 Section 6 of Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern. Volume 9, this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern. Volume 9, Section 6, Jeffrey Chaucer. 13, question mark to 1400. By Thomas R. Lounsbury. English literature in the strict sense of the word dates its beginning from the latter half of the 14th century. Not by an English literature had existed long previous to that period. Furthermore, it reckoned among its possessions, works of value, and a few which in the opinion of some display genius. But though the name was the same, the thing was essentially different. A special course of study is required for any comprehension whatever of the productions of that earliest literature. And for the easy understanding of those written even about a half century or so before the period indicated a mastery of many peculiar syntactical constructions is demanded. And an acquaintance with a vocabulary differing in a large number of words from that now in use. But by the middle of the 14th century, this state of things can hardly be said to exist any longer for us. Everything by that time had become ripe for the creation of a literature of a far higher type than had yet been produced. Furthermore, conditions prevailed, which though their results could not then be foreseen, we're almost certain to render the literature thus created comparatively easy of comprehension to the modern reader. The teutonic and romantic elements that form the groundwork of our present vocabulary had at last become completely fused of the various dialects prevailing, the one spoken in the vicinity of the capital had gradually lifted itself up to a preeminence it was never afterwards to lose. In this parent of their present literary speech writers found for the first time at their command a widely accepted and comparatively flexible instrument of expression. As a consequence, the literature then produced fixed definitely for all time the main lines upon which both the grammar and the vocabulary of the English speech were to develop. The result is that it now presents few difficulties for its full comprehension and appreciation that are not easily surmounted. The most effective deterrent to its wide study is one formidable only in appearance. This is the unfamiliar way in which its words are spelled for orthography then sought to represent pronunciation and had not in consequence crystallized into fixed forms with constant disregard of any special value to be attached to the signs by which sounds are denoted. Of the creators of this literature, Wycliffe, Langland, Chaucer and Gower, Chaucer was altogether the greatest as a man of letters. This is no mere opinion of the present time. There has never been a period since he flourished in which has not been fully conceded. In his own day, his fame swept beyond the narrow limits of country and became known to the outside world. At home, his reputation was firmly established and seems to have been established early. All the references to him by his contemporaries and immediate successors bear witness to his universally recognized position as the greatest of English poets, though we are not left by him in doubt that he had even then met detractors. Still, the general feeling of the men of his time is expressed by his disciple, O'Cleeve, who terms him the first finder of our fair language. Yet not a single incident of his life has come down to us from the men who admired his personality, who enrolled themselves as his disciples, and who celebrated his praises. With the exception of a few slight references to himself and his writings, all the knowledge we possess of the events of his career is due to the mention made of him in official documents of various kinds and of different degrees of importance. In these, it is taken for granted that whenever Geoffrey Chaucer is spoken of, it is the poet who is meant and not another person of the same name. The assumption almost approaches absolute certainty. It does not quite attain to it. In those days it is clear that there were numerous Chaucers. Still, no one has yet risen to dispute his being the very person spoken of in these official papers. From these documents we discover that Chaucer besides being a poet was also a man of affairs. He was a soldier, a negotiator, a diplomatist. He was early employed in the personal service of the king. He held various positions in the civil service. It was a consequence that his name should appear frequently in the records. It is upon them and the references to him in documents covering transactions in which he bore a part that the story of his life so far as it exists for us at all has been mainly built. It was by them also that the series of fictitious events which for so long a time did duty as the biography of the poet had their impossibility as well as their absurdity exposed. Geoffrey Chaucer. The exact date of Chaucer's birth we do not know. The most that can be said is that it must have been somewhere in the early years of the reign of Edward III, 1327 to 77. The place of his birth was in all probability London. His father John Chaucer was a bentner of that city and there is evidence to indicate that he was to some extent connected with the court. In a deed dated June 19, 1380, the poet released his right to his father's former house, which is described as being in Timbs Street. The spot however unsuitable for a dwelling place now was then in the very heart of urban life and in that very neighborhood it is reasonable to suppose that Chaucer's earliest years were spent. The first positive information we have however about the poet himself belongs to 1356. In that year we find him attached to the household of Lionel, Duke of Clarence, the third son of Edward III. He is there in the service of the wife of that prince, but in what position we do not know. He may have been that of a page. He naturally was in attendance upon his mistress during her various journeyings, but most of her time was passed out of residence in Hatfield Yorkshire. Chaucer next appears as having joined the army of Edward III in his last invasion of France. This expedition was undertaken in the autumn of 1359 and continued until the peace of Bretigny concluded in May 1360. During this campaign he was captured somewhere and somehow we have no knowledge of anything beyond the bare fact. It took place however before the 1st of March 1360, for on that date the records show that the king personally contributed 16 pounds towards his ransom. From this last mentioned date Chaucer drops entirely out of our knowledge till June 1367 when he is mentioned as one of the valets of the king's chamber. In the document stating this fact he is granted a pension the first of several he received for services already rendered or to be rendered. It is a natural inference from the language employed that during these years of which no record exists he was in some situation about the person of Edward III. After this time his name occurs with considerable frequency in the roles often in connection with duties to which he was assigned. His services were varied in some instances certainly they were of importance. From 1370 to 1380 he was sent several times abroad to share in the conduct of negotiations. These missions led him to Flanders to France and to Italy. The subjects were very diverse. One of the negotiations in which he was concerned was in reference to the selection of an English port for Genoese commercial establishment. Another was concerning the marriage of the young monarch of England with the daughter of the king of France. It is on his first journey to Italy of which we have any record the mission of 1372 to 73 to Genoa and Florence that everybody hopes and some succeed in having an undoubted belief that Chaucer visited Petrarch at Padua and there heard from him the story of Griselda which the clerk of Oxford in the Canterbury Tales states that he learned from the Italian poet. But Chaucer's activity was not confined to foreign missions or to diplomacy. He was as constantly employed in that civil service. In 1374 he was made controller of the great customs that is of wool, skins and leather of the port of London. In 1382 he received also the post in the same port of controller of the petty customs that is of wines, candles and other articles. The regulations of the office required him to write the records with his own hand and it is this to which Chaucer is supposed to refer in the statement he makes about his official duties in the House of Fame. In that poem the messenger of Jupiter tells him that though he has done so much in the service of the God of love yet he has never received for it any compensation. He then goes on to add the following lines which give a graphic picture of the poet and of his studious life. Wherefore as I said he was, Jupiter considereth this and also boasts of other things that is that thou hast no tidings of lovers folk if they be glad, Nay of not Ellis that God made and not only from far country that there are no tidings cometh to thee but of the very Nehab boars that dwell in almost at thy doors. Thou hearest neither that nor this but when thy labor all done is and hast made all thy reckonings instead of rest and new things thou goest home to thine house and none and also dumb as any stone. Thou sittest at another book till fully days it is thy look and livest thus as an error might, although thine abstinence is light. In 1386 Chaucer was elected to Parliament as Knight of the Shire for the County of Kent. In that same year he lost or gave up both his positions in the customs the cause we do not know. It may have been due to mismanagement on his own part is far more likely that he fell a victim to one of the fierce factional disputes that were going on during the minority of Richard II. At any rate from this time again disappears for two years from our knowledge, but in 1389. He is mentioned as having been appointed clerk of the King's works at Westminster and various other places in 1390 clerk of the works for St. George's Chapel at Windsor. Both of these places he held until the middle of 1391. In that last year he was made one of the commissioners to repair the roadway along the Thames and at about the same time was appointed forester of North Petherton Park and Somerset, a post which he held till his death. After 1386 he seems at times to have been in pecuniary difficulties to what cause they were owing or how severe they were. It is the emptiest of speculations to form any conjectures and the obscurity that envelops this portion of his life. Whatever may have been his situation on the accession of Henry IV. In December 1399 his fortunes revived. The father of that monarch was John of Gaunt, the fourth son of Edward III. That nobleman had pretty certainly been from the outset the patron of Chaucer. It is possible as the events fails on one side it cannot be regarded as proved that by his marriage with Catherine Swinford he became the poet's brother-in-law. Whatever may have been the relationship if any at all. The fact that one of the very first things the new king did was to confer upon Chaucer an additional pension. But the poet did not live long to enjoy the favor of the monarch. On the 24th of December 1399 he leased for 53 years or during the term of his life a tenement in the Garden of St. Mary's Chapel Westminster. But after the 5th of June 1400 his name