for the class 28.02.2018

Dear Students,

Please check Bilgi Learn. I have attached two Word Documents. The first one is the Miller's Tale the second text includes some parts of Beowulf.

best
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The Miller's Tale

 by Geoffrey Chaucer (circa 1390)
Adapted from the Middle English by Dr. David Breeden

Some time ago there was, dwelling at Oxford, A rich lout who ran a boarding house. By craft he was a carpenter. With him there lived a poor scholar Who had studied the arts, but his joy Was toward the study of astrology. He could reach certain conclusions, Solve certain problems by interrogation, If men asked him at what times There might come drought or showers; Or if men asked him what might happen And such things as that; I can't say all he could tell. This student was called Handy Nicholas. Of secret love he knew, and of pleasures; And also he was subtle and very private, And, like a maiden, meek in appearance. A room had he in that boarding house, Alone, without any company. And it was well supplied with sweet herbs; And he himself was as sweet as the root Of licorice or ginger. His Almageste, his books both large and small, His astrolabe, which belonged to his art, And his algorism stones lay neatly On shelves resting at the head of his bed; His clothes press was covered with a red wool cloth; And above all this there lay a gay zither On which he played melodies at night So sweetly that all the room rang. He would sing "The Angel to the Virgin"; And after that he would sing "The King's Note." Often his merry throat was blessed. And thus this sweet student spent his time On his own income and with the help of friends. The carpenter had recently married a woman Which he loved more than his life; Eighteen years old she was. Jealous he was, and held her narrowly caged, For she was wild and young, and he was old, And feared he might become a cuckold. He knew not Cato (for his wit was rude) Who advised that men should marry their own age. Men should wed their own type, For youth and age is often at debate. But since he was fallen in the snare, He had to endure, like everyone else, his problem. Fair was this young woman, and As graceful as a weasel was her small body. A belt she wore, with bars of silk, An apron also as white as morning milk And upon her loins many a piece of cloth. White was her smock, and embroidered in the front And also behind. Her collar Was of coal-black silk, both within and without. The ribbons of her white cap matched her collar; Her broad headband was of silk, and set high. And for a fact she had a lecherous eye. Very daintily were her eyebrows plucked, And those were angled and as black as any sloe. She was much more fun to look at Than is the early-ripe pear tree, And softer than the wool of a sheep. And by her belt hung a purse of leather, Tasseled with silk, and pearled with metal. In all this world, to seek up and down, There is not a man so wise that he could imagine So happy a darling or such a wench. Brighter was the shining of her complexion Than in the Tower the newly minted coins. To speak of her song, it was as loud and lively As any swallow sitting on a barn. Also she could skip and make game Like any kid or calf following his mother. Her mouth was as sweet as honeyed drinks, Or a hoard of apples laid in hay or heath. Winsome she was, as is a jolly colt, Long as a mast, and upright as a bolt. A brooch she wore upon her low collar, As brood as is the boss of a shield. Her shoes were laced high on her legs. She was a primrose, a little pig's eye, For any lord to lay in his bed, Or yet for any good yeoman to wed. Now, sire, and again, sire, so happened the case, That once upon a time this Handy Nicholas Started to flirt and play with this young woman While her husband was gone to Oseneye, Since students are very subtle and very sly. Intimately he caught her, by the short hair, And said, "I know that if I don't get what I want, For secret love of you, lover, I will die." He held her firmly by the thighs, And said, "Lover, love me at once, Or I will die, God help me!" And she sprang like a colt does in a stall, And turning her head away fast, She said, "I will not kiss you, by my faith! Why, let me be," said she, "let me be, Nicholas, Or I will scream 'Rape' and 'Alas!' Put away your hands, for your honor!" Then Nicholas began to cry for forgiveness, And spoke so beautifully, and pressed her so strongly, That she at last gave in, And swore an oath by Saint Thomas of Kent That she would do his will, When she could find a time to do it. "My husband is so jealous that, Unless we watch well and keep private, I know well I am dead," said she. "We must be very secret in this case." "No, don't worry about that," said Nicholas. "A student would have poorly used his time, If he could not fool a carpenter." And thus they agreed and swore To watch for a time, as I have said before. When Nicholas had done these things, And stroked her well about the loins, He kissed her sweetly and took his zither, And played fast, making a melody. Then it so happened on a holy day That to the parish church To do Christ's own work, This good woman went. Her forehead shone as bright as any day, So was it washed when she