The Clerk’s Tale
The Prologue
“Sir Clerk of Oxenford,” our Hostë said,
“Ye ride as still and coy, as doth a maid
That were new spoused, sitting at the board:
This day I heard not of your tongue a word.
I trow ye study about some sophime:2423
But Solomon saith, every thing hath time.
For Goddë’s sake, be of better cheer,2424
It is no timë for to study here.
Tell us some merry talë, by your fay;2425
For what man that is entered in a play,
He needës must unto that play assent.
But preachë not, as friars do in Lent,
To make us for our oldë sinnës weep,
Nor that thy talë make us not to sleep.
Tell us some merry thing of áventures.
Your terms, your colourës, and your figúres,
Keep them in store, till so be ye indite
High style, as when that men to kingës write.
Speakë so plain at this time, I you pray,
That we may understandë what ye say.”
This worthy Clerk benignëly answér’d;
“Hostë,” quoth he, “I am under your yerd,2426
Ye have of us as now the governánce,
And therefore would I do you obeisánce,
As far as reason asketh, hardily:2427
I will you tell a talë, which that I
Learn’d at Padova of a worthy clerk,
As proved by his wordës and his werk.
He is now dead, and nailed in his chest,
I pray to God to give his soul good rest.
Francis Petrarc’, the laureate poét,2428
Hightë2429 this clerk, whose rhetoric so sweet
Illumin’d all Itále of poetry,
As Linian2430 did of philosophy,
Or law, or other art particulére:
But death, that will not suffer us dwell here
But as it were a twinkling of an eye,
Them both hath slain, and allë we shall die.
“But forth to tellen of this worthy man,
That taughtë me this tale, as I began,
I say that first he with high style inditeth
(Ere he the body of his talë writeth)
A proem, in the which describeth he
Piedmont, and of Saluces2431 the countrý,
And speaketh of the Pennine hillës high,
That be the bounds of all West Lombardy:
And of Mount Vesulus in special,
Where as the Po out of a wellë small
Taketh his firstë springing and his source,
That eastward aye increaseth in his course
T’ Emilia-ward,2432 to Ferraro, and Veníce,
The which a long thing werë to devise.2433
And truëly, as to my judgëment,
Me thinketh it a thing impertinent,2434
Save that he would conveyë his mattére:
But this is the tale, which that ye shall hear.”
The Tale2435
Pars Prima
There is, right at the west side of Itále,
Down at the root of Vesulus2436 the cold,
A lusty2437 plain, abundant of vitáille;
There many a town and tow’r thou may’st behold,
That founded were in time of fathers old,
And many another délectáble sight;
And Saluces this noble country hight.
A marquis whilom lord was of that land,
As were his worthy elders2438 him before,
And obedient, aye ready to his hand,
Were all his lieges, bothë less and more:
Thus in delight he liv’d, and had done yore,2439
Belov’d and drad,2440 through favour of fortúne,
Both of his lordës and of his commúne.2441
Therewith he was, to speak of lineage,
The gentilest y-born of Lombardy,
A fair persón, and strong, and young of age,
And full of honour and of courtesy:
Discreet enough his country for to gie,2442
Saving in some things that he was to blame;
And Walter was this youngë lordë’s name.
I blame him thus, that he consider’d not
In timë coming what might him betide,
But on his present lust2443 was all his thought,
And for to hawk and hunt on every side;
Well nigh all other carës let he slide,
And eke he would (that was the worst of all)
Weddë no wife for aught that might befall.
Only that point his people bare so sore,
That flockmel2444 on a day to him they went,
And one of them, that wisest was of lore
(Or ellës that the lord would best assent
That he should tell him what the people meant,
Or ellës could he well shew such mattére),
He to the marquis said as ye shall hear.
“O noble Marquis! your humanity
Assureth us and gives us hardiness,
As oft as time is of necessity,
That we to you may tell our heaviness:
Acceptë, Lord, now of your gentleness,
What we with piteous heart unto you plain,2445
And let your ears my voicë not disdain.