appears no longer on any rolls. There is accordingly no reason to question the accuracy of the inscription on his tombstone which represents him as having died October 25th 1400. He was buried in Westminster Abbey. He was the first and still remains perhaps the greatest of the English poets whose bones have found their last resting place. This comprises all the facts of importance we know of Chaucer's life. Before leaving this branch of the subject however it may be well to say that many fuller details about his career can be found in all older accounts of the poet. In spite of the repeated exposure of their falsity still crop up occasionally in modern books of reference. Some are objectionable only upon the ground of being untrue. Of these are such statements as that he was born in 1328. That he was a student of Oxford to which Cambridge is sometimes added. That he was created poet laureate and that he was knighted. But others are objectionable not only on the ground of being false but of being slanderous besides. Of these the most offensive is the widely circulated and circumstantial story that he was concerned in the conflict that went on in 1382 between the City of London and the court in regard to the election of John of Northampton to the mayoralty. That in consequence of his participation in this contest he was compelled to seek refuge in the island of Zealand. That there he remained for some time but on his return to England was arrested and thrown into the tower. And that after having been in prison for two or three years he was released at last on the condition of betraying his associates which he accordingly did. All these details are fictitious. They were made up from inferences drawn from obscure passages in a prose work entitled The Testament of Love. This was once attributed to the poet but is now known not to have been written by him. Even had it been his the statements derived from it and applied to the life of the poet would have been entirely unwarranted as they come into constant conflict with the official records. Not being his this piece of spurious biography has the additional discredit of constituting and unnecessary libel upon his character. From Chaucer the man and the man of affairs we proceed now to the consideration of also the writer. He is left behind a body of verse consisting of more than 32,000 lines and a smaller but still far from inconsiderable quantity of prose. The letter consists mainly if not wholly of translations. One a version of that favorite work of the Middle Ages, the Treatise of Boetius on the Constellation of Philosophy. Another of the tale of Malibius in the Canterbury Tales which is taken directly from the French. Thirdly the Parsons tale derived probably from that same quarter though its original has not as yet been discovered with certainty. And fourthly an unfinished treatise on the astrolabe undertaken for the instruction of his son Louis. The prose of any literature always lags behind in some time's centuries behind its poetry. It is therefore not surprising to find Chaucer displaying in the former but little of the peculiar excellence which distinguishes his verse. In the latter but little room is found for hostile criticism. In the more than 30,000 lines of which it is composed there occur of course inferior passages and some positively weak but taking it all in all there is comparatively little in it. Considered as a whole which the lover of literature as literature finds it advisable or necessary to skip. In this respect the poet holds up a peculiar position which makes the task of representation difficult. As Southeast remarked Chaucer with the exception of Shakespeare is the most various of all English authors. He appeals to the most diversified tastes. He wrote love poems, religious poems, allegorical poems, occasional poems, tales of common life, tales of chivalry. His range is so wide that any limited selection from his works can at best give but an inadequate idea of the variety and extent of his powers. The canon of Chaucer's writings has now been settled with a reasonable degree of certainty. For a long time the fashion existed of imputing to him the composition of any English poem of the century following his death which was floating about without having attached to it the name of any author. The consequence is that the older editions contain a mass of matter which would have been distinctly discreditable for any one to have produced let alone a great poet. This has now been gradually dropped much to the advantage of Chaucer's reputation. The modern scholarship also refuses to admit the production by him of two or three pieces such as the court of love, the flower and the leaf, the cuckoo and the nightingale, none of which was unworthy of his powers. It is possible indeed that the poet himself may have had some dread of being saddled with the responsibility of having produced pieces which he did not care to father. It is certainly suggestive that he himself took the pains on one occasion to furnish what it seems must have been at the time a fairly complete list of his writings. In the prologue to The Legend of Good Women he gave an idea of the work which up to that period he had accomplished. The God of Love in the interview which is there described as having taken place invades against the poet for having driven men away from the service due to his deity by the character of what he had written. He says, Thou mayest did not deny for in plain text without need of glows. Thou hast translated the romance of the rose that is in heresy against my law and make us wise folk from me withdraw. And of course Thou hast said as the list that make us men to women lesser trist that be as true as ever was any steel. Against this charge the Queen of Custis is represented as interposing to the God of defense of the poet in which occurs the following account of Chaucer's writings. Albeit that he cannot well indict, yet hath he make a fluid folk delight to serve you in praising of your name. He made the book that hight the house of fame, and the death of Blanche, the Duchess, and the Parliament of Thouless as I guess, and all the love of Parliament, and our sight of thieves though the story is known in light. And many and hymna for your holy days that heighten ballads round those virileys, and for to speak of other holiness he hath in prosa translated Boa says. And made the life also of Saint Sysile, he made also gone Sithin a great while, or a genus upon the mod lane, him ought now to have the lust of pain. He hath made many a lay, and many a thing. This prologue is generally conceded to have been written between 1382 and 1385, though it does not profess to furnish a complete list of Chaucer's writings. It can fairly be assumed that it included all which he then regarded as of importance, either on account of their merit or their link. If so, the titles given above would embrace the productions of what may be called the first half of his literary career. In fact, his disciple Litgate leads us to believe that Troilus in Cressida was a comparatively early production, though it may have undergone and probably did undergo revision before assuming its present form. The legend of good women in distinction from its prologue would naturally occupy the time of the poet during the opening period of what is here termed the second half of his literary career. The prologue is the only portion of it, however, that is of distinctly high merit. The work was never completed, and Chaucer pretty certainly came soon to the conclusion that it was not worth completing. It was in the taste of the times, but it did not take him long to perceive that an extended work dealing exclusively with the sorrows of particular individuals was as untrue to art as it was to life. It fell under the band of that criticism, which in the Canterbury Tales he puts into the mouth of the Knight, who interrupts the doful recital of the Tragical Tales told by the monk with these words, Ho, Quoth and I, good sir, no more of this, that ye have said is righty now, ye wist, and much more for little heaviness is righty now to much of folk, I guess. I say for me it is a great disease, whereas men have been in great wealth and ease to hearing of her seventh fall alas, and the contrary is joy and great solace, as when a man have been in poor estate and climates up and waxes and fortunate, and there abideth in prosperity such thing is glassy as it thinketh me, and doth such thing were goodly forth to tell. Accordingly from the composition of pieces of the one-sided and unsatisfactory character of those contained in the legend of good women, Chaucer turned to the preparation of his great work, The Canterbury Tales. This gave him the fullest opportunity to display all his powers and must have constituted the main literary occupation of his later life. It will be noticed that two of the works mentioned in the prologue to the legend of good women are translations and are so avowed. When is the Roman de la Rose and the other philosophical treatise of Boeces? In regard to the version of the form of which has come down, it is sufficient to say that there was not long ago a disposition to deny the genuineness of all of it. This now contends itself with denying the genuineness of part of it. The question cannot be considered here. It is enough to say that in the opinion of the present writer, while the subject is attended with certain difficulties, the evidence is strongly in favor of Chaucer's composition of the whole. But setting aside any discussion of this point, there can scarcely be any doubt that Chaucer began his career as a translator. At the period he flourished, he could hardly have done otherwise. It was an almost inevitable method of procedure on the part of a man who found neither writers nor writings in his own tongue worthy of imitation, and who could not feel to be struck not merely by the excellence of the Latin classic poets, but also by the superior culture of the continent. In the course of his literary development, he would naturally pass from direct translation to adaptation. To the latter practice, he is assuredly resorted often. He took the work of the foreign author as a basis, discarded what he did not need or care for, and added as little or as much as suited his own convenience. In this way, the 5,704 lines of the Filistrato of Boccaccio became 8,246 in the Troilus in Cressida of Chaucer, but even of the 5,704 of the Italian poet 2,974 were not used by the English poet at all, and the 2,730 that were used underwent considerable compression. In a similar way, he composed the Night's Tale, probably the most perfect narrative poem in our tongue. It was based upon the Fessida of Boccaccio, but the letter has 9,896 lines, while the former comprises but 2,250, and of these 2,250, fully two-thirds are entirely independent of the Italian poem. With such free treatment of his material, Chaucer's next step would be to direct composition, independent of any sources, saving that general weight in which every author is under obligation to what has been previously produced. This finds its crowning achievement in the Canterbury Tales, though several earlier pieces such as The House of Fame, The Parliament of Files, and the prologue to The Legend of Good Women attest that long before he had shown his ability to produce work essentially original, but though in his literary