stopped her work. Now there was in that church a parish clerk Who was named Absolon. Curled was his hair, and it sparkled like gold, And spread out like a fan large and broad; Completely straight and even lay his hair's part. His complexion was red, his eyes as gray as a goose. With Saint Paul's window carved on his shoes, In red stockings he went handsomely. Dressed he was daintily and properly All in a tunic of a light blue; Very fair and thick were its laces set. And over that he had a gay surplice As white as is the blossom of a branch. A merry child he was, so God me save. Well he could let blood and clip and shave, And make a charter of land or deed. In twenty ways could he trip and dance After the fashion of Oxford then, And with his legs kick to and fro, And play songs on a small lute; Also he sang sometimes in a high voice; And also he could play the guitar. In all the town there was not a brew house nor tavern That he didn't grace with his entertainment, Wherever any sprightly barmaid was. But truth to tell, he was a bit squeamish Of farting, and in his speech a bit fastidious. This Absolon, so jolly and lively, Goes with a censer on the holidays, Censing the women of the parish eagerly; And many a lovely look on them he casts, And namely on this carpenter's wife. To look on her he thought was a merry life, She was so proper and sweet and lecherous. I dare to say, if she had been a mouse, And he a cat, he would have caught her at once. This parish clerk, this jolly Absolon, Had in his heart such a love-longing That he took no noon offering of any woman; For courtesy, he said, he would have none. The moon, when it was night, shown brightly, And Absolon took his guitar To awake his lover for lovemaking. Out he went, jolly and amorous, And soon he came to the carpenter's house A little after the cocks had crowed, And got himself against a window That was part of the carpenter's wall. He sung in his gentile, high voice, Well accompanied by his guitar: "Now, dear lady, if you will it, I pray you to have mercy on me," The carpenter awoke and heard the song, And soon enough said to his wife, "What! Alisoun! Don't you hear Absolon, Singing like that under our bedroom wall?" And she answered her husband, "Yes, God knows, John, I hear every word." This goes on; what more do you need to know? From day to day this jolly Absolon So woos her and he is so woebegone That he can't sleep, night or day; He combs his broad locks and makes them handsome; He woos her with go-betweens, And swears he will be her own servant; He sings, quavering like nightingale. He sent her spiced wine, mead, and spiced ale, And wafer cakes, piping hot, fresh out of the oven; And, since she was a town girl, he offered a bribe. For some folks will be won by money, And some by beating, and some by courtesy. One time, to show his litheness and skill, He played Herod on a high scaffold. But what availed him in this case? She so loved this Handy Nicholas That Absolon could go blow a buck's horn; He got nothing but scorn for all his labor. And thus she made Absolon her ape, And all his earnest attempts she turned into a joke. Very true is this proverb, it is no lie; Men say this rightly: "Always near a sly one Makes the distant one disliked." It made no difference if Absolon was mad or wroth, Because he was far from her sight, And the nearby Nicholas stood in his light. Now bear yourself well, you Handy Nicholas, For Absolon may wail and sing "alas." And so it happened on a Saturday, This carpenter was gone to Osenay; And Handy Nicholas and Alisoun Agreed to this conclusion: That Nicholas should develop a plan That would trick the silly, jealous husband; And if the game went correctly, She would sleep in his arms all night, For this was his desire and hers also. And right enough, without more words, This Nicholas would wait no longer, But secretly to his room carried Both food and drink for a day or two, And told her to tell her husband If he asked about Nicholas, That she didn't know where he was, That she had not seen him all day; She believed that he must be ill, For no matter how loud she called, He would not answer for anything. This went on all that Saturday. Nicholas staying in his bedroom, Eating and sleeping, or doing what he wanted, Until Sunday when the sun went down. This silly carpenter marveled greatly At Nicholas, or what might be ailing him, And said, "I am afraid, by Saint Thomas, Something is wrong with Nicholas. God shield him from dying suddenly! This world is now out of joint, surely. I saw today a corpse carried to church That only last Monday I saw out working. Go up," said he unto his servant, "Knock at his door, or knock with a stone. See what's the matter and tell me straight." The servant went up bravely And stood at the bedroom door Crying and knocking like crazy. "What! how! what are you doing, Master Nicholas? How can you sleep all the long day?" But all was for naught--he heard not a word. A hole he found, low on a board, A place were the cat went in and out, And at that hole he looked in, And at last he saw a sight. Nicholas sat upright, gaping, As if he had stared at the new moon. Down the servant went quickly and told his master How Nicholas had looked when he saw him. The