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!