development, Chaucer worked himself out of this exact reproduction of his models through a partial working over of them till he finally attained complete independence. The habits of a translator clung to him to the very end, even after he had fully justified his claim to being a great original poet. Passages occur in his writings, which are nothing but the reproduction of passages found in some foreign poem in Latin or French or Italian, the three languages with which he was conversant. His translation of them was due to the fact that they had struck his fancy. His insertion of them into his own work was to please others with what had previously pleased himself. Numerous passages of this kind have been pointed out, and doubtless there are others which remain to be pointed out. There is another important thing to be marked in the history of Chaucer's artistic development. Not only was poetic material lacking in the tongue at the time of his appearance, but also poetic form. The measures in use, while not inadequate for literary expression, were incapable of embodying it in its highest flights. Consequently, what Chaucer did not find he had either to borrow or to invent, he did both. In the lines which have been quoted, he speaks of the belads, rondelles, and virileses which he had composed. These were all favorite poetical forms in that continental country with whose literature Chaucer was mainly conversant. There can be little question that he tried all manner of verse, which the ingenuity of the poets of northern France had devised. As many of his shorter pieces have very certainly disappeared his success in these various attempts, cannot be asserted with positiveness. Still, what have survived show that he was a great literary artist, as well as a great poet. His feats of rhyming, in particular in a tongue so little fitted for it, as his hours can be seen in his unfinished poem of Queen and Alita, and false Arsita, in the Complainter of Venus, and in the Envoy which follows the clerk's tale. In this last piece, though there are 36 lines, the rhymes are only three, and two of these belong to 15 lines respectively. The far more important than such attempts which prove interest in versification, rather than great poetic achievement, are the two measures which he introduced into our tongue. The first was the seven line stanza. The rhyming lines in it are respectively the first and third, the second, fourth, and fifth, and the sixth and seventh. At a later period, this was frequently called rhyme royal, because the king's square was written in it. For fully two centuries, it was one of the most popular measures in English poetry since the 16th century. However, it has been but little employed. Far different has been the fate of the line of ten syllables, or rather of five accents, on account of its frequent use in the candidate tales that was called for a long period, writing rhyme, but it now bears the title of heroic verse. As employed by Joshua, it varies in slight particulars from the way it is now generally used with him. The couplet character was never made prominent. The sense was not apt to end at the second line, but constantly tended to run over into the line following. There was also frequently with him an unaccented 11th syllable, and this, though not unknown to modern verses, not common. Still the difference between the early and the later form are mere differences of detail and of comparatively unimportant detail. The introduction of this measure into English may be considered Chaucer's greatest achievement in the matter of versification. The heroic verse may have existed in the tongue before he himself used it. If so, it lurked unseen and uninfluential. He was the first to employ it on a grand scale, if not to employ it at all, and to develop its capabilities. Much the largest proportion of his greatest work is written in that measure. In spite of his example, it found for two centuries comparatively few imitators. It was not until the end of the 16th century that the measure started on a new course of life and entered upon the great part it has since played in English versification. The most important, what are sometimes called the minor works of Chaucer, are the Parliament of Files, the House of Fame, Troilus and Cressida, and the Legend of Good Women. These are all favorable examples of his genius, but however good they may be in particular portions and in particular respects in general excellence, they yield place unquestionably to the Canterbury tales. It seems to have been very clearly the intention of the poet to embody in this crowning achievement of his literary life everything in the shape of a story he had already composed or was proposing to compose. Two of the pieces, the love of Parliament and our seat and the life of saints of the sea, as we know from the words of his already quoted, had appeared long before. The plan of the work itself was most happily conceived in spite of most pains taking efforts to find an original for it or suggestion of it somewhere else. There seems no sufficient reason for doubting that the poet himself was equal to the task of having devised it. No one certainly can question the felicity with which the framework for embodying the tales was constructed. All ranks and classes of society are brought together in the company of pilgrims who assemble at the Tabaret Inn at Southwark to ride to the shrine of the saint at Canterbury. The military class is represented by the knight belonging to the highest order of the nobility, his son the squire and his retainer the omen, the church by the avid, the friar, the parson, the prowess with her attendant nun, and the three accompanying priests and less distinctly by the scholar, the clerk of Oxford and by the partner and the summoner. For the other professions are the doctor, the sergeant of law, for the middle class land holders of Franklin and for the various crafts and occupations, the haberdasher, the carpenter, the weaver, the dyer, the poster, the cook, the plowman, the sailor, the reeve, the mausoleum, enjoying the party in the course of the pilgrimage, the assistant of the alchemist who is called the Canon's Yeoman. Into the mouths of these various personages were to be put tales befitting their character and condition. Consequently, there was ample space for stories of chivalry, a religion of love, of magic and in truth of every aspect of social life and all its highs and lowest manifestations. Between the tales themselves were connecting links in which the poet had the opportunity to give an account of the incidents that took place on the pilgrimage, the critical opinions expressed by the hearers of what had been told and the disputes and quarrels that went on between the various members of the party. So far as this portion of his plan was finished, these connecting links furnished some of the most striking passages in the work. In one of them, the prologue to the wife of Bastel, the genius of the poet reaches along certain lines his highest development, while the general prologue describing the various personages of the party, though not containing the highest poetry of the work as poetry, is the most acute discriminating and brilliant picture of men and manners that can be found in our literature. Chaucer, title page of the first attempt to collect his works into one volume, The Imprint Reads Imprinted at London by Thomas Godfrey, The Year of Our Lord, 1532. Titled The Works of Geoffrey Chaucer, newly printed with diverse works, which were never in print before, as in the table more plainly doth appear Coompe Villageio. Such was the plan of the work. It was laid out on an extensive scale, perhaps on too extensive a scale ever to have been completed. Certain it is that it was very far from ever reaching even remotely that result. According to the scheme set forth in the prologue, the work when finished should have included over 120 tales. It actually comprises but 24, even of these. Two are incomplete, the cook's tale, which is a little more than begun, and the romantic eastern tale of the square, which in Milton's words is left half told. To those that are finished, the connecting links have not been supplied in many cases. Accordingly, the work exists not as a perfect whole, but in eight or nine fragmentary parts, each complete in itself but lacking a close connection with the others, though all are bound together by the unity of a common central interest. The value of what has been done makes doubly keen the regret that so much has been left undone. Politics, religion, literature, manners are all touched upon in this wide embracing view which still never misses what is really essential. An added to this is a skill of portrayal by which the actors, whether narrating the tales themselves or themselves, forming the heroes of the narration, fairly live and breathe before our eyes. Had the work been completed on the scale upon which it was begun, we should have had a picture of life and opinion in the 14th century, more vivid and exact than has been drawn of any century before or since. The selections, given are partly of extracts and partly of complete pieces, to the former class belong the lines taken from the opening of the Canterbury Tales, with the description of a few of the characters, the description of the temples of Mars of Venus and of Diana in the Night's Tale, and the account of the disappearance of the fairies at the opening of the Wife of Bath's Tale. The complete pieces are the tales of the partner and of the nun's priest. From the first, however, has been dropped the discourse on drunkenness, profanity and gambling, which though in keeping with the character of the narrator has no connection with the development of the story. The second, the tale of the nun's priest, was modernized by Dryden under the title of The Cock and the Fox. All of these are in heroic births. The final selection is the Balad, now usually entitled Truth. In it, the peculiar Balad construction can be studied. That is, the formation of three stanzas, either with or without a non-voy, the same rhymes running through the three stanzas, and the final line of each stanza precisely the same. One of Chaucer's religious poems, the so-called ABC, can be found under Deguia Via, from whose Pella Renage la de l'Human it is translated. Chaucer's style, like that of all great early writers, is marked by perfect simplicity, and his language is therefore comparatively easy to understand. In the extracts to your given, the spelling has been modernized, save occasionally at the end of the line, when the rhyme has required the retention of an earlier form. The words themselves and grammatical forms have, of course, undergone no change. There are two marks used to indicate the pronunciation. First, the acute accent to indicate that a heavier stress than ordinary is to be placed on the syllable over which it stands. And secondly, the grove, back-cent, to indicate that the letter or syllable over which it appears, though silent in modern pronunciation, was then sounded thus landus grovis rendus navus. We'd have the final syllable sounded in a similar way, tima, roma, and others ending in e, when the next word begins with a vowel or h, mute. The acute accent can be exemplified in words like carrage, raison, honor, plains laid ted, where the accent would show that the final syllable would either receive the main