carpenter blessed himself And said, "Help us, Saint Frideswide! A man little knows what may happen to him. This man has fallen, from his astronomy, Into some madness or some agony. I always knew that would happen! Men should not know God's secrets. Yea, blessed is the ignorant man Who knows only his Creed! This happened to another student of astronomy; He walked out in the fields To see the stars, and what should happen but He fell into a pit; He didn't see that! But yet, by Saint Thomas, I'm very sorry for Handy Nicholas. He shall be scolded for his studying, If I may say so, by Jesus, king of heaven! Get me a staff that I can pry with, While you, Robyn, lift up the door. That should bring him out of his studies." So to the bedroom door he began to go. His servant was a strong fellow And by the hasp he heaved the door; It fell to the floor at once. Yet Nicholas sat as still as stone, And kept gaping up into the air. The carpenter thought he was in despair, And grabbed him strongly by the shoulders And shook him hard, and yelled angrily, "What! Nicholas! What, how! What, look down! Awake and think on Christ's passion! I protect you, by the cross, from elves and creatures." Then he said the night spell quickly, On all four corners of the house And on the threshold of the front door: "Jesus Christ and Saint Benedict, Bless this house from every thing wicked, Against night's spirits, the white paternoster! Where go you, Saint Peter's sister?" At last Handy Nicholas Began to sigh greatly and said, "Alas! Shall all the world be lost soon after now?" The carpenter answered, "What say you? What! think on God, as we do, men who work." Nicholas answered, "Fetch me drink, And then I will speak in private Of certain things that concern me and you. I will tell it to none other, for sure." The carpenter went down and came again, And brought a quart of strong ale; And when each had drank his part, Nicholas shut and locked his door, And sat down by the carpenter. He said, "John, my dear and beloved host, You must swear to me here by your faith That you will reveal this to no one; For it is Christ's prophecy that I tell, And if you reveal it to anyone, you are lost; You shall suffer his vengeance If you betray me: you shall go mad. Nay, Christ forbid it, by his holy blood!" Said then this silly man, "I am no blabbermouth; Nor, though I talk, am I a lover of gab. Say what you will, I shall never tell it To woman nor child, by him that harrowed hell!" "Now John," said Nicholas, "I will not lie; I have found in my astrology, As I have looked in the bright moon, That on Monday next, at quarter night, Shall fall a rain so wild and mad That half so great was never Noah's flood. This world," he said, "in less than an hour Shall all be drowned, so hideous will be the shower. Thus shall mankind drown, and lose its life." The carpenter answered, "Alas, my wife! And shall she drown? Alas, my Alisoun!" He almost fell down for the sorrow, And said, "Is there no remedy in this case?" "Why, yes, by God," said Handy Nicholas, "If you will listen to lore and reason. You must not do as you think; For thus says Solomon, that was very wise: 'Work according to advice and thou shalt not be sorry.' And if you will work with the good advice That I will give, without mast or sail, Yet shall I save her and you and me. Have you not heard how Noah was saved Because our Lour had warned him before That all the world should be lost in water?" "Yes," said the carpenter, "long ago." "Have you not heard," said Nicholas, "also The sorrow of Noah with his family, Before he could get his wife to the ship? He would have rather, I will say, To take all his black sheep And leave the wife to a ship all by herself. And therefore, do you know what is best? This demands haste, and for hasty things Men should not preach or delay. Now, we should go get us A kneading trough, or else a tub, For each of us, but be sure that they be big, So that we may swim, as in a barge. And put in provisions sufficient For one day only. Bah to the rest! The water shall slacken and go away In the morning of the next day. But Robyn, your servant, must not know of this, Nor your maid Jill can I save; Ask not why, for though you ask me, I will not tell God's secrets. Let it suffice you, unless it make you crazy, To have as great a grace as Noah had. Your wife shall I well save, without doubt. Go now your way and speed you about this business. But when you have, for her and you and me, Gotten these three kneading tubs, Then shall you hang them high in the roof, So that no man will discover our purveyance. And when you have done thus, as I have said, And have laid up our provisions, And also an ax, to cut the cords in two So that we may go when the water comes, And break a hole high up on the gable, Out toward the garden, over the stable, So that we may freely pass on our way When the great shower is gone, Then shall you swim as merrily, I swear, As does the white duck after her drake. Then will I call, 'Hello, Alisoun! Hello, John! Be happy, for the flood will pass soon.' And you will wilt say, 'Hail, Master Nicholas! Good morning; I see you're well today.' And then shall we be lords all our lives, Of all the world, as was Noah and his wife. But of