, Our older limbers well may be un-weld. But will shall never fail us, and that is sooth, And yet have I always a colt as tooth, As many a year as it is past and gone, Since that my tap of life began to run. For sickly when I was born anon, Death drew the tap of life and let it gone. And ever since hath so the tap be run, Till that almost all empty is the ton, The stream of life now droppeth on the chime, The silly tongue may well ring and chime of wretchedness, That passeth is full yore. With oldy folk save dotage is no more. When that our host had heard this sermoning, He began to speak as lordly as a king, And said to what amounteth all this wit, What shall we speak all day of holy writ? The devil made a reave for to preach, As of a suitor, a shipment, or a leech, Say forth thy tale, and tarry not the time, Low here is Detford, and his half-past prime, Low Greenwich, where many a shrew is in, It were high time thy tale to begin. Now, sirs, quoth then this ozzer-world the reave, I pray you all that none of you do grieve, Though I answer and somewhat set his hoof, For lawful is force off with force to shove. This drunken miller hath he told us here, How that beguiled was a carpent here, Paraventure in scorn, for I am one, And, by your leave, I shall him quite anon. Right in his chelish term is will I speak, I pray to God his neck might to break, He can well in mine eye see a stork, But in his own he cannot see a bork. End of prologue to the reave's tale The reave's tale At Trompington, not far from Cantybridge, There goes a brick, and over that bridge, Upon the which brook there stands a mill. And this is very sooth, that I you tell, A miller was there dwelling many a day, As any peacock he was proud and gay. Pipe'n he could, and fish, and net his beat, And turn cups, and wrestle well, and sheat. Eye by his belt he bar along pavada, And off his sword full trenchant was the blade. A jolly popper bear he in his pouch, There was no man for peril durst him touch, A sheffield whittle bear he in his hose, Round was his face, and camoose was his nose, As pill as an apes was his skull, He was a market-beater at the full. There dursted no wichter hand upon him leger, That ye'dn't swore anon he should a beger. A thief he was, for solth of corn and meal, And that a slyan, used well to steal, His name was Hotten Dana-Symican. A wife he had, come of noble kin, The parson of the town her father was, With her he gave him full many a pan of brass, For that Simkin should in his blood a lie, She was a fostered in a nunnery. For Simkin would he no wife, as he said, But she were well enourished and a maid, To saven his estate and yeomanry, And she was proud and peyote as his apai. A full fair sight it was to see them two, On holidays before her he would go with his tippet, He bound about his head, And she came after in a jeep of red, And Simkin had a hosun of the same. There dursted no wicht, call her oxt but dame, None was so hardy walking by that way, That with her either durst a rajah or play, But if he would be slain by Simkin, With pavada or with knife or bodhkin, For jealous folk be perilous evermole. Ulgate, they would their wives wend her so, And Iqf, for she was somewhat smutterlish, She was as dignan as water in a ditch, And so full of hoca and besmeira, Her thought that a lady should haspeira, For her kindred and her notelry, That she had learned in the nunnery. One daughter had a betwixten too, Of twenty year without an enimo, Saying that a child was of half year age In cradle it lay, and was a proper page. This wench thick and welly-grown was, With camoose a nose and iron grey as glass, With buttocks broad and breasters round and high, But right fair was her hair, I will not lie. The parson of the town, for she was fair, In purpose was to make of her his hair, Both of his chattels and his messuage, And strange he made it of her mariage. His purpose was for to bestow her high, In some worthy blood of ancestry, For holy church's good may be dispended, On holy church's blood that is descended. Therefore he would his holy blood honor, Though that he her holy church ye would devour. Great soken hath this miller out of doubt, With wheat and malt of all the land about, And namily there was a great college, Men called the solar hall at Canterbridge. There was their wheat and eke their malty ground, And on a day it happed in astound, Sick lay the mansiple of a malady, Men weaned wisely that he should die, For which this miller stole both meal and corn, And hundred times more