“All2446 have I nought to do in this mattére
More than another man hath in this place,
Yet forasmuch as ye, my Lord so dear,
Have always shewed me favour and grace,
I dare the better ask of you a space
Of audience, to shewen our request,
And ye, my Lord, to do right as you lest.2447
“For certes, Lord, so well us likë you
And all your work, and ev’r have done, that we
Ne couldë not ourselves devisë how
We mightë live in more felicity:
Save one thing, Lord, if that your will it be,
That for to be a wedded man you lest;
Then were your people in sovereign heart’s rest.2448
“Bowë your neck under the blissful yoke
Of sovereignty, and not of servíce,
Which that men call espousal or wedlóck:
And thinkë, Lord, among your thoughtës wise,
How that our dayës pass in sundry wise;
For though we sleep, or wake, or roam, or ride,
Aye fleeth time, it will no man abide.
“And though your greenë youthë flow’r as yet,
In creepeth age always as still as stone,
And death menaceth every age, and smit2449
In each estate, for there escapeth none:
And all so certain as we know each one
That we shall die, as uncertáin we all
Be of that day when death shall on us fall.
“Acceptë then of us the true intent,2450
That never yet refused yourë hest,2451
And we will, Lord, if that ye will assent,
Choose you a wife, in short time at the lest,2452
Born of the gentilest and of the best
Of all this land, so that it ought to seem
Honour to God and you, as we can deem.
“Deliver us out of all this busy dread,2453
And take a wife, for highë Goddë’s sake:
For if it so befell, as God forbid,
That through your death your lineage should slake,2454
And that a strange successor shouldë take
Your heritage, oh! woe were us on live:2455
Wherefore we pray you hastily to wive.”
Their meekë prayer and their piteous cheer
Made the marquis for to have pitý.
“Ye will,” quoth he, “mine owen people dear,
To that I ne’er ere2456 thought constrainë me.
I me rejoiced of my liberty,
That seldom time is found in marriáge;
Where I was free, I must be in serváge!2457
“But natheless I see your true intent,
And trust upon your wit, and have done aye:
Wherefore of my free will I will assent
To weddë me, as soon as e’er I may.
But whereas ye have proffer’d me to-day
To choosë me a wife, I you release
That choice, and pray you of that proffer cease.
“For God it wot, that children often been
Unlike their worthy elders them before,
Bounté2458 comes all of God, not of the strene2459
Of which they be engender’d and y-bore:
I trust in Goddë’s bounté, and therefore
My marriage, and mine estate and rest,
I him betake;2460 he may do as him lest.
“Let me alone in choosing of my wife;
That charge upon my back I will endure:
But I you pray, and charge upon your life,
That what wife that I take, ye me assure
To worship2461 her, while that her life may dure,
In word and work both here and ellëswhere,
As she an emperorë’s daughter were.
“And farthermore this shall ye swear, that ye
Against my choice shall never grudge2462 nor strive.
For since I shall forego my liberty
At your request, as ever may I thrive,
Where as mine heart is set, there will I wive
And but2463 ye will assent in such mannére,
I pray you speak no more of this mattére.”
With heartly will they sworen and assent’
To all this thing, there said not one wight nay:
Beseeching him of grace, ere that they went,
That he would grantë them a certain day
Of his espousal, soon as e’er he may,
For yet always the people somewhat dread2464
Lest that the marquis wouldë no wife wed.
He granted them a day, such as him lest,
On which he would be wedded sickerly,2465
And said he did all this at their request;
And they with humble heart full buxomly,2466
Kneeling upon their knees full reverently,
Him thanked all; and thus they have an end
Of their intent, and home again they wend.
And hereupon he to his officers
Commanded for the feastë to purvey.2467
And to his privy knightës and squiérs
Such charge he gave, as him list on them lay:
And they to his commandëment obey,
And each of them doth all his diligence
To do unto the feast all reverence.
Pars Secunda
Not far from thilkë2468 palace honouráble,
Where as this marquis shope2469 his marriáge,
There stood a thorp,2470 of sightë délectáble,
In which the poorë folk of that villáge
Haddë their beastës and their harbourage,2471
And of their labour took their sustenance,
After the earthë gave them ábundánce.