one thing I warn you strongly: Be well advised on that night When we enter into our ships That none of us may speak a word, Nor call, nor cry, but be in prayer; For it is God's own dear wish. Your wife must hang far from you So that there be no sin between you, No more in looking than in deed. This rule has been spoken. Go, God speed you! Tomorrow night, when men are all asleep, Into our kneading-toughs we shall go, And sit there, awaiting God's grace. Go now your way. I have no more time To make this a longer sermon. Men say thus: 'Send the wise, and say nothing.' You are so wise I need not tell you this. Go, save our lives, I beseech you." The silly carpenter went on his way. Sometime he said "Alas!" ands sometimes "Welladay!" And to his wife he told his secret, And she was aware, and knew better than he What all this quaint affair meant. Nonetheless she acted as if she would die And said, "Alas! Go right away! Help us escape or we will be dead soon! I am your true, faithful wedded wife; Go, dear spouse, and help to save our lives." Lo! What a thing affection is! Men may die of imagination, So deep can impressions be taken. This silly carpenter began to shake; He truly thought that he might see Noah's flood come wallowing like the sea To drown Alisoun, his dear honey. He wept, wailed, made lamentation. He sighs sorrowfully; He goes and gets a kneading trough, And after that a big tub and a little, And secretly he sent them to his house, And hung them, concealed, in the roof. With his own hand he made three ladders To climb by the rungs and the steps Up to the tubs hanging in the beams, And he provisioned both trough and tub With bread and cheese and good ale, Providing just enough for a day. But before he had finished all this, He sent his servant and also his maid On a business trip to London. On Monday, when it drew toward night, He shut his door and, without using a candle, Arranged all things as they should be. And shortly, up all three climbed; They sat still for awhile. "Now, say the paternoster, quietly!" said Nicholas, And "quietly," said John, and "quietly," said Alisoun. The carpenter said his devotions And sat still and said his prayers, Waiting for the rain as if he heard it. The dead sleep for weariness of attention. Fell on this carpenter right, as I guess, About curfew-time, or a little more; For all the work of his soul, he groaned, And soon he snored, for his head lay wrong. Down the ladder stalked Nicholas, And Alisoun hurried softly down; Without a word they went to bed, In the place the carpenter usually lay. There was revel and melody; And thus lithe Alisoun and Nicholas went To the business of mirth and pleasure, Until the bell of lauds rang the early morning, And friars in the chancel went to sing. The parish clerk, the amorous Absolon, Who was for love all woebegone, Upon the Monday had been at Oseneye With company to disport and play, And asked a cloisterer by chance What he knew about John the carpenter; And the cloisterer took him away from the church, And said, "I don't know. I haven't seen him working Since Saturday; I believe he has gone For timber. Our abbot sent him; For he often goes for timber, And lives at the barn a day or two; If not there, he is certainly at his house. Where he is, I cannot certainly say. Absolon was jolly and light of heart, And thought, now is time to stay awake all night; For surely I have not seen him stirring About his door since the break of day. So may I thrive. I shall, at cock's crow Secretly knock at his window That stands low there by his bedroom. Then to Alisoun I will tell all My love-longing. I can't fail To at the very least get a kiss. Some manner of comfort I shall have, in faith. My mouth has itched all this long day; That is a sign of kissing at the least. Also, all night I dreamed I was at a feast. Therefore, I will go sleep an hour or two, And all the night then will I wake and play." When the first cock had crowed, then Up rose this jolly lover Absolon And arrayed himself beautifully, to perfection. But first, even before he had combed his hair, He chewed grain and licorice So he would smell sweet. Under his tongue an herb he bore, For thereby he thought to be gracious. He roamed to the carpenter's house, And still he stood under the window-- Unto his breast it reached, it was so low-- And softly he coughed with a quiet voice-- "What are you doing, honey-comb, sweet Alisoun, My fair bird, my sweet cinnamon? Awake, my love, and speak to me! Very little do you think on my woe, That I sweat for your love wherever I go. No wonder is it, though, that I faint and sweat; I moon like a lamb after the teat. Indeed, lover, I have such a love-longing, That like a true turtledove is my mourning. I cannot eat as much as a maid." "Get away from that window, Jack fool," she said; "So help me god, it will not be 'come kiss me.' I love another--else I would be to blame-- Another much better than you, by Jesus, Absolon. Get on your way, or I will throw a stone, And let me sleep, in the Devil's name!" "Alas," said Absolon, and "welladay, That true love was ever so ill used! Then kiss me, since it can be no better, For the love of Jesus, and for the love of me." "Will you go away then?" said she. "Yes, certainly, lover," said