than before, And here to fore he stole but courteously, But now he was at thief outrageously, For which the warden chid and made far, But thereof set the miller not atar. He cracked his boast, and swore it was not so. Then there were a younger, poorer scholars, too, That dwelled in the hall of which I say, Test if they were and lusty for to play, And only for their mirth and revelry Upon the warden busily they cry, They gave him leave, for but a little astound, To go to mill and see their corny ground. And hardily they durst lay their neck, The miller should not steal them half a peck Of corn by slight, nor them by force bereave, And at the last the warden gave them leave. John hight the one, and Aline hight the other, Of one town where they borne, that hightest trother. Far in the north, I cannot tell you where, This Aline he made ready all his gear, And on a horse the sack he cast an on. Forth went Aline the clerk, and also John, With good sword and with buckler by their side. John knew the way, him needed not no guide, And at the mill the sack a down he layeth. Aline spake first, all hail Simon in faith, How fair is thy fair daughter and thy wife. Aline, welcome, quoth Simkin, by my life, And John also, how now what do you hear? By God, Simon, quoth John, need has no peer, Him serve himself behoves that has no swain, Or else he is a fool, as Clarke is saying, Our manseable I hope he will be dead. So work as I, the wanges in his head, And therefore as I come and eke Aline, To grind our corn and carry it home again. I pray you speed as hence as well you may. It shall be done, quoth Simkin, by my fey. What will ye do, while that is in hand? By God, right by the hopper will I stand, Quoth John, and see how the corn goes in, Yet so I never, by my father's kin, How that hopper waggers to and fro. Aline answered, John, and wilt thou so, Then will I be beneath by my crown, And see how that the meal falls down Into the trough, that shall be my despot. For John, in faith I may be of your sort, I is as ill a miller as is you. This miller smiled at their nicety, And thought, all this is done but for a while, The weaning that no man may then beguile, But by my thrift yet shall I blear their eye, For all the slight in their philosophy, The more quaint a knackers that they make, The more will I steal, when that I take, Instead of yet flour, yet will I give them bren. The greatest clerks are not the wisest men, As Willam to the wolf thus spake the mayor, Of all their art, and he count I not a tear. Out at the door he went full privily, When that he saw his time softly, He looked up and down until he found the clerk's horse, There as he stood abound behind the mill, Under a leavesle, and to the horse he went him, Fair and well, and stripped off the bridle right and on. And when the horse was loose he gant a gond Towards the fen, where wild mayors run. Fourth were he through thick and eek through thin. This miller went again, no word he said. But did his note, and with these clerks played, Till that their corn was fair and welly-ground, And when the meal was sacked and debound, Then John went out and found his horse away, And gant a cry, Haru, and well away. A horse is lost, a line for God as bones, Step on thy feet, come off, man, all at once, Alas! our warden has his pulfry lawn. This a line all forgot, both meal and corn, All was out of his mind his husbandry. What? Which way is he gone, he gant a cry? The wife came leaping inward at a wren, And said, Alas! your horse went to the fen, With wild mayors as fast as he could go. Unthank came on his hand that bound him so, And his that better should have knit the rain. Alas! quoth John, a line for Christ's pain, Lay down thy sword, and I shall mine also, I is full wished, God wait, as is a row. By God as soul he shall not escape as bays, Why, and had thou put the couple in the lathe? Ill hail, a line, by God thou isst a fun, These silly clerks have full-fast erun Toward the fen, both Aline and Ike John, And when the miller saw that they were gone, He half a bushel of their flower did take, And bade his wife go need it in a cake. He said, I trow the clerks were afeard, Yet can a miller make a clerk as beard, For all his art, yea, let them go their way, Low where they go, yea, let the children play. They get him not so lightly by my crown. The silly clerk is runnin' up and down, With, keep, keep, stand, stand, yossa, wadder era, Go whistle thou, and I shall keep him here. But shortly, till that it was very night, They could a not, though