Among this poorë folk there dwelt a man
Which that was holden poorest of them all;
But highë God sometimës sendë can
His grace unto a little ox’s stall;
Janicola men of that thorp him call.
A daughter had he, fair enough to sight,
And Griseldis this youngë maiden hight.
But for to speak of virtuous beauty,
Then was she one the fairest under sun:
Full poorëly y-foster’d up was she;
No likerous lust2472 was in her heart y-run;
Well ofter of the well than of the tun2473
She drank, and, for2474 she wouldë virtue please,
She knew well labour, but no idle ease.
But though this maiden tender were of age;
Yet in the breast of her virginity
There was inclos’d a sad and ripe coráge;2475
And in great reverence and charity
Her oldë poorë father foster’d she.
A few sheep, spinning, on the field she kept,
She wouldë not be idle till she slept.
And when she homeward camë, she would bring
Wortës,2476 and other herbës, timës oft,
The which she shred and seeth’d for her livíng,
And made her bed full hard, and nothing soft:
And aye she kept her father’s life on loft2477
With ev’ry obeisánce and diligence,
That child may do to father’s reverence.
Upon Griselda, this poor creatúre,
Full often sithes2478 this marquis set his eye,
As he on hunting rode, paráventure:2479
And when it fell that he might her espy,
He not with wanton looking of follý
His eyen cast on her, but in sad2480 wise
Upon her cheer2481 he would him oft advise;2482
Commending in his heart her womanhead,
And eke her virtue, passing any wight
Of so young age, as well in cheer as deed.
For though the people have no great insight
In virtue, he considered full right
Her bounté,2483 and disposed that he would
Wed only her, if ever wed he should.
The day of wedding came, but no wight can
Tellë what woman that it shouldë be;
For which marvail wonder’d many a man,
And saidë, when they were in privity,
“Will not our lord yet leave his vanity?
Will he not wed? Alas, alas the while!
Why will he thus himself and us beguile?”
But natheless this marquis had done2484 make
Of gemmës, set in gold and in azúre,
Brooches and ringës, for Griselda’s sake,
And of her clothing took he the measúre
Of a maiden like unto her statúre,
And eke of other ornamentës all
That unto such a wedding shouldë fall.2485
The time of undern2486 of the samë day
Approached, that this wedding shouldë be,
And all the palace put was in array,
Both hall and chamber, each in its degree,
Houses of office stuffed with plenty
There may’st thou see of dainteous vitáille,
That may be found, as far as lasts Itále.
This royal marquis, richëly array’d,
Lordës and ladies in his company,
The which unto the feastë werë pray’d,
And of his retinue the bach’lerý,
With many a sound of sundry melody,
Unto the village, of the which I told,
In this array the right way did they hold.
Griseld’ of this (God wot) full innocent,
That for her shapen2487 was all this array,
To fetchë water at a well is went,
And home she came as soon as e’er she may.
For well she had heard say, that on that day
The marquis shouldë wed, and, if she might,
She fain would have seen somewhat of that sight.
She thought, “I will with other maidens stand,
That be my fellows, in our door, and see
The marchioness; and therefore will I fand2488
To do at home, as soon as it may be,
The labour which belongeth unto me,
And then I may at leisure her behold,
If she this way unto the castle hold.”
And as she would over the threshold gon,
The marquis came and gan for her to call,
And she set down her water-pot anon
Beside the threshold, in an ox’s stall,
And down upon her knees she gan to fall,
And with sad2489 countenancë kneeled still,
Till she had heard what was the lordë’s will.
The thoughtful marquis spake unto the maid
Full soberly, and said in this mannére:
“Where is your father, Griseldis?” he said.
And she with reverence, in humble cheer,2490
Answered, “Lord, he is all ready here.”
And in she went withoutë longer let,2491
And to the marquis she her father fet.2492
He by the hand then took the poorë man,
And saidë thus, when he him had aside:
“Janicola, I neither may nor can
Longer the pleasance of mine heartë hide;
If that thou vouchësafe, whatso betide,
Thy daughter will I take, ere that I wend,2493
As for my wife, unto her lifë’s end.