Absolon. "Then get ready," said she, "I'm coming." And to Nicholas she said quietly, Now hush, and you shall laugh your fill." Absolon got down on his knees And said, "I am a lord of all ranks; For after this I hope there comes more. Lover, your grace, and sweet bird, your favor!" She opened the window in haste. "Get on with it," said she, "come on, and get on with it Or the neighbors might see you." Absolon wiped his mouth dry. The night was as dark as pitch, or as coal, And out the window she stuck her hole, And Absolon it befell no better or worse, But with his mouth he kissed her naked arse, Savoring it before he knew what it was. Back he jumped and thought it was strange, For well he knew a woman has no beard. He felt a thing all rough and long haired And said, "Fie! Alas! what have I done?" "Tee hee!" said she, and slammed the window shut. Absolon went forth on his sorrowful way. "A beard! A beard!" said Handy Nicholas, "By God's body, that went beautifully." Wretched Absolon heard every word, And he began to chew his lip in anger. He said to himself, "I shall repay you." Who rubs now, who scrubs now his lips With dust, with sand, with straw, with cloth, with chips, But Absolon, who says often, "Alas! My soul I commit to Satan! I would rather avenge this shame Than have the whole town," said he. "Alas," said he, "alas, that I did not turn aside!" His hot love was cold and quenched; For from the time that he had kissed her arse, For lovemaking he gave not a cress; He was healed of that malady. Quite often he denounced lovemaking, And wept like a beaten child. A soft step he took over the street To a blacksmith called Master Gerveys, Who in his forge made plows. He sharpened a share and coulter busily. Absolon knocks softly, "What, who are you?" "It is I, Absalon. Open up, Gerveys, quick!" "What, Absolon! for Christ's sweet cross, Why rise you so early? eh, forgive us all! What ails you? Some merry girl, God knows, Has brought you thus upon the stir. By Saint Note, know well what I mean." Absolon cared not a bean For all the jokes; not a word did he say; He had more tow on his distaff Than Gerveys knew, and said, "Dear friend, That hot coulter in the chimney there, Loan it to me, I have something to do with it, And I will bring it back very soon." Gerveys answered, "Certainly, were it gold, Or a bag of coins uncounted, You shold have it, as I am true smith. Ai, Christ's foot! what will you do with it?" "For that," said Absolon, "be as be may. I shall tell you all tomorrow." He caught the coulter by the cold steel. Softly he went out the door And walked to the carpenter's wall. He coughs first, and knocks then Upon the window, just as he did before. Alisoun answered, "Who is there? Who knocks so? I believe it's a thief." "Why, no," said he, "God knows, my sweet lover, I am your Absolon, my darling. I have," said he, "brought you a ring of gold. My mother gave it to me, so God save me; Very fine it is, and delicately engraved. This will I give you, if you kiss me." Nicholas had gotten up to piss And thought he would surpass the joke; Absolon would kiss his arse before he left. He opened the window quickly, And put out his arse secretly Over the buttock to the thigh bone; Then said the clerk Absolon, "Speak, sweet bird, I know not where you are." Nicholas then let fly a fart As great as if it had been a thunder clap, That with the stroke Absolon was almost blinded; But he was ready with his hot iron And hit Nicholas right on the arse. Off went about a hand's breadth of skin, The hot coulter so burned his butt, And he thought he would die of the pain. As if he were mad he began to cry, "Help! water! water! water! help, for God's heart!" This woke the carpenter from his slumber, And he heard someone crying "water" as if he were mad, And the carpenter thought, Alas, Noel's flood has come! He sat up without further thought And with his ax he cut the cord in two, And down it all went; he stopped not to sell Either bread or ale until he hit the sill Upon the floor, and there in a swoon he lay. Up jumped Alisoun and Nicholas, And cried "Out" and "Harrow" in the street. The neighbors, both rich and poor, Ran to stare at this man Lying in a swoon, pale and wan, For with the fall he had broken his arm. But stand he must for his own harm; For when he spoke, he was soon overcome By Handy Nicholas and Alisoun. They told everyone that he was mad, He was so afraid of Noah's flood In his fantasy that in his vanity He had bought three kneading troughs, And had hung them in the roof above; And that he had begged them for the love of God To sit in the eve to keep him company. The people began to laugh at his fantasy; Into the roof they looked and gaped And turned all his harm unto a joke. Whatever the carpenter said in answer, It was for nothing--no one heard his reasons. He swore so many great oaths That he was considered crazy in all the town; For every clerk stood firmly by the other. They said, "The man is crazy, my dear brother. And every man began to laugh at this strife. Thus screwed was this carpenter's wife, Despite all his care and his jealousy; And Absolon has kissed her lower eye; And Nicholas is scalded in the butt. This tale is done, and God save all of us!