stress or heavier stress than is now given it. Again, a word like gray, jure, consists in the pronunciation here, given of three syllables and not of two, and is accordingly represented by a grove accent over the a to signify that this vowel forms a separate syllable. And by the acute accent over the jure, to indicate that this final syllable should receive more weight of pronunciation than usual. It accordingly appears as gray, jure, in a similar way, conditionion, would be a word of four syllables, and its pronunciation would be indicated by this method, conditionion. It is never to be forgotten that Chaucer had no superior in the English tongue as a master of melody, and if a verse of his sounds inharmonious, it is either because the line is corrupt or because the reader has not succeeded in pronouncing it correctly. The explanation of obsolete words or meanings is given in the footnotes, in addition to these, the following variations from modern English that occur constantly are therefore not defined, should be noted. Her and him stand for there, and then the affix y is frequently prefixed to the past part of the syllable, which itself sometimes omits the final en or en as idrawa, e shaka, the imperative plural ends in th as dreaded. The general negative in e is sometimes to be defined by not, sometimes by nor, and connected with forms of the verb be gives us nis, is not, nas, was not, as is often an expletive and cannot be rendered at all. That, before one and other, is usually the definite article. There is frequently to be rendered by where. Mo always means more. Thilka means that, or that same. Del is deal, in the sense of bid. We'd end the comparatives of long and strong, or longer and stranger. Finally, it should be borne in mind that the double negative invariably strengthens the negation. Thomas R. Lounds-Baron. End of section six. Section seven of library of the world's best literature, ancient and modern, volume nine. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by phone. Library of the world's best literature, ancient and modern, volume nine. Section seven. Prolobe to the Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer. When that April, with his showers sweet, the draught of March has pierced to the root, and bathed every vein in such liquor, of which virtue engendered is the flower. When Zephyrus eek with his sweet breath, inspired hath in every horse and hath, the tender crops and the young sun hath in the ram his half-course run, and small fowls make a melody that's sleepin' all the night with open eye. So pricketh him nature in her courageous, then long and folk to go on pilgrimages, and palmers for to seek in strange strands, to fern-haloes, cooth and sundry lands, and specially from every shire's end of England to Canterbury they went, the holy blissful martyr for to seek, that him had hopin' when that day were sick. Befell that in that season on a day, in south-work at the Tabart as I lay, ready to wenden on my pilgrimage, to Canterbury with full devout courage. At night were come into that hostelry well nine and twenty in a company of sundry folk, by aventure full in fellowship and pilgrims were they all, that toward Canterbury wouldn't ride. The chambers and the stables were in wide, and well we were in eased at the best. And shortly when the sun was to rest, so had I spoken with him ever each one, that I was of here fellowship anon, and made forward early for to rise, to take our way there, as I you device. But naithless, while I have time and space, ere that I further in this tale pace, me think it it accordant to reason, to telling you all the condition of each of him, so as it seemed me, and which they were in, and of what degree, and eek in what array that they were in, and at a night then while I first begin the night. A night there was, and that a worthy man, that from the time that he first began to ride an out, he loved chivalry, truth and honour, freedom and courtesy. Full worthy was he in his Lord's war, and there too had he ridden no man far, as well in Christendom as in heathenness, and ever honoured for his worthiness. At Alexander he was, when it was one, full oft time he had the board begun, above an all nations in proofs, and letto had he rise, and in rush, no Christian man so oft of his degree, in journey'd at the siege had he be of Al-Jazeer, and ridden in Bel-Marie. At Leesh was he, and at Satalee, when they were one, and in the great sea at many a noble army had he be. At mortal battles had he been fifteen, and foughten for our fate at Tremassime. Enlist thrice, and I slain his foe. This ilk worthy night had been also some time with the Lord of Palatee, again another heeden in Turkey, and evermore he had a sovereign price, and though that he were worthy he was wise, and of his port as meek as is a maid. He never yet no villainy ni sound, in all his life unto no manner white. He was a very perfect, gentle knight, but for to tell him you of his array, his horse were good, but he knee was not gay, a fustion he wear'd a gip on, all besmutter'd with his hawer-jean, for he was late come from his viage, and went for to do his pilgrimage. The Priorous There was also a nun, a Priorous, that over smiling was full simple and coy. Her greatest oath was but by St. Louis, and she was clipped, Madame Iguntein. Full well she sang the service divine, and tune it in her nose full-seemly, and French she spake full fare and fetishly, after the school of Stratford at the bow, for French of Paris was to her a no. At meet well taught was she with all, she let no morsel from her lips full, no wet her fingers in her sauce deep. Well could ye carry a morsel, and well keep, that no drop knee fell upon her breast. In courtesy was set full much her lust, her over-lip wiped she so clean, but in her cup there was no farthing scene of grease, when she drunken had her draught. Full-seemly after her meet she wrought, and sickerly she was of great despot, and full-pleasant and amiable of pork, and paint her to counterfeit in cheer of court, and to be stately of manoeur, and to behold undigny of reverence, but for to speaken over conscience. She was so charitable, and so piteous, she would weep if that she saw a mouse caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled. Of small hounds had she, that she fed with roasted flesh, or milk and wasteful bread. But sore wept she if one of them were dead, or if men smote it with the yard smart, and all was conscience and tender heart. Full-seemly her wimple-pinched walls, her nose-tretties, her eye in grey as glass, her mouth full small, and there too soft and red, but sickerly she had a fair forehead. It was almost a span broad, I trow, for hardily she was not undergrow. Full-fitties was her cloak, as I was wear, of small coral about her arm she bear a pair of beads gauded all with green, and thereon hung a brooch of gold full sheen, on which there was first writ a crowned A, and after a more vinket umnia. Another nun with her had she, that was her chaplain, and priestess three. The friar. A friar there was, a wanton and a merry, a limiture, a full-sollum man. In all the orders, four is none that can so much of dalliance and fair language. He had made full many a marriage of young women at his own cost, and to his order he was a noble post, full well-beloved and familiar was he, with franklence over all in his country, and eek with wordy women of the town, for he had power of confession, as said himself, more than a curate, for of his order he was licentiate. Full sweetly heard he confession, and pleasant was his absolution. He was an easy man to give penance, there as he wished to have a good pittance, for unto a poor order far to give is sign that a man is well shrive. For if he gave, he durst make a vaunt, he wished that a man was repentant. For many a man so hard is of his heart, he may not weep although him soar smart. Therefore, instead of weeping and prayers, men moat give silver to the poor frares. His tip was eye-fast, full of knives and pins for to given fair wives, and certainly he had a merry note, well could he sing and play in on a rote. Of yetings he bear utterly depraise, his neck white was as to flirt a lease. And there too he strong was as a champion. He knew the taverns well in every town, and every hostel and tapster, better than a laser or a begister. For unto such a worthy man as he accorded not, as by his faculty, to have with sick lasers acquaintance. It is not honest, it may not advance for to deal with no such poor rail, but all with rich and sellers of fit-tail. And or all, there, as profit should arise, courteous he was and lowly of service. There was no man nowhere so virtuous, he was the best beggar in his house, and gave a certain farm for the grant, none of his brethren came there in his haunt. For though a widow had not a shoe, so pleasant was his in Principio. Yet would he have a farthing ere he went, his purchase was well better than his rent, and rage he could, as it were right a wealth, in love-days there could he much ill-help. For there he was not like a cloisterer, with a threadbare cope, as his poor scholar, but he was like a master or a pope, of double worsted was his semi-cope, that rounded as a bell out of the press. Somewhat he lisped for his wantonness, to make his English sweet upon his tongue, and in his harping, when that he had sung, his eye twinkled in his head right, as do the stars in the frosty night. This worthy limiture was clipped Hubert. The clerk of Oxford A clerk there was of oxenford also, that unto logic had long ago, as lean was his horse as is a rake, and he was not right fat I undertake, but looked hollow and there too soberly. Full threadbare was his overest curtopie, for he had gotten him yet no benefits, and he was so worldly for to have office. For him was leafer have, at his bed's head, twenty bucks clad in black or red, of Aristotle and his philosophy, than robes rich or fiddle or gay sultry. But all that he was a philosopher, yet had he but little gold in coffer, but all that he might of his friend's hand, on books and his learning he had spent, and busily gone for the soul's prey, of him that gave him wherewith to scolay. Of study took he most cure and most heed, not one word spakey more than was need, and that was said in form and reverence, and short and quick and full of high sentence. Sounding in moral virtue was his speech, and gladly would he learn and gladly teach. The lawyer. A sergeant of the law, where and wise, that often had been at the parvice, there was also full rich of excellence. As great he was, and of great reverence, he seemed such, his words were so wise, justice he was full often in a size, by patent and by plain commission, for his science and for his high renown, of fees and robes he had many won. So great a purchaser was nowhere none. All was fee-simple to him in effect, his purchasing might not be in fact. Nowhere so busy a man as he their gnaws, and yet he seemed busier than he was. In terms had he cases and dooms all, that from the time of King William were full. There too he could indict and make a thing, there could no white pinch at his writing, and every statute could he plain by rote. He rode but homely in a medley coat, gird with a saint of silk, with bare smell, of his array till I no longer tail. The shipman. A shipman was there, waning far by west, for ought I what he was of dartmouth. He rode upon a round sea as he could, in a gown of folding to the knee. A dagger hanging on the lace had he about his neck under his arm a-down. The hot summer had made his hue all brown, and certainly he was a good fellow. Full many a draught of wine had he draw from Bordeaux ward, while that the Chapman sleep, of nice conscience took he no keep. Of that he fought, and had the higher hand, by water he sent him home to every land. But of his craft to reckon well his tides, his streams and his dangers him besides. His harbour and his moon, his load ménage, there was none such from hull to cartage. Hardy he was, and wise to undertake, with many a tempest had his beard been shake. He knew well all the havens as they were, from Gothland to the Cape of Finnister. And every creek in Bertang and in Spain, his barge Yellip was the modeling. End of section seven, recording by Vaughn. Section eight of library of the world's best literature, ancient and modern, volume nine. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org recording by Vaughn. Library of the world's best literature, ancient and modern, volume nine. Section eight, the temples of Venus, Mars and Diana, from The Night's Tale by Geoffrey Chaucer. First in the temple of Venus, Mace thou sea wrought on the wall, full piteous to behold, the broken sleeps and the sighs cold, the sacred tears and the waymenting, the fiery strokes of the desiring that loves servants in this life and urine, the oaths that her covenants assuring, pleasant and hope, desire, full hardiness, beauty and youth, bordery and riches, charms and force, leasings and flattery, dispense, business and jealousy that wear'd of yellow golds a garland and a cuckoo sitting on her hand, feasts, instruments, carols, dances, lust and array, and all the circumstances of love which that I reckoned have and reckoned shall, by order, wherein painted on the wall, and more than I can make of mention. For soothly all the mount of Scytheron, there Venus hath her principal dwelling, was showed on the wall in portraying, with all the garden and the lustiness. Not was forgot the porter idleness, nay Narcissus the fair of your agon, nay yet the folly of King Solomon, nay yet the great strength of Hercules, the enchantments of Medea and Cersei's, nofturnous with the hardy fierce courage, the rich croises catered in servage. Thus may ye see that wisdom, nay riches, beauty, nay slate, strength, hardiness, nay may with Venus holden champerty, for as her list the world, then may she gie. Lo, all these folks so caught were in her lass, till they for woe full often said, alas, suffice it here in samples one or two, and though I could reckon a thousand mo. The statue of Venus, glorious for to see, was naked fleeting in the large sea, and from the naval down all covered was, with waves green and bright as any glass, a sight all in her right hand had she, and on her hand full seemly for to see, a rose garland fresh and well-smelling, above her hand her doves flickering. Before her stood her son Cubido, upon his shoulders wings had he too, and blind he was, as it is often seen, a bow he bear, and arrows bright and keen. Why should I not as well each tell you all the portraiture that was upon the wall within the temple of mighty Mars the red? All painted was the wall in length and brand, like to the esters of the grisly place that hight the great temple of Mars in Thrace, in silk-cold frosty region, there as Mars had a sovereign mansion. First on the wall was painted a forest in which there dwelleth nighter-man knee-beast, with knotty, nary, barren trees old of stud-sharp and hideous to behold, in which there ran a rumble and a sail, as though a storm could pressen every bow, and downward from a hill under a bent there stood a temple of Mars armipotent, wrought all of burnt steel, of which the entry was long and straight and ghastly for to see, and there out came a rage and such a vise that it made all the gates for to reese. The northern light in at the door shone, for window on the wall knew was there none, through which men mighten any light discern. The doors were all of adamant etern, clenched over thwart and end long, with iron tough and for to make it strong, every pillar the temple to sustain, was ton great of iron bright and sheen. There saw I first the dark imagining of felony and all the compassing, the cruel iron red as any gleeed, the pick-perse and eek the pale dreed, the smiler with the knife under the cloak, the sheepen-brenning with the black smoke, the treason of the murdering in the bed, the open war with wounds all be bled. Contek with bloody knife and sharp menace, all full of jerking was that sorry place. The slayer of himself yet saw I there, his heart-blood hath bathed all his hair, the nail driven in the shewed a night, the cold death with mouth gaping a bright. A mince of the temple sat mischance with discomfort and sorry countenance, yet saw I woodness laughing in his rage, armed complaint, out heaths and fierce outrage. The carrion in the bush with throat corvin, a thousand slain and knot of qualm storvin. The tyrant with the prey by force reft, the town destroyed, there was nothing left. Yet saw I Brent the ship's hopsters, the hunt strangled with the wild bears, the so-fretten the child right in the cradle, the cook scalded for all his long ladle. Knott was forgotten by the infortune of Mart, the carter overridden with his cart. Under the wheel full low he lay a down. There were also of Mars division, the barber and the butcher and the smith, that forges sharp swords on his steth, and all above depainted in a tower saw I conquest sitting in great honour, with the sharp sword over his head hanging by a subtle twine's thread. The painted was the slaughter of Julius, of great Nero and of Antonius. Of that thick time they were unborn, yet was her death depainted there before. By menacing of Mars right by figure, so was it showed in that portraiture, as is depainted in the stars above, who shall be slain or else dead for love. Suffice it one ensemble in stories old, I may not reckon them all though I wold. The statue of Mars upon a cart stood, armed, and looked grim as he were would, and over his head there shined in two figures of stars that be clept in scriptures. That one Puella, that other Rubius. This god of arms was arrayed thus, a wolf there stood before him at his feet with eye in red and of a man he eat, with subtle pencil the painted was this story in redouting of Mars and of his glory. Now to the temple of Dion the Chaste, as shortly as I can I will me hast to tell you all the description. The painted be the wolves up and down, of hunting and of shamefast chastity. There so I, how woeful Callistope, when that Dion aggrieved was with her, was turned from a woman to a bear, and after was she made the lodestar. Thus was it painted I can say no far, her son is eek a star as men may see. There so I Dane turned till a tree, I may not the goddess Diane, but peeniest daughter which that height Dane. There so I action and heart make, for vengeance that he saw Dion all naked. I saw how that this hounds of him called, and freed in him for that they knew him not. Yet painted was a little further more, how Atalanta hunted the wild boar, and Maligar and many another moe, for which Diana wrought him care and woe. There so I many another wonder story, the witch me lists not drawn to memory. This goddess on a heart full high seat, with small hounds all about her feet, and underneath her feet she had a moon, waxing it was, and she'd wane and zoom. In gaudy green her statue cloth was, with bow in hand, and arrows in a case. Her iron cast she full low at down, there Pluto had his dark region. A woman travailing was her before, but for her child so long was unborn, full piteously Luchina gan she call, and said, help for thou mayst best of all. Well could he paint en-lifely that it wrought, with many a flurrin' he de-huse bolt. End of Section 8, Recording by Phone. Section 9 of the Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient Modern, Volume 9. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. LibriVox Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient Modern, Volume 9. Section 9, The Passing of the Fairies and the Partner's Tale by Geoffrey Chaucer. The Passing of the Fairies from the Wipe of Bath's Tale. In the olden days of the King Arthur, of which the Britons speak in great honour, was this land fulfilled of fairy. The Elf Queen, with her jolly company, danced full oft in many a green mead. This was the old opinion, as I read. I speak of many hundred years ago, but now can no man see none Elves mow. For now the great charity in prayers of limiters and other holy friars that search in every land and every stream, as thick as moats in the sunbeam, halls, chambers, kitchens, bowers, cities, burrows, castles, high towers, thorps, barns, sheepens, dairies, this makin' that there be no fairies. For there as want to walk an' was an Elf, there walk an' now the Limitor himself, and under melees, and in mo'l wennings, and sayeth his matins and his holy things, as he goeth in his limitation. Women may go now safely up and down, and every bush and under every tree, there is none other incubus but he. The partners tale. In Flanders, will whom was a company of young folk that haunted in folly as riot, hazard, stews, and taverns, whereas with harps, lutes, and getterns, they dance and play at dice, both day and night, and eat also, and drink it, or air might, through which they do the devil's sacrifice, within the devil's temple, and cursed wise, by superfluity, abominable. Heroates be so great and so damnable, that it is grisly for to hear him swear, our blessed Lord's body they to tear. Hem thought, Jews rent him not enough, and each at hem at others sin thoth. And right and on, then come, and tombesteris, fetus, and small, and young, frusesteris, singers with harps, bords, waferers, which be the very devil's officers, to kindle and blow the fire of letchery, that is annexed unto gluttony. These riotours, three of which I tell, long, erst air-prime rung of any bell, were set hem in a tavern for to drink, and as they sat they heard a bell clink, before a corpse was carried to his grave, that one of them gan call into his nave. Go bet, Quothe, and ask readily what corpse is this, that path of here, foreby, and look that thou report his name well. Sir Quothe, this boy, it needed neither a dell. It was told, ere ye came here two hours. He was parting an old fellow of yours, and suddenly he was slain to-night, fore-drunk as he sat on his bench upright. There came a privy thief, men cluppeth death, that in this country all the people slayeth, and with his spear he smote his heart at two, and went his way without in words more. He hath a thousand slain this pestilence, and, master ere ye come in his presence, may think it that it were necessary, for to beware of such an adversary. Be ready for him to meet him ever more. Thus taught me, my dame, I say no more. By Saint Mary said this taverner, the child saith soothe, for he hath slain this year, hence over a mile, within a great village. Both man and woman, child and hind, and page, I trow his habitation be there, to be advised great wisdom at work, ere that he did a man at dishonor. Ye gods, arms quoth this riotor, is it such peril with him to meet? I shall him seek by way and eek by street. I make avow to gods' dignity