“Thou lovest me, that know I well certáin,
And art my faithful liegëman y-bore,2494
And all that liketh me, I dare well sayn
It liketh thee; and specially therefore
Tell me that point, that I have said before—
If that thou wilt unto this purpose draw,
To takë me as for thy son-in-law.”
This sudden case2495 the man astonied so,
That red he wax’d, abash’d,2496 and all quaking
He stood; unnethës2497 said he wordës mo’,
But only thus; “Lord,” quoth he, “my willing
Is as ye will, nor against your liking
I will no thing, mine owen lord so dear;
Right as you list governë this mattére.”
“Then will I,” quoth the marquis softëly,
“That in thy chamber I, and thou, and she,
Have a collatión;2498 and know’st thou why?
For I will ask her, if her will it be
To be my wife, and rule her after me:
And all this shall be done in thy presénce,
I will not speak out of thine audience.”2499
And in the chamber while they were about
The treaty, which ye shall hereafter hear,
The people came into the house without,
And wonder’d them in how honést mannére
And tenderly she kept her father dear;
But utterly Griseldis wonder might,
For never erst2500 ne saw she such a sight.
No wonder is though that she be astoned,2501
To see so great a guest come in that place,
She never was to no such guestës woned;2502
For which she looked with full palë face.
But shortly forth this matter for to chase,2503
These are the wordës that the marquis said
To this benignë, very,2504 faithful maid.
“Griseld’,” he said, “ye shall well understand,
It liketh to your father and to me
That I you wed, and eke it may so stand,
As I suppose ye will that it so be:
But these demandës ask I first,” quoth he,
“Since that it shall be done in hasty wise;
Will ye assent, or ellës you advise?2505
“I say this, be ye ready with good heart
To all my lust,2506 and that I freely may,
As me best thinketh, do2507 you laugh or smart,
And never ye to grudgë,2508 night nor day,
And eke when I say Yea, ye say not Nay,
Neither by word, nor frowning countenance?
Swear this, and here I swear our álliance.”
Wond’ring upon this word, quaking for dread,
She saidë; “Lord, indigne and unworthy
Am I to this honoúr that ye me bede,2509
But as ye will yourself, right so will I:
And here I swear, that never willingly
In word or thought I will you disobey,
For to be dead; though me were loth to dey.”2510
“This is enough, Griselda mine,” quoth he.
And forth he went with a full sober cheer,
Out at the door, and after then came she,
And to the people he said in this mannére:
“This is my wife,” quoth he, “that standeth here.
Honoúrë her, and love her, I you pray,
Whoso me loves; there is no more to say.”
And, for that nothing of her oldë gear
She shouldë bring into his house, he bade
That women should despoilë2511 her right there;
Of which these ladies werë nothing glad
To handle her clothës wherein she was clad:
But natheless this maiden bright of hue
From foot to head they clothed have all new.
Her hairës have they comb’d that lay untress’d2512
Full rudëly, and with their fingers small
A crown upon her head they havë dress’d,
And set her full of nouches2513 great and small:
Of her array why should I make a tale?
Unneth2514 the people her knew for her fairnéss,
When she transmuted was in such richéss.
The marquis hath her spoused with a ring
Brought for the samë cause, and then her set
Upon a horse snow-white, and well ambling,
And to his palace, ere he longer let2515
With joyful people, that her led and met,
Conveyed her; and thus the day they spend
In revel, till the sunnë gan descend.
And, shortly forth this talë for to chase,
I say, that to this newë marchioness
God hath such favour sent her of his grace,
That it ne seemed not by likeliness
That she was born and fed in rudëness—
As in a cot, or in an ox’s stall—
But nourish’d in an emperorë’s hall.
To every wight she waxen2516 is so dear
And worshipful, that folk where she was born,
That from her birthë knew her year by year,
Unnethës trowed2517 they, but durst have sworn,
That to Janicol’ of whom I spake before,
She was not daughter, for by conjectúre
Them thought she was another creatúre.
For though that ever virtuous was she,
She was increased in such excellence
Of thewës2518 good, y-set in high bounté,
And so discreet, and fair of eloquence,
So benign, and so digne2519 of reverence,
And couldë so the people’s heart embrace,
That each her lov’d that looked on her face.