Beowulf

 Beowulf is more than 3000 lines long. If you are interested in old Anglo Saxon English you can listen to a part of the original version:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0zorjJzrrvA

Let's read Beowulf next week

Beowulf is the longest epic poem in Old English, the language spoken in Anglo-Saxon England.

Do not worry about it though, we are going to analyze the text step by step.

Please print out for class:

1. http://academic.brooklyn.cuny.edu/webcore/murphy/canterbury/2genpro.pdf

2. 

The Wife of Bath’s Tale

In the olden days of King Arthur,

Of whom Britons speak with great honour,

All this land was filled full with faerie.

The Elf-Queen with her fair company

Danced full oft in many a green mead.

That was the old opinion, as I read –

I speak of many hundred years ago.

But now no man sees elves I know,

For now the endless charity and prayers

Of limiters and other holy friars,

Who search every field and every stream

As thick as are the motes in a sun-beam,

Blessing halls, chambers, kitchens, bowers,

Cities, boroughs, castles and high towers,

Thorps, barns, cattle-sheds, and dairies –

This is why there are no longer faeries.

For wherever there used to walk an elf,

There walks now the limiter himself

In the noon-time and in the mornings,

And says his matins and his holy things

As he goes round his limitation’s bounds.

Women may go safely up and down;

In every bush or under every tree,

There is no incubus about but he,

And he will only do them dishonour.

And it so befell that this King Arthur

Had in his house a lusty bachelor

Who one day came riding from the river,

And it chanced that, alone as he was born,

He saw a maiden walking there at dawn,

Of which maid, no matter how she pled,

By very force he stole her maidenhead;

Which oppression raised so great a clamour

And such petitions to King Arthur

That this knight was condemned as dead

Bu court of law and set to lose his head –

Peradventure, such was the statute though –

But that the Queen and other ladies so

Prayed the King for so long for his grace

That he his life granted him in its place,

And gave him to the Queen, to do her will,

To choose whether she would save or kill.

The Queen thanked the King with all her might;

And after thus she spoke to the knight,

When she thought it right, upon a day,

‘You yet stand,’ quoth she, ‘in such array

That of your life you yet shall have no surety.

I grant you life though, if you can tell me

What thing it is that women most desire.

Beware and keep your neck from axe’s ire!

And if you cannot tell me now anon,

Yet I will give you leave to be gone

A twelve-month and a day, and everywhere

Seek answer sufficient to this matter there.

And surety will I have, before you ride a pace,

That you return in person to this place.’

Woe was this knight, and sorrowfully mired,

But then, he might not do as he desired.

And at the last he chose to go and wend,

And come again, right at the year’s end,

With such answer as God would him purvey;

And so took leave and wended on his way.

He sought at every house in every place

Wherever he had hopes of finding grace,

To learn what thing women love the most;

But could not find by inland field or coast

Any one solution to this matter

On which two creatures agreed together.

Some said women had most love of riches;

Some said honour, some said happiness;

Some rich array, some said lust abed,

And oft times to be widowed and to wed.

Some said that our heart is most eased

When we are flattered most and pleased.

(I cannot lie! He’s very near reality;

A man may win us best by flattery;

And with attention, all the business,

Are we best snared, the great and less.)

And some said that we love best

To be free, and do as we’re possessed,

And that no man reprove us of our vice,

But claim we are not fools but somewhat wise.

For truly there is none at all among us,

If anyone on some sore spot will rub us

That will not kick if he tells the truth.

Try, and you will find it so, in sooth.

For, be we ever so vicious within,

We would be held as wise and free of sin.

And some said that great delight have we

In being thought dependable, discreet,

Steadfastly maintaining our purpose well,

And not betraying things that some might tell –

But value that at less than a rake-handle!

Woman’s discretion isn’t worth a candle;

Witness old Midas – will you hear the tale?

Ovid, amongst his great and small ale,

Says Midas had, under his long hair,

Upon his head two ass’s ears there;

The which deformity he hid from sight

Of every man, as subtly as he might,

That save his wife, none knew it was so.

He loved her best, and trusted her also;

He begged her that to no creature

She would tell of this sad feature.

She swore ‘no’, for all the world to win,

She would not do such villainy and sin,

As to gain her husband so foul a name;

She would not tell she said out of shame.

But nevertheless she almost died

At having this secret so long to hide.

She felt it swell so sore about her heart

That some word was sure from her to start.

And since she dared tell it to no man,

Down the marsh close nearby she ran –

Till she reached it her heart was all afire –

And as a bittern booms in the mire,

She laid her mouth to the water down.

‘Betray me not, water, with your sound!’

Quoth she, ‘I tell it now, but just to you:

My husband has long ass’s ears two!

Now is my heart all whole; now is it out.

I could no longer hide it, have no doubt.’

Here you see, that we can for a time abide,

Yet out it must; we can no secret hide.

The remainder of the tale, if you would hear,

Read Ovid, and you will find it there.

The knight of whom my tale tells specially,

When he saw he could not find out easily –

That is to say, what women love the most –

Within his breast full sorrowful was his ghost.

But home he goes; he could not make sojourn;

The day was come when homeward he must turn.

And on his way back he happened to ride,

Full of his cares, under a forest side,

Where he saw dancing on woodland floor

Of ladies four and twenty, and yet more.

Towards the which dance he began to turn,

In hope that some wisdom he might learn.

But certainly, before he was fully there,

Vanished was the dance; he knew not where.

No creature saw he that showed sign of life,

Save, sitting on the green, an old wife –

A fouler one than her might none devise.

Against the knight this wife began to rise

And said: ‘Sir knight, here there lies no way.

Tell me what you are seeking, by your faith!

Peradventure it might be better thus for thee;

This old woman knows many things,’ quoth she.

‘My dear mother,’ quoth the knight, ‘for certain

I am a dead man, unless I can show plain

What thing it is that women most desire.