bones. Harkeneth, fellows, we three be all ones. Let each of us hold up his hand till other, and each of us become an other's brother. We shall slay this false traitor death. He shall be slain, which that so many slayeth, by gods' dignity ere it be night. Together have these three here, truths plight, to live and deem each of them for other, as though he were his own eboren brother. And up they start all drunken in this rage, or towards that village of which the taverner had spoken before, and many a grisly oath, then have they sworn, in Christ's blessed body, they to rent. Death shall be dead, if that they may him hint. When they have gone not fully half a mile right, as they would have trodden over a style, an old man and a poor with him met. This old man full meekly and greet, and sayeth thus, now, lords, God, you see, the proudest of these rioters three answered, again, what, Carl, with sorry grace, why art thou all four-wrapped, say thy face? Why liveest thou so long and so great age? This old man gann look on his visage, and said thus, for I need cannot find a man, though that I walked into end, neither in city nor in village, that would change his youth from mine age, and therefore moat I have mine age still, as long time as it is God's will. Nay death, alas, nay will not have my life, thus walk I, like a restless catech, and on the ground which is my mother's gate, I knock with my staff, both early and late, and sayen, leaf, mother, let me in, lo, how I vanish, flesh and blood and skin, alas, when shall my bones be at rest, mother, with you would I change in my chest, that in my chamber long time hath be, yea, for in air, clout to wrap me, and yet to me she will not do that grace, for which full pale and welt is my face. But, sir, as to you it is no courtesy to speak into an old man villainy, but he trespass in word or else indeed, and holy writ ye may yourselves well read. Against an old man whore upon his head, ye should arise, wherefore I give you red. Nay, do unto an old man none harm now, no more than ye would men did to you in age, if that ye so long abide, and God be with you where ye go or ride. I moat go thither as I have to go, Nay, old churl, by God thou shalt not so, said this other hazzador anon, thou partest not so lightly by St. John. Thou spake right now of thick traitor death, that in this country all our friends slayeth. Have here my truth, as thou art his a spy, tell me where he is, where thou shalt it abide. By God and by the holy sacrament, whore soothly thou art one of his assent, to slay us, young folk, thou false thief. Now, sirs, quote he, if that ye be so leaf to find in death, turn up this crooked way, for in that grove I left him by my fey under a tree, and there he will abide. Not for your boast he will him nothing hide. See ye that oak? Right there ye shall find him. Let's save you that bought again mankind, and you amend, thus said this old man. In every reach of these riotours ran, till he came to that tree, and there they found the florins fine of gold, coined round, well-nigh, and eight bushels as em thought, no longer than after death they sought, but each of them so glad was of that sight, for that the florins be so fair and bright, that they set him by this precious hoard. The worst of them, he spoke the first word. Brethren, quote he, take heed what I say. My wit is great, though I have bored in play. This treasure hath fortune unto us given, in mirth and jollity, our life to live in. And lightly as it cometh, so will we spend. Hey, God's precious dignity, who wend today that we should have so fair a grace. But might this gold be carried from this place, home to mine house, or else unto yours, for well you want that all this gold is ours, than were we in high felicity, but truly by day it may not be. Men wouldn't say that we were thieves strong, and for our own treasure do us haunt. This treasure must carried be by night, as wisely and as slyly as it might. Wherefore I read that cut among us all be drawn, and let us see where the cut will fall. And he that hath the cut, with heart, life, shall ready to the town, and that full swift, and bring us bread and wine full prively. And two of us shall keep and subtly this treasure well, and if he will not tarry, when it is night, we will this treasure carry. By one is sent, whereas us thinkest best, that one of him that cut brought in his fist, and bade him draw, and look where it will fall, and it fell on the youngest of them all, and forth toward the town he went anon. And also soon as that he was a-gone, that one of them spake thus unto the other, thou knowest well, thou art my sworn brother, thy prophet will I tell in thee anon. Thou lost well that our fellow is a-gone, and here is gold, and that full plenty, that shall depart it be among us three. And, nath, lest, if I can shape it so, that it depart it work among us two, had I not done a friend's turn to thee. The other answer, I note how that may be, he what how that the gold is with us tway. What shall we do? What shall we to him say? Shall it be counsels of the first shrew? And I shall tell in thee, in words few, what we shall do and bring it well about. I grant, quote the other, out of doubt, that by my truth I shall thee not be ray. Now, quote the first, thou lost well we be tway, and two of us shall stranger be than one. Look, when that he is set, thou right anon arises, though thou wouldest with him play. And I shall rive him through the sides tway, while that thou struggleest with him as in game. And would thy dagger look, thou do the same. And then shall all this gold depart it be, my dear friend, be twixen me and thee. Then may we both our lusts all fulfill, and play at dice right at our own will. And thus accord it be these shrews tway, and slay the third, as ye hath heard me say. This youngest, which that went unto the town, full often heart, he rolleth up and down the beauty of these florins new and bright. O Lord, quote he, if so were that I might have all this treasure to myself alone. There is no man that liveth under the throne of God that should live so merry as I. And the last the fiend or enemy put in his thought that he should poison be. With which he might slay his fellow's tway. For why the fiend found him in such living that he had leave him to sorrow bring, and this was utterly his full intent, to slay him both and never to repent. And forth he goeth, no longer would he tarry into the town unto apothecary, and prayed him that he would sell some poison that he might his rats quell, and eat there was a pole-cat in his haw, that as he said his capons had, he slaw. In vain he would wreak him if he might on vermin that destroyed him by night. The apothecary answered, and now shall have a thing that also, God my soul saith, in all this world there is no creature that eaten or drunk had of this confecture, not but the mountains of a corn of wheat, that he may shall his life anon forleet. Yea, stir he shall, and that in less while than thou wilt go apace, not but a mile, this poison is so strong and violent. This cursed man hath in his hand yent this poison in the box, and sith he ran and to the next street unto a man, and borrowed of him large bottles three, and in the two his poison poured he. The third he kept clean for his own drink. For all the night he showp him war to swink and carrying the gold out of that place, and when this riotor was sorry grace had filled with wine his great bottles three to his fellows again repaireth he. What needed it to sermon of it more, for right as they had cast his death before, right so they have him slain, and at anon, and when that this was done, thus spoke the one. Now let us sit and drink, and make us merry, and afterward we will his body bury. And with that word it hapt him part cause to take the bottle there the poison was, and drank and gave his fellow drink also, for which anon they stormen both two. But cert as I suppose that Avicen wrote never in no cannon and in no fenn, more wondrous signs of empoisoning than had these wretched two air here ending, thus ended be these homicides to enneak the false empoisoner also. End of section nine. Section ten of library of the world's best literature, ancient and modern, volume nine. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kay Hand. Library of the world's best literature, ancient and modern, volume nine. Section ten, The Nun's Priest's Tale and Truth, Ballad of Good Council by Geoffrey Chaucer. The Nun's Priest's Tale. A poor widow some deals stope in age was will home dwelling in a narrow cottage, beside a grove standing in a dale. This widow of which I tell you my tale, since the like day that she was last a wife, in patience led a full, simple life. For little was her cattle and her rent, by husbandry of such as God her sent, she found herself and eek her doctrine too. Three large sows had she and no more, three kind and eek a sheep that height more. Full sooty was her bower and eek her hall, in which she ate full many a slender meal. Of poignant sauce her needed never a deal, no dainty morsel passed through her throat. Her diet was accordant to her coat. Repletion nay made her never sick, a tempered diet was all her physique, and exercise and hearts sufficiency. The gout let her nothing for to dance, nap a plexi, nashent not her head. No wine, no drink she, neither white nor red. Her board was served, most with white and black, milk and brown bread, in which she found no lack. Signed bacon and sub-time an egg or tway, for she was, as it were, a manner day. A yard she had enclosed all about, with sticks and a dry ditch without, in which she had a cock height chanted clear, and all the land of crowing was none his pier. His voice was merrier than the merry organ, on mass days in that church gone, while Sikerer was his crowning in his lodge, than is a clock or an abbey-hoor lodge. By nature he knew each ascension of the equinoctical in Thilky town, for when degrees fifteen were ascended, then crew he that it might not be amended. His comb was redder than the fine quarrel, and battled, as it were, a castle wall. His bill was black, and as the jet it shone, like azure were his legs and his tongue, his nails whiter than the lily-flower, and like the burning gold was his color. This gentle cock had in his governance seven hens for to-do all his pleasants, which were his sisters and his paramours, and wonder like to him as of colors. Of which the fairest hewed on her throat was kleptfair damazelle partelote. Curious she was discreet and debonair, and compannable and bare herself so fair. Sin Thilky day that she was seven night old, that truly she hath the heart in hold of Chanticleer, lockin' in every lith. He loved her so, that well was him, therewith. But such a joy was it to hear him sing, when that the bright sun had gone to spring. In sweet accord my life is far and on land, for Thilky time, as I have understand, beasts and birds could speak and sing. And so befell that in a dawning, as Chanticleer among his wives all, sat on his purge that was in the hall, and next to him set this fair partelote, this Chanticleer, again groanin' in his throat. As man that in his dream is dretched sore, and when that partelote thus heard him roar, she was aghast and said, O heart's dear, what aileth you to groan in this man air? You be a very sleeper, fie for shame. And he answered and said thus, Madame, I pray that ye take it not to