Not only of Saluces in the town
Published was the bounté of her name,
But eke besides in many a regioún;
If one said well, another said the same:
So spread of herë high bounté the fame,
That men and women, young as well as old,
Went to Saluces, her for to behold.
Thus Walter lowly—nay, but royally—
Wedded with fortunate honesteté,2520
In Goddë’s peace lived full easily
At home, and outward grace enough had he:
And, for he saw that under low degree
Was honest virtue hid, the people him held
A prudent man, and that is seen full seld’.2521
Not only this Griseldis through her wit
Couth all the feat2522 of wifely homeliness,
But eke, when that the case required it,
The common profit couldë she redress:2523
There n’as discord, rancoúr, nor heaviness
In all the land, that she could not appease,
And wisely bring them all in rest and ease.
Though that her husband absent were or non,2524
If gentlemen or other of that country,
Were wroth,2525 she wouldë bringë them at one,
So wise and ripë wordës haddë she,
And judgëment of so great equity,
That she from heaven sent was, as men wend,2526
People to save, and every wrong t’amend
Not longë time after that this Griseld’
Was wedded, she a daughter had y-bore;
All she had lever2527 borne a knavë2528 child,
Glad was the marquis and his folk therefore;
For, though a maiden child came all before,
She may unto a knavë child attain
By likelihood, since she is not barrén.
Pars Tertia
There fell, as falleth many timës mo’,
When that his child had sucked but a throw,2529
This marquis in his heartë longed so
To tempt his wife, her sadness2530 for to know,
That he might not out of his heartë throw
This marvellous desire his wife t’assay;2531
Needless,2532 God wot, he thought her to affray.2533
He had assayed her anough before,
And found her ever good; what needed it
Her for to tempt, and always more and more?
Though some men praise it for a subtle wit,
But as for me, I say that evil it sit2534
T’ assay a wife when that it is no need,
And puttë her in anguish and in dread.
For which this marquis wrought in this mannére:
He came at night alone there as she lay,
With sternë face and with full troubled cheer,
And saidë thus; “Griseld’,” quoth he “that day
That I you took out of your poor array,
And put you in estate of high nobléss,
Ye have it not forgotten, as I guess.
“I say, Griseld’, this present dignity,
In which that I have put you, as I trow2535
Maketh you not forgetful for to be
That I you took in poor estate full low,
For any weal you must yourselfë know.
Take heed of every word that I you say,
There is no wight that hears it but we tway.2536
“Ye know yourself well how that ye came here
Into this house, it is not long ago;
And though to me ye be right lefe2537 and dear,
Unto my gentles2538 ye be nothing so:
They say, to them it is great shame and woe
For to be subject, and be in serváge,
To thee, that born art of small lineage.
“And namely2539 since thy daughter was y-bore
These wordës have they spoken doubtëless;
But I desire, as I have done before,
To live my life with them in rest and peace:
I may not in this case be reckëless;
I must do with thy daughter for the best,
Not as I would, but as my gentles lest.2540
“And yet, God wot, this is full loth2541 to me:
But natheless withoutë your weeting2542
I will nought do; but this will I,” quoth he,
“That ye to me assenten in this thing.
Shew now your patience in your working,
That ye me hight2543 and swore in your villáge
The day that maked was our marriáge.”
When she had heard all this, she not amev’d2544
Neither in word, in cheer, nor countenance
(For, as it seemed, she was not aggriev’d);
She saidë; “Lord, all lies in your pleasánce,
My child and I, with hearty obeisánce
Be yourës all, and ye may save or spill2545
Your owen thing: work then after your will.
“There may no thing, so God my soulë save,
Likë to2546 you, that may displeasë me:
Nor I desire nothing for to have,
Nor dreadë for to lose, save only ye:
This will is in mine heart, and aye shall be,
No length of time, nor death, may this deface,
Nor change my corage2547 to another place.”
Glad was the marquis for her answering,
But yet he feigned as he were not so;
All dreary was his cheer and his looking
When that he should out of the chamber go.
Soon after this, a furlong way or two,2548
He privily hath told all his intent
Unto a man, and to his wife him sent.