they did with all their might, Their cap'l catch, he ran away so fast, Till in a ditch they caught him at the last. Weary and wet as beasties in the rain, Come silly John, and with him comes Alaine. Alas, quoth John, the day that I was born, Now we are driven till heaving and till scorn, Our corn is stolen, men will as fun as call, Both the warden and eager our fellows all, And namily the miller well away. Thus playing John, and as he went by the way Toward the mill and bired in his hand, The miller sitting by the fire he found, For it was night, and for the might they not. But for the love of God they him besought Of hair-barrow and ease for their penny. The miller said again, If there be any such as it is, Yet shall ye have your part? Mine house is straight, but ye have learned art, Ye can by arguments make in a place A mile broad of twenty-foot of space. Let's see, now, if this place may suffice, Or make it room with speech, as is your guise. Now Simon said this John by St. Cuthbert, I is thou merry, and that is fair answered. I have heard say, Men shall take of two things, such as he finds, Or such as he brings, but specially I pray thee, Hosted dear, gar us, have meat, and drink, And make us cheer, and we shall pay thee truly at the full, With empty hand men may not hawk as toll, Low here are silver ready for to spend. This miller to the town his daughter send, For ale and bread and roasted them a goose, And bound their horse he should no more go loose, And them in his own chamber made a bed, With sheets and with shallons fairy-spread, Not from his own bed ten-foot or twelve, His daughter had a bed all by herself, Right in the same chamber by and by. It might no better be, and cause a why, There was no rumour-heberow in the place. They suppen, and they speaken of solace, And drink an ever-strong ale at the best. About a midnight went they all to rest. Well had this miller varnished his head. Full pale he was, for drunken and not red, He yoxed, and he spake through the nose, As were he in the quacker or in the pose. To bed he went, and with him went his wife, As any jay she light was and jollif. So was her jolly whistle welly-wet, The cradle at her bed as feet were set, To rock and eek to give the child to suck, And when that drunken was, all in the crock, To bed went the daughter right and on, To bed went Elaine and also John. There was no more, needed them no dweil, This miller had so wisely but ale, That as a horse he snorted in his sleep, Nor of his tail behind he took no keep. His wife, bare him a budden, full strong. Men might have their routing here in a furlong. The wench routed eek for company. Aligned the clerk, that heard this melody, He poked John and said, Sleepest thou? Heardest thou ever such a song ere now? Lo, what a compline is he mailed them all? A wilder fire upon their bodies fall, Who hearkened ever heard such a fairly thing. Yea, they shall have the flower of ill-ending. This long a night their tide is me no rest, But yet no force all shall me for the best. For John, said he, as ever may I thrive, If that I may yon wench will I swive. Some easement has lory shapeness. For John there is a law that saith thus, That if a man in one point he aggrieved, That in another he shall be relieved. Our corn is stolen, soothly it is known nay, And we have had an evil fit to-day. And since I shall have none amendment, Against my loss I will have easement. By God a soul it shall none other be. This John answered, Align, Advise thee, the miller is a perilous man, he said, And if he that out of his sleep abrade, He might adduce both a villainy. Align answered, I count him not a fly, And up he rose, and by the wench he crept, This wench lay upright, and fast she slept, Till he so nigh was ere she might aspire, That it had been too late for to cry. And shortly, for to say, they were at one. Now play, Align, for I will speak of John. This John lay still a furlong way or two, And to himself he made wruth and woe. Alas, quoth he, this is a wicked jape! Now, may I say, that I is but an ape! Yet, as my fellow, somewhat for his harm, He has the miller's daughter in his arm. He entred him, and hath his kneader's sped, And I lie as a drafsack on my bed. And when this jape is told another day, I shall be held a daff or a cocconee. I will arise and enter it by my fey. Hard he is unsally, as men say. And up he rose, and softly he went, Unto the cradle, and in his hand it hent, And barret soft unto his bedder's feet. Soon after this the wife, her routing leet, And