Should you enlighten me, I’d pay your hire.’

‘Plight me your troth, here by my hand,’ quoth she,

‘That the next thing I require of thee

You shall do, if it lies within your might,

And I will tell you of it ere it be night.’

‘Here, by my truth!’ quoth the knight, ‘Agreed.’

‘Then,’ quoth she, ‘I dare boast readily

Your life is safe, for I will stand thereby.

Upon my life, the Queen will speak as I.

Let’s see if then the proudest of them all

That wears a head-cloth or a gemmed caul

Dare say nay to that which I shall teach.

Let us go on without longer speech.’

Then she whispered something in his ear,

And bade him to be glad and have no fear.

When they had reached the court, this knight

Declared he had kept his promise, to the night,

And ready was his answer, as he said.

Full many a noble wife and many a maid

And many a widow – since they are wise –

And the Queen herself, sitting in justice high,

Were assembled his answer there to hear;

And in a while the knight was bade appear.

Of everyone demanded was their silence,

And that the knight should tell his audience

What thing that worldly women love the best.

The knight forbore to stand there like a beast,

But to her question swiftly answered her

In manly voice, so all the court could hear.

‘My liege lady, generally,’ quoth he,

Women desire the self-same sovereignty

Over a husband as they do a lover,

And to hold mastery, he not above her.

That is your great desire, though you me kill;

Do as you wish; I am at your will.’

In all the court there was nor wife nor maid

Nor widow who could challenge what he said,

But said that he was worthy to have his life.

And at that word up started the old wife

Whom the knight had found sitting on the green.

‘Mercy, ‘quoth she, ‘my sovereign lady queen;

Ere that your court depart, see me aright.

I taught this answer to this same knight,

For which he plighted me his troth entire,

That the first thing I should of him require

He would do, if it lay within his might.

Before the court then, pray I you, sir knight,’

Quoth she, ‘that you take me as your wife,

For you know well that I have saved your life.

If I say false, say so, upon your faith.’

The knight answered, ‘Alas and well-away!

I know right well that such was my behest.

For God’s love, now choose a fresh request!

Take all my goods, and let my body go.’

‘Nay, then,’ quoth she, ‘A curse upon us two!

For though that I be foul and old and poor,

I wish not, for all the metal and the ore

That is buried under earth or lies above,

For aught but to be your wife, and your love.’

‘My love!’ quoth he, ‘nay, my damnation!

Alas, that any of my nation

Should ever be disgraced so foully!’

But all for naught; the end is this, that he

Had little choice; he needs must her wed,

And take his old wife, and go to bed.

Now some men would say, peradventure,

That in my negligence I make no feature

Of all the joy there was and the array

That at the feast appeared that very day.

To which thing briefly I answer shall:

I say, there was no joy or feast at all;

There was only heaviness and much sorrow.

For secretly he wedded her that morrow,

And all day after hid him like an owl;

Such woe was on him – with a wife so foul.

Great was the woe the knight had in his thought

When he was with his wife to bed there brought;

He thrashed about and twisted to and fro.

His old wife lay smiling broadly though,

And said: ‘O dear husband, benedicitee!

Does every knight do with his wife as thee?

Is this the law about King Arthur’s house?

Is every knight of his so mean a louse?

I am your own love, and then your wife;

I am she who has saved your life,

And, for sure, I have served you right.

Why do you thus with me this first night?

You act as would a man who’d lost his wit!

What is my sin? For God’s love, tell me it,

And it shall be amended, if I may.’

‘Amended,’ quoth the knight, ‘Alas, nay, nay!

It cannot be amended evermore.

You are so ugly, and so old, and more

You come also of such a lowly kin,

That little wonder is I thrash and spin.

God, would the heart but burst in my breast!’

‘Is this,’ quoth she, ‘the cause of your unrest?’

Yes,’ quoth he, what wonder all’s amiss?’

‘Now, sire,’ quoth she, ‘I could amend all this,

If I wished, before we have seen days three,

If you would but bear yourself well towards me.

If you all think by speaking of nobleness

Such as has descended from old riches,

That therefore it makes you noble men,

Such arrogance is not worth a hen.

Look for the most virtuous man always,

In private and public, who sees his way

To doing the noblest deeds that he can,

There will you find the greatest gentleman.

Christ wills we take from him our gentleness,

Not from our ancestors, despite their riches.

For though they leave us all their heritage,

From which we claim noble parentage,

Yet can they still bequeath us nothing

Not one of us, of their virtuous living,

That made them gentlemen in name to be,

Who bade us follow them in that degree.

Well has the wise poet of Florence,

Dante, I mean, spoken in this same sense –

Lo, in such verse Dante’s tale advances:

“Seldom arises by his slender branches

Man’s prowess, for God, of his goodness,

Wills that of him we claim our gentleness.”