A manner sergeant2549 was this private man,2550
The which he faithful often founden had
In thingës great, and eke such folk well can
Do executión in thingës bad:
The lord knew well, that he him loved and drad.2551
And when this sergeant knew his lordë’s will,
Into the chamber stalked he full still.
“Madam,” he said, “ye must forgive it me,
Though I do thing to which I am constrain’d;
Ye be so wise, that right well knowë ye
That lordës’ hestës may not be y-feign’d;2552
They may well be bewailed and complain’d,
But men must needs unto their lust2553 obey;
And so will I, there is no more to say.
“This child I am commanded for to take.”
And spake no more, but out the child he hent2554
Dispiteously,2555 and gan a cheer to make2556
As though he would have slain it ere he went.
Griseldis must all suffer and consent:
And as a lamb she sat there meek and still,
And let this cruel sergeant do his will.
Suspicious2557 was the diffame2558 of this man,
Suspect his face, suspect his word also,
Suspect the time in which he this began:
Alas! her daughter, that she loved so,
She weened2559 he would have it slain right tho,2560
But natheless she neither wept nor siked,2561
Conforming her to what the marquis liked.
But at the last to speakë she began,
And meekly she unto the sergeant pray’d,
So as he was a worthy gentle man,
That she might kiss her child, ere that it died:
And in her barme2562 this little child she laid,
With full sad face, and gan the child to bless,2563
And lulled it, and after gan it kiss.
And thus she said in her benignë voice:
“Farewell, my child, I shall thee never see;
But since I have thee marked with the cross,
Of that father y-blessed may’st thou be
That for us died upon a cross of tree:
Thy soul, my little child, I him betake,2564
For this night shalt thou dien for my sake.”
I trow2565 that to a norice2566 in this case
It had been hard this ruthë2567 for to see:
Well might a mother then have cried, “Alas!”
But natheless so sad steadfást was she,
That she endured all adversity,
And to the sergeant meekëly she said,
“Have here again your little youngë maid.
“Go now,” quoth she, “and do my lord’s behest.
And one thing would I pray you of your grace,
But if2568 my lord forbade you at the least,
Bury this little body in some place,
That neither beasts nor birdës it arace.”2569
But he no word would to that purpose say,
But took the child and went upon his way.
The sergeant came unto his lord again,
And of Griselda’s words and of her cheer2570
He told him point for point, in short and plain,
And him presented with his daughter dear.
Somewhat this lord had ruth in his mannére,
But natheless his purpose held he still,
As lordës do, when they will have their will;
And bade this sergeant that he privily
Shouldë the child full softly wind and wrap,
With allë circumstances tenderly,
And carry it in a coffer, or in lap;
But, upon pain his head off for to swap,2571
That no man shouldë know of his intent,
Nor whence he came, nor whither that he went;
But at Bologna, to his sister dear,
That at that time of Panic’2572 was Countéss,
He should it take, and shew her this mattere,
Beseeching her to do her business
This child to foster in all gentleness,
And whosë child it was he bade her hide
From every wight, for aught that might betide.
The sergeant went, and hath fulfill’d this thing.
But to the marquis now returnë we;
For now went he full fast imagining
If by his wifë’s cheer he mightë see,
Or by her wordës apperceive, that she
Were changed; but he never could her find,
But ever-in-one2573 alikë sad2574 and kind.
As glad, as humble, as busy in servíce,
And eke in love, as she was wont to be,
Was she to him, in every manner wise;2575
And of her daughter not a word spake she;
No accident for no adversity2576
Was seen in her, nor e’er her daughter’s name
She named, or in earnest or in game.
Pars Quarta
In this estate there passed be four year
Ere she with childë was; but, as God wo’ld,
A knavë2577 child she bare by this Waltére,
Full gracious and fair for to behold;
And when that folk it to his father told,
Not only he, but all his country, merry
Were for this child, and God they thank and hery.2578
When it was two year old, and from the breast
Departed2579 of the norice, on a day
This marquis caughtë yet another lest2580
To tempt his wife yet farther, if he may.