gan a wake, and went out to piss, And came again, and gan the cradle miss, And groped here and there, but she found none. Alas, quoth she, I had almost misgone, I had almost gone to the clark's bed! Ay, benedicity, then I had foul his bed! And forth she went, till she the cradle found. She groped away further with her hand, And found the bed, and thought not but good, Because that the cradle by it stood. And whisked not where she was, for it was deck, But fair and well she crept in by the clark, And lay full still, and would have thought asleep. Within a while this John the clark up leaped, And on his good wife laid on full sore, So Mary a fit she had not had full yore, He pricked hard and deep, as he were mad. This jolly life have these two clarkers had, Till that the third o' cocker began to sing. A line waxed weary in the morrowing, For he had wonken all the longer night, And said, fair well, Malcolm, my sweet wist, The day is come, I may no longer bide, But evermore, where so I go or ride, I is thine own clark, so have I hail'er. Now, dearly man, quoth she go fair, where l'er, But ere thou go, one thing I will detail, When that thou wendest homeward by the mill, Right at the entry of the door behind, Thou shalt a cake of half a bushel find, That was ye maket of thine own meal, Which that I held my father for to steal, And, goodly man, God save thee and keep, And with that word she gan almost a weep. A line up rose and thought, ere the day door, I will go creepin' in by my fellow, And found the cradle with his hand anon. By God thought he, all wrong I have misgone, My head is totty of my swing to-night. That maketh me, I go not a right, I what well by the cradle I have mis-go, Here lie the miller and his wife also. And forth he went, a twenty-devil way, Unto the bed there as the miller lay. He weened it to have creeped by his fellow John, And by the miller in he crept anon, And caught him by the neck and gan him shake, And said, Thou, John, Thou swine's head awake, For Christ is soul and here a noble game, For by that Lord that is called St. James, I have thrice in this shorter night, Swived the miller's daughter bolt upright, While thou hast as a coward lane aghast. Thou false a harlot, quoth the miller, Hast, ah, false traitor, false clerk, Quoth thee, thou shalt be dead by God as dignity, Who durst abysso bold to disparage my daughter, That is come of such lineage. And by the throat a bowl he caught a line, And he hem-hent despiteously again, And on the nose he smote him with his fist, Down round the bloody stream upon his breast, And in the floor with nose and mouth all broke, They wallow as do two pigs in a poke. And up they go, and down again and on, Till that the miller spurned on a stone, And down he backward fell upon his wife, That whisked a nothing of this nice strife, For she was fallen asleep a little wicht, With John the clerk that had waked all the night. And with the fall out of her sleep she braided, Help, Holy Cross of Bromholm, she said, In manners to us, Lord, to thee I call, Awake, Simon, the fiend is on me fall, Mine heart is broken, help, I am but dead, There lieth one on my womb and on mine head, Help, Simkin, for these false clerks to fight, This John start up as fast as ere he might. And groped by the walls, too, and fro, To find a staff, and she start up also, And knew the estrus better than this John, And by the wall she took a staff anon, And saw a little shimmering of a light, For at an hole in shone the moon a bright, And by that light she saw them both the two, But sickly she wist not who was who, But as she saw a white thing in her eye, And when she gained this white thing a spy, She weaned the clerk had heard a volleupair. And with the staff she drew eye near and near, And weaned to have hit this a line on the full, And smote the miller on the pillard skull, And down he went and cried, Harrow, I die! These clerks beat him well and let him lie, And griffon them and take their horse anon, And eek their meal, and on their way they gone, And at the mill door eek they took their cake, Of half a bushel-flower full well he bake. Thus is the proud a miller well he beat, And hath he lost the grinding of the wheat, And paid for the supper every deal Of a line and of John that beat him well, His wife is swived and his daughter alse, Lo such it is a miller to be false, And therefore this proverb is said fulsooth, Him thou not win and well that evil dooth, A guiler shall himself beguiled be. And God, that sitteth high in majesty, Save all this company both great and small, Thus have I quit the miller in my tale. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Chip in Tampa, Florida on February 3, 2006. The Canterbury Tales by Joffrey Chaucer. Edited by D. Laying Purvis. This reading is based on the book The Canterbury Tales and Other Poems. The original text contains poems by Chaucer, And a lot of notes and explanations by the editor. To view these, please click on the Gutenberg E-text link On the LibriVox catalogue page of The Canterbury Tales. The Cook's Tale. The Prologue. The cook of London, While the reeve thus spake, For joy he laughed and clapped him on the back, Aha, Quothee, for Christ's passion, This miller had a sharp conclusion, Upon this argument of herbagage, Well said Solomon in his language, Bring thou not every man into thine house, For harboring by night is perilous. Well ought a man advised for to be, Whom that he brought into his privity. I pray to God to give me sorrow and care, If ever since I height hodge of wear, Heard I a miller better set a work. He had a jape of malice in the dark. But God forbid that we should stint to hear, And therefore, if ye will, A vouchsafe to hear a tale of me, That am a poor man, I will tell you, As well as ere I can, A little jape that fell in our city. Our host answered and said, I granted thee, Roger, tell on, And look that it be good, For many a pasty hast thou letten blood, And many a jack of dover hast thou sold, That had been twice hot and twice cold, Of many a pilgrim hast thou Christ's curse, For of thy parsley yet fair they the worse, They that have eaten in thy stubble goose, For in thy shop doth many a fly go loose. Now tell on, gentle Roger, by thy name, But yet I pray thee, be not wroth for game, A man may say full sooth in game and play, Thou sayst full sooth, Quoth Roger, by my fey, But sooth play, quad play, As the Fleming sayeth, And therefore, Harry Bailey, by thy faith, Be thou not wroth, else we depart here, Though that my tale be hath an austelair, But, nevertheless, I will not tell it yet, But ere we part, he whist thou shall be quit, And there wall he laughed, and made cheer, And told his tale, as he shall after here. The tale. Apprentice, Will whom dwelt in our city, And of a craft of victuallers was he, Galiard he was, as gold-finch in the shore, Brown as berry, a proper sort-fellow, With lockers-black combed full fetishly, And dance he could so well enjoy thee, That he was called Perkin-Reveller, He was full of love and paramour, As is the honey-comb of honey-sweet, Well was the wench that with him might meet. At every bridle would he sing and hop, He better loved the tavern than the shop, For when there any riding was in cheap Out of the shop-thither he would leap, And till that he had all the sight ye seen, And dance it well, he would not come again, And gathered him a mini of his sort, To hop and sing and make such despot, As there they set seven for to meet, To play in a dice in such a street, For in the town there was no apprentice, That fairer could cast a pair of dice than Perkin could, And there too he was free of his dispense, In place of privity, That found his master well in his chafar, For often times he found his box full bare, For soothly apprentice Reveller, That haunteth dice, riot and paramour, His master shall it in his shop a be, All that he had no part in the minstery, For theft and riot they be convertible, All can they play on Gittern or Ribbable, Rebel and truth as in a low degree, They be full wroth all day as men may see. This jolly prentice with his master bold, Till he was nigh out of his prentice-hood, All were he snubbed both early and late, And sometimes led with rebel to Newgate, But at the last his master him be thought upon a day, When he his paper sought of a proverb, That saith this same word, Better is wroth an apple out of horde, Than it should wroth all in the remnant, So fares it by a riotous servant. It is well less harm to let him pace Than he shunned all the servants in the place. Therefore his master gave him acquittance, And bade him go with sorrow and mischance, And thus this jolly prentice had his love. Now let him riot all the night or leave, And for there is no thief without a luke That helpeth him to wasteen and to sook Of that he bribe can or borrow may, And on he sent his bed and his array Unto a compare of his own sort, That loved dice and riot and despot, And had a wife that hailed for countenance A shop and swived for her sustenance. So ends the cook's tale.