For from our elders we can nothing claim

But temporal things, which may hurt and maim.

And everyone knows this as well as me:

If nobility were implanted naturally

In a certain lineage down the line,

Publicly, privately then the vine

Of noble work would be evergreen;

They would enact no vice or villainy.

Take fire, and bear it to the darkest house

Between here and the distant Caucasus,

And let men shut the doors and return,

Yet will the fire remain there and burn

As if twenty thousand did it behold.

Its natural office it will ever hold,

On peril of my life, until it die.

Thus you may see how the noble eye

Is not wedded to possession,

Since folk do not maintain its function

Forever, as does fire, lo, of its kind.

For, God knows, men will often find

A lord’s son acting shameful villainy.

And he who wants to claim nobility

Because he was born of a noble house,

His ancestors noble and virtuous,

And yet himself has done no noble deeds,

Nor followed his noble ancestors deceased,

He is not noble, be he duke or earl,

For base sinful deeds make the churl.

While mere renown makes gentility,

Your ancestors and their great bounty,

Which is external and not your own;

Your nobility comes from God alone.

Thus comes our own nobility by grace;

Not bequeathed to us by rank and place.

Think how noble, as says Valerius,

Was that Tullius Hostilius,

Who rose from poverty to high status,

Read Seneca and read Boethius,

There is it both expressed and agreed

That he is noble who does noble deeds.

And therefore, dear husband, I conclude

Although my ancestry is rough and rude,

Yet may God on high, I hope, may He

Grant me the grace to live virtuously.

Thus am I noble, when I first begin

To live in virtue, and abandon sin.

And in that you my poverty reprove,

The God whom we believe in and love,

In wilful poverty chose to live his life.

And surely, every man, maid or wife

Understands that Jesus, Heaven’s King,

Could yield of his life no vicious thing.

Honest poverty is fine, that’s certain:

This, Seneca and other clerks maintain.

The man content with poverty, I assert

That man is rich, although he lacks a shirt.

He that covets wealth is all the poorer

For he would have what is not in his power.

But he who has naught, yet does not crave,

Is rich, although you hold him but a knave.

True poverty sings, in reality.

Juvenal says of poverty appositely:

“The poor man, as he goes on his way

Beside the thief, may ever sing and play.”

Poverty though hateful’s good nonetheless

In that it is a great release from business;

A great augmenter too of sapience,

To the man accepting it with patience.

Poverty, though it seems second best,

Is a possession no man can contest.

Poverty, often, when a man is humble

Leads him to God, and to himself as well.

Poverty is a glass, it seems to me,

Through which he may his true friends see.

And thus, sire, since I wish no grief to you,

Of my poverty show no more reproof.

Now, sire, of being old you reprove me;

And certainly, though no authority

Were found in books, yet men of honour

Say that you should show an old man favour,

And call him father, out of courteousness;

And authors too say so, as I would guess.

Now then you say that I am foul and old,

Well then you need not fear to be cuckold.

For poverty and old age, you must agree,

Are great guardians of chastity.

Yet nonetheless, since I know your delight,

I shall fulfil your worldly appetite.

Choose now,’ quoth she, ‘which of these to try:

To see me old and ugly till I die,

And be to you a true and humble wife,

Who never will displease you all my life,

Or else you may have me young and fair,

And take the risk that all those who repair

To our house are there because of me,

And to other places, it well may be.

Now choose, yourself, just as you like.’

The knight thought deeply and with a sigh

At last he replied to her in this manner:

‘My lady and my love, and wife so dear,

I place myself in your wise governance.

Choose yourself which is the most pleasant,

And brings most honour to me and you.

I do not care which it is of the two,

For as you like it, that suffices me.’

‘Then have I won the mastery,’ quoth she,

‘Since I may choose and govern as I wish?’

‘Yes, surely, wife,’ quoth he, ‘I hold that best.’

‘Kiss me,’ quoth she, ‘and no more wrath.

For, by my troth, I to you will be both –

That is to say, both fair and good.

I pray to God I shall die mad, and would,

If I be not to you both good and true

As ever wife was, since the world was new.

And if I be not tomorrow as fair to see

As any lady, Empress or Queen may be,

Who lives between the east and the west,

Do what you wish touching my life and death.

Lift the curtain; see what already is.’

And when the knight swiftly saw all this,

That she was young, and lovely too,

For joy he took her in his arms two.

His heart was bathed in a bath of bliss;

A thousand times in a row they kiss,

And she obeyed him in everything

That pleased him and was to his liking.

And thus they lived to their lives end

In perfect joy – and Jesus Christ us send

Husbands meek, young, and fresh abed,

And grace to outlive those that we wed.

And also I pray Jesus, trim the lives

Of those who won’t be governed by their wives,

Those old and angry, grudging all expense,

God send them soon indeed the pestilence!