Oh! needless was she tempted in assay;2581
But wedded men not connen no measúre,2582
When that they find a patient creatúre.
“Wife,” quoth the marquis, “ye have heard ere this
My people sickly bear2583 our marriáge;
And namely2584 since my son y-boren is,
Now is it worse than ever in all our age:
The murmur slays mine heart and my coráge,
For to mine ears cometh the voice so smart,2585
That it well nigh destroyed hath mine heart.
“Now say they thus, ‘When Walter is y-gone,
Then shall the blood of Janicol’ succeed,
And be our lord, for other have we none:’
Such wordës say my people, out of drede.2586
Well ought I of such murmur takë heed,
For certainly I dread all such senténce,2587
Though they not plainen in mine audiénce.2588
“I wouldë live in peace, if that I might;
Wherefore I am disposed utterly,
As I his sister served ere2589 by night,
Right so think I to serve him privily.
This warn I you, that ye not suddenly
Out of yourself for no woe should outraie;2590
Be patient, and thereof I you pray.”
“I have,” quoth she, “said thus, and ever shall,
I will no thing, nor n’ill no thing, certáin,
But as you list; not grieveth me at all
Though that my daughter and my son be slain
At your commandëment; that is to sayn,
I have not had no part of children twain,
But first sicknéss, and after woe and pain.
“Ye be my lord, do with your owen thing
Right as you list, and ask no rede2591 of me:
For, as I left at home all my clothing
When I came first to you, right so,” quoth she,
“Left I my will and all my liberty,
And took your clothing: wherefore I you pray,
Do your pleasánce, I will your lust2592 obey.
“And, certes, if I haddë prescience
Your will to know, ere ye your lust2593 me told,
I would it do withoutë negligence:
But, now I know your lust, and what ye wo’ld,
All your pleasancë firm and stable I hold;
For, wist I that my death might do you ease,
Right gladly would I dien you to please.
“Death may not makë no comparisoún
Unto your love.” And when this marquis say2594
The constance of his wife, he cast adown
His eyen two, and wonder’d how she may
In patience suffer all this array;
And forth he went with dreary countenance;
But to his heart it was full great pleasánce.
This ugly sergeant, in the samë wise
That he her daughter caught, right so hath he
(Or worse, if men can any worse devise,)
Y-hent2595 her son, that full was of beauty:
And ever-in-one2596 so patient was she,
That she no cheerë made of heaviness,
But kiss’d her son, and after gan him bless.
Save this she prayed him, if that he might,
Her little son he would in earthë grave,2597
His tender limbës, delicate to sight,
From fowlës and from beastës for to save.
But she none answer of him mightë have;
He went his way, as him nothing ne raught,2598
But to Bologna tenderly it brought.
The marquis wonder’d ever longer more
Upon her patience; and, if that he
Not haddë soothly knowen therebefore
That perfectly her children loved she,
He would have ween’d2599 that of some subtilty,
And of malíce, or for cruel coráge,2600
She haddë suffer’d this with sad2601 viságe.
But well he knew, that, next himself, certáin
She lov’d her children best in every wise.
But now of women would I askë fain,
If these assayës mightë not suffice?
What could a sturdy2602 husband more devise
To prove her wifehood and her steadfastness,
And he continuing ev’r in sturdiness?
But there be folk of such conditión,
That, when they have a certain purpose take,
Thiey cannot stint2603 of their intentión,
But, right as they were bound unto a stake,
They will not of their firstë purpose slake:2604
Right so this marquis fully hath purpós’d
To tempt his wife, as he was first dispos’d.
He waited, if by word or countenance
That she to him was changed of coráge:2605
But never could he findë variance,
She was aye one in heart and in viságe,
And aye the farther that she was in age,
The morë true (if that it were possíble)
She was to him in love, and more penible.2606
For which it seemed thus, that of them two
There was but one will; for, as Walter lest,2607
The same pleasáncë was her lust also;
And, God be thanked, all fell for the best.
She shewed well, for no worldly unrest,
A wife as of herself no thingë should
Will, in effect, but as her husband would.
The sland’r of Walter wondrous widë sprad,
That of a cruel heart he wickedly,
For2608 he a poorë woman wedded had,
Had murder’d both his children privily:
Such murmur was among them commonly.