grief. By God, me met, I was in such a mischief, right now that yet my heart is sore afright. Now, God, quoth he, my swerven red awright, and keep my body out of foul prison. Me met how that I rummet up and down, within our yard where as I saw a beast was like at hound, and would have made a rest upon my body, and have had me dead. His color was betwixt yellow and red, and the gift was his tail and both his ears with black, unlike the remnant of his hairs. His snout small with glowing iron tway, yet of his look for fear I almost day. This caused me my groaning doubtless. A voy, quoth she, fie on you heartless. Alas, quoth she, for by that God above, now have ye lost my heart and all my love. I cannot love a coward by my faith, for certs, what so any woman saith, we all desire, if it might be, to have husbands hardy-wise and free, and sacra, and no niggered nay no fool, nay him that is aghast of every tool, nay none avantour by that God above. How durst ye say for shame unto your love that anything might make in you afeard? Have ye no man his heart and have a beard? Alas, and can ye be aghast of swervens? Nothing but vanity, God, what in swerven is swervens in gender of repletions, and oft a few men of complexions, when humours be too abundant in a white. Search this dream which ye have met tonight, cometh of the great superfluity, of your reddy cholera party, which causeth folk to dream in in here dreams, of arrows and a fire with red leans, of great beasts that they will hem bite, of contact and of welps great and light. Right as the humour of melancholy causeth full many a man in sleep to cry, for fear of black bears or bulls-blake, or elves-blake devils will him take. Of other humours could I tell also that work in many a man in sleep full woe, but I will pass as lightly as I can. That was so wise a man, said he not thus, nay do no force of dreams. Now, sir, quote she, when ye fly from the beams, for God's love as take some laxative, up peril of my soul and of my life, I counsel you the best, I will not lie, that both of collar and of melancholy ye purge ye, and for ye shall not tarry, though in this town is none apothecary. I shall myself to herbs teach anew, that shall be for your heel and for your prow, and in our yard, though herbs shall I find, the which have of here property by kind to purge anew beneath and eek above. Forget not this for God's own love, yet be full choleric of complexion, where the sun in his ascension ne'er find you not replete of humours hot, and if it do I dare well lay a groat, that ye shall have a fever tertian, or an ague that may be your bane. A day or two ye shall have digestives of worms, ere ye take your laxatives, of l'oreal, centuary, and fumentaire, or else of hella bore that groweth there, of catapuce, or of gates-berries, of herb ivy growing in our yard, that Mary is. Pick him up right as they grow and eat him in. Be merry, husband, for your father kin, dreadeth no dream. I can say you no more. Madame Quothee, grand mercy of your l'ore, but, nevertheless, as touching Dan Caten, thou hath of wisdom such a great renown, though that he bade no dreams for to dread, by God men may in old books read of many a man more of authority than ever Cato was, so moat either, that all the reverse say of this sentence and have well-founded by experience, that dreams be significations as well of joy as of tribulations, that folk endure in this life present, there needeth make of this none argument. The very preve sheweth it indeed. One of the greatest authors that men read sayeth thus that Wilhelm II follows went on pilgrimage in a full good intent and happened so they came into a town where as there was such a congregation of people and each so straight of herbarage that they may found as much as one cottage in which they both might eulogid be, wherefore they mustened of necessity, as for that night departs in company, and each of him goeth to his hostelry and took his lodging as it would fall, that one of them was lodged in a stall in a yard with oxen of the plow, that other man was lodged well and now, as was his adventure or his fortune, that us governeth all as in commune, and so befell that long ere it were the day this man met, in his bed, there as he lay, how that his fellow gan upon him call, and said, alas, for in an ox's stall, this night I shall be murdered, there I lie, now help me, dear brother, or I die. I shall haste come to me, he said. This man out of his sleep for fear abrade, but when he was wakened of his sleep he turneth him and took of this, no keep. Him thought his dream nas but a vanity, thus twice in his sleeping dreameth he, and at the third time yet his fellow, came, as him thought and said, I am now slaw. Behold my bloody wounds deep and wide, arise up early in the morrow tide, to the west gate of the town, quoth he, a cart full of dung there shalt thou see, into which my body is hid full privily. Do thou cart arresten boldly? My gold causeth my murder soothe to sayen, and told him every point how he was slain, with a full piteous face pale of hue, and trusted well his dream he found full true, for on the morrow, as soon as it was day, to his fellows in he took his way, and when that he came to this ox's stall, after his fellow he began to call. The hustler answered him a non, and said, Sir, your fellow is a gone, as soon as day he went out of the town. This man gan fallen in suspicion, remembering on his dreams that he met, and forth he goeth, no longer would he let, unto the west gate of the town, and a dung cart, as it were, to dung lound, that was arrayed in that same wise, as ye have heard the dead man devise. And within hearty heart he gan to cry, vengeance and justice of this felony, my fellow murdered, is this same night, and in this cart he lieth gaping upright. I cry out on the ministers, quoth he, that should keep and rule in this city. Harrow alas here lieth my friend slain, what should I more unto this tale say? The people outstart, and cast the cart to ground, and in the middle of the dung they found, the dead man, that murdered was all new. O blissful God, thou art so just and true, though how that thou berayest murder all way. Murder will out, that we see day by day. Murder is so lotsam and abominable, to God that is so just and reasonable, that he nay will not suffer it hella'd be, though it abide a year or two or three. Murder will out, this is my conclusion. And right anon ministers of that town, have hence the carter, and so sore him pine'd, and eek the hostler so sore engend, that they be new, her wickedness anon, and were unhang'd by the neck bone. Here may men see that dreams be to dread, and search in the same book I read, right in the next chapter after this. I gab not, so have I joy and bliss, to men that would have passed it over sea, for certain cause into a far country, if that the wind nay had it been contrary, that made him in a city for to tarry, that stood full merry upon and haven'd side. But on a day again they even tied, the wind again changed, and blew right as him lest, jolly and glad they went until her rest. And cast in him full early for to sail, but to that one man fell a great marvel, that one of them in sleeping as he lay, he met a wonder dream again the day. Him thought a man stood by his bedside, and him commanded that he should abide, and said to him thus, if thou to-morrow wend, thou shall be drant, my tale is at an end. He woke and told his fellow what he met, and prayed him his voyage to let, as for that day he prayed him for to abide, his fellow that lay by his bedside. Gann for to laugh, and scorned him full fast. No dream, quoth he, may so my heart aghast, that I will letten for to do my things. I set not a straw by thy dreamings, for s'weavens be but vanities and japes, men dream all day of owls or of apes, and eek of many amaze therewithal, men dream of thing that never was, nashal. But sith I see that thou wilt hear abide, and thus for slothen willfully thy tide, God what it rueeth me, and have good day. And thus he took his leave and went his way. But ere that he had half his course you sailed, not I not why. Nay, what mischanted ailed, but casually the ship's bottom rent, and ship and man under the water went, in sight of other ships there beside, that with him sailed at the same tide. And therefore, fair part alone, so dear, by such in samples old yet mayest thou leer, that no man should be too reckless of dreams, for I say thee doubtless, that many a dream full sore is for to dread. Lo, in the life of Saint Kenelm I read, that was Canulfas's son, the noble king, of Mersenreich, how Kenelm meant a thing. A little air he was murdered on a day, his murder in his a vision, he say. His Norris hymn expounded every dell, his Swevin, and bade him, for to keep him well, for treason. But he nass but seven-year-old, and therefore little tale hath he told, of any dream so holy was his heart. By God I had lifer than my shirt, that had ye read his legend as have I. Dame Partilote, I say you truly, Macrobius, that writ the a vision, in Alfred of the Worthy Scipian, affirmeth dreams and sayeth, that they be warnings of things, that men after see. And furthermore, I pray you looketh well in the Old Testament of Daniel, if he held dreams and evanity, read Eek of Joseph, and there shall ye see, where dreams be some time, I say not all, warning of things that shall after fall. Look of Egypt, the king Danferro, his baker and his butler also, whether they nay felt in none effect in dreams, whoso will seek in acts of sundry reams. May read of dreams, many I wonder, thing. Locrosius, which that was of Lydia king, met he not that he sat upon a tree which signified he should a hanged be. Though here, Andromoc, Hectorus wife, that day that Hector should lease his life, she dreamed on the same night beforen, how that the life of Hector should be lorn, if, Thilch day, he went into battle. She warned him, but it might not avail. He went forward to fight none the less, and he was slain a none of Achilles. But Thilch a tale is all too long to tell, and, Eek it is nigh day, I may not dwell. Shortly I say as fore conclusion, that I shall have of this a vision adversity, and I say furthermore, that I nay tell of laxatives no store, for they be venomous, I want it well, I hem defy, I love him never a dull. Now let us speak of mirth and stint all this, madam partelote, so have I bliss. Of one thing God hath sent me large grace, for when I see the beauty of your face, you be so scarlet red about your iron, it maketh all my dread for to die in. For also sicker as in principio mulier et ominus confusio. Madame the sentence of this Latin is, woman is man's joy and all his bliss. For when I feel a night your soft side, I am so full of joy and of solace, that I defy both suaven and dream. And with that word he flew down from the beam, for it was day and Eek his hens all, and with a chuck he gan him forth to call, for he had found a corn lay in the yard. Royal was he, he was no more afeard. He looketh as it were a grim lion, and on his toes he roamed up and down, him deigned not to set his feet to ground, he chucketh when he hath a corn, you found. And to him rennin' then his wife is all, thus royal as a prince is in his hall, leave I this chanta clear in his pasture, and after will I tell his aventure. When that the month in which the world began, that height march when God first maketh man, was complete in your past were also, sith and march began, thirty days and two, befell that chanta clear in all his pride, his seven wives walking by his side, cast up his eye into the bright sun, that in the sign of Taurus had run, twenty degrees and one and somewhat more, he knew by kind and by none other lore, that it was prime and crew with blissful steven, the sun, he said, is clomen up on heaven, forty degrees and one and more you is. Madame Partilot, my world's bliss, harkeneth these blissful birdies how they sing, and see the fresh flowers how they spring, full is mine heart of revel in solace. But suddenly him fell a sorrowful case, for ever the latter end of joy as woe, God, watch that worldly joy as soon ago, and if a wrether could fair indict him in a chronic safely, might it write, as for a sovereign notability. Now every wise men let him harken me, this story is also true I undertake, as is the book of Lancelot de Lake, that women hold in full great reverence, now will I turn again to my sentence. A coal fox full of sly iniquity, that in the grove had wwn years three, by high imagination formed cast, the same night throughout the hedges breast, into the yard their chanta clear the fair, was want and eke his wives to repair, and in a bed of wart is still he lay, till it was pasted under of the day, waiting his time on chanta clear to fall, as gladly do these homicides all, that in await lie to murder men. O false murderer lurking in thy den, O new scariat new guenalon, false dissimilar O greek synon, that broadest Troy all utterly to sorrow, O chanta clear accursed be that morrow, that thou in two that yard, foothold the beams, that thou were full well warranted by thy dreams, that thilk day was perilous to thee. But what that God for what moats needs be, after the opinion of certain clerks, witness on him that any perfect clerk is, that in school is great altercation, in this manner, in great disfusion, and hath been of a hundred thousand men, but I may cannot bolt it to the brand, as can the holy doctor Augustine, or Boshi, or the bishop Bradwarden. Whether that goads worthy for whiting, straineth me needly for to do a thing, needly cleap I simple necessity, or else if free choice be granted me, to do that same thing, or do it not, though God for what it ere, that it was wrought, or if his whiting straineth never Adele, but by necessity conditionale. I will not have to do of such matter, my tale is of a cock as ye may hear, that took his counsel of his wife with sorrow, to walk in in the yard upon that morrow, that he had met the dream that I have told. Women's counsels be full often cold, women's counsel brought us first to woe, and made Adam from paradise to go, there as he was full merry and well at ease. But I for naught to whom it might displease, if I counsel of woman would blame, pass over for I said it in my game. Read authors where they treat of such matter, and what they say of women ye may hear, these be the cock's words not mine. I can none harm of no woman divine. Fair in the sand to bathe her merrily, lieth partelote, and all her sisters by, again the sun enchanted clear so free, sang merrier than the mermaid in the sea. For physiologus seeth sickerly, how they that sing in well and merrily. And so befell that as he cast his eye among the wortess on a butterfly, he was aware of this fox that lay full low, nothing they list him then for to crow. But cried anon cock cock, and up he start as man that was affrayed in his heart, for naturally a beast desireeth flee from his contrary, if he may it see, though he nare erst had seen it with his eye. This chanted clear when he gan him a spy he would have fled, but that the fox anon said, Gentle sir, alas, why will ye gone? Be ye afraid of me that am your friend. Now, sirts, I were worse than a friend, if I to you would harm or villainy. I am not come your counsel for to a spy, but truly the cause of my coming was only for to hearken how that she sing. For truly ye have as merrier a steven, as any angel hath that is in heaven. Therewith ye have in music more feeling than had bochi or any that can sing. My lord your father, God his soul bless, and eek your mother of her gentiless. Have in minehouse ye been, to my great ease, and sirts soar, full feign, would I you please. But for men speak of singing, I will say, so might I brooken well my iron tway. Save you, I heard, never man so sing, as did your father in the more winning. Sirts it was of heart all that he sung, and for to make his voice the more strong, and for to make his voice the more strong, he would so pain him, that with both his iron, he must wink so loud he would cry in, and stand in on his tipton there with all, and stretch in forth his neck long and small. And eek he was of such discretion, that there are no man in no region, that him in song or wisdom might pass. I have well read in Dan Bernal the ass among his verse how that there was a cock, for that a priest's son gave him a knock upon his leg, while he was young and nice. It was for him to lease his benefits, but certain thereness no comparison betwixt the wisdom and discretion of your father and of his subtlety. Now singeth, sir, for saint Charity, let's see, can ye your father counterfeit? This chanted clear his wings gand to beat, as man that could his treason not a spy, so was he ravished with his flattery. Alas ye lords, many a false floutour is in your cords, and many a loose endure, that pleasing you well more by my faith, than he that sooth fastness unto you sayeth. Readeth Ecclesiast of flattery, beware ye lords of her treachery. This chanted clear stood high upon his toes, stretching his neck and held his eye in clothes, and gand to crow in loud for the nonce, and Dan Russell the fox start up at once, and by the garget hent chanted clear, and on his back toward the wood him bear. For yet he was there no man that him sued. O destiny that mayest not be eschewed! Alas that chanted clear flew from the beams, alas his wife ne'erot not of dreams, and on a Friday fell all this mischance. O Venus that art goddess of pleasantce! Sin that thy servant was this chanted clear, and in thy service did all his power, more for delight than world to multiply. Why wouldst thou suffer him on thy day to die? O Gophred dear master Sovereign, that when thy worthy king Richard was slain, with shot complainest his death so sore, why nad I now thy sentence and thy lore, that Friday for to chide, as did ye? For on a Friday suitly slain was he. Then would I shoe you how that I could plain for shanta clears dread and for his pain? Surts such cry, nay lamentation, was nare of ladies made when Ileon was won and Pyrrhus with his straight swerve, when he had hent king Priam by the beard, and slain him, ath seus anidios, as maiden all the hens in the close, when they had seen of chanta clear the sight. But sovereignly dame partalote shrite, full louder than hast drubola's wife, when that her husband had lost his life and that the romans had burnt carthage. She was so full of torment and of rage that woefully into the fire she start and Brent herself in with a steadfast heart. O woeful hens, wright so cry to knee, as when that Nero Brent the city of Rome, cry to senators' wives for that their husbands lost in all her lives, without in guilt this Nero hath him slain. Now will I turn to my tale again? This selly widow and eager daughters too herden these hens cry and make an woe, and out at Doris starten they anon and saw the fox toward the grove gone, and bear upon his back the cock away. They criedened out, Harrow and Willaw, ha ha the fox, and after him they ran and eek with staves many another man. And all our dog and Talbot and Garland and Mulkin with a distaff in her hand, ran cow and calf and eek the very hogus, so were they feared for barking of the dogus. And shouting of the men and women eek, they ran in so hem thought her heart to break. They yell ed as fiends do in hell, the ducks cryden as men would hem quell. The geese for fear flew an oar the trees, and out of the hive came the swarm of bees, so hideous was the noise, ah, been seat. Ser T. Jack Straw and his man, Neymaden never shouts half so shrill, when they that wouldn't any Fleming kill, as silk day was made upon the fox. A brass they brought in beams and of box, of horn and bone in which they blew and pooped, and there with all they shrieked and they hooped. Seemed as that heaven should fall. Now good men, I pray you harkeneth all, lo have fortune turneth suddenly, the hope and pride eek of her enemy. This cock that lay upon the fox's back, in all his dread unto the fox he spake, and said, Sir, if that I were as ye, yet would I say as whist God help me? Turneth again, you proud, churlous all, every pestilence upon you fall. Now am I come and to the woods side, mauger your head, the cock shall here abide. I will eat him in faith in that anon. The fox answered, in faith it shall be done, and as he spake that word all suddenly, this cock break from his mouth deliverly, and high upon a tree he flew anon. And when the fox saw that he was gone, alas, quoth he, ochante clear alas, I have to you, quoth he, done trespass, inasmuch as I maked you affeared, when I you hint and brought out of the yard, but, sir, I did it of no wick intent, come down and I shall tell you what I meant. I shall say sooth to you, God help me so. Nay then, quoth he, I shrew us both too, and first I shrew myself of blood and bones, if thou beguile me any after than once. Thou shalt no more, through thy flattery, do me to sing and wink in with mine eye. For he that winketh when he should see, all woefully, God let him never thee. Nay, quoth the fox, but God give him mischance, that is so indiscreet of governance, that jangleth when he should hold his peace. Lo such it is for to be reckless, and negligent, and trust on flattery, but ye that hold in this tale a folly, as of a fox or of a cock and hen, take the morality thereof, good men. For St. Paul saith, that all that is written is, to our doctrine it is writ with. Take it to fruit, and let the chath be still. Now good God, if that it be thy will, assayeth my Lord, so make us all good men, and bring us to his high bliss. Amen. Truth. Ballad of Good Council. Flea from the press, and dwell with soothfastness. Suffice thine own thing, though it be small. For horde hath hate, and climbing tickleness. Press hath envy, and wheel blent overall. Savor no more than thee behove shall. Rule well thyself, that other folks can street, and truth shall deliver, it is no dreed. Tempest thee not all crooked to redress, in trust of her that turneth as a ball. For great rest stands in little business. Beware also to spurn against an awl. Strive not as doth the crock with the wall. Doante thyself, that dauntest others deed. And truth shall deliver, it is no dreed. That thee is sent to receive in buxomness, the wrestling for this world asketh a fall. Here is none home, hearness but wilderness. Forth pilgrim forth, forth beast out of thy stall. Know thy country, look up, thank God of all. Hold the highway, and let thy ghost thee lead. And truth shall deliver, it is no dreed. Envoy, therefore thou vouch, leave thine old wretchedness. Unto the world, leave now to be thrall. Cry him mercy, that of his high goodness, made thee of not, and in a special. Draw unto him, and pray in general. For thee and each for other heavenly mead, and truth shall deliver, it is no dreed.