No wonder is: for to the people’s ear
There came no word, but that they murder’d were.
For which, whereas his people therebefore
Had lov’d him well, the sland’r of his diffame2609
Made them that they him hated therëfore.
To be a murd’rer is a hateful name.
But natheless, for earnest or for game,
He of his cruel purpose would not stent;2610
To tempt his wife was set all his intent.
When that his daughter twelve year was of age,
He to the Court of Rome, in subtle wise
Informed of his will, sent his messáge,2611
Commanding him such bullës to devise
As to his cruel purpose may suffice,
How that the Popë, for his people’s rest,
Bade him to wed another, if him lest.2612
I say he bade they shouldë counterfeit
The Pope’s bullës, making mentión
That he had leave his firstë wife to lete,2613
As by the Popë’s dispensatión,
To stintë2614 rancour and dissensión
Betwixt his people and him: thus spake the bull,
The which they havë published at full.
The rudë people, as no wonder is,
Weened2615 full well that it had been right so:
But, when these tidings came to Griseldis.
I deemë that her heart was full of woe;
But she, alikë sad2616 for evermo’,
Disposed was, this humble creatúre,
Th’ adversity of fortune all t’ endure;
Abiding ever his lust and his pleasánce,
To whom that she was given, heart and all,
As to her very worldly suffisance.2617
But, shortly if this story tell I shall,
The marquis written hath in special
A letter, in which he shewed his intent,
And secretly it to Bologna sent.
To th’ earl of Panico, which haddë tho2618
Wedded his sister, pray’d he specially
To bringë home again his children two
In honourable estate all openly:
But one thing he him prayed utterly,
That he to no wight, though men would inquere,
Shouldë not tell whose children that they were,
But say, the maiden should y-wedded be
Unto the marquis of Salúce anon.
And as this earl was prayed, so did he,
For, at day set, he on his way is gone
Toward Salúce, and lordës many a one
In rich array, this maiden for to guide—
Her youngë brother riding her beside.
Arrayed was toward2619 her marriáge
This freshë maiden, full of gemmës clear;
Her brother, which that seven year was of age,
Arrayed eke full fresh in his mannére:
And thus, in great nobléss, and with glad cheer,
Toward Saluces shaping their journéy,
From day to day they rode upon their way.
Pars Quinta
Among all this,2620 after his wick’ uságe,
The marquis, yet his wife to temptë more
To the uttermost proof of her coráge,
Fully to have experience and lore2621
If that she were as steadfast as before,
He on a day, in open audience,
Full boisterously said her this senténce:
“Certes, Griseld’, I had enough pleasánce
To have you to my wife, for your goodness,
And for your truth, and for your obeisánce,
Not for your lineage, nor for your richéss;
But now know I, in very soothfastness,
That in great lordship, if I well advise,
There is great servitude in sundry wise.
“I may not do as every ploughman may:
My people me constraineth for to take
Another wife, and cryeth day by day;
And eke the Popë, rancour for to slake,
Consenteth it, that dare I undertake:
And truëly, thus much I will you say,
My newë wife is coming by the way.
“Be strong of heart, and void anon2622 her place;
And thilkë2623 dower that ye brought to me,
Take it again, I grant it of my grace.
Returnë to your father’s house,” quoth he;
“No man may always have prosperity;
With even heart I rede2624 you to endure
The stroke of fortune or of áventúre.”
And she again answér’d in patience:
“My Lord,” quoth she, “I know, and knew alway,
How that betwixtë your magnificence
And my povert’ no wight nor can nor may
Make comparison, it is no nay;2625
I held me never digne2626 in no mannére
To be your wife, nor yet your chamberére.2627
“And in this house, where ye me lady made,
(The highë God take I for my witness,
And all so wisly2628 he my soulë glade),
I never held me lady nor mistress,
But humble servant to your worthiness,
And ever shall, while that my life may dure,
Aboven every worldly creatúre.
“That ye so long, of your benignity,
Have holden me in honour and nobley,2629
Where as I was not worthy for to be,
That thank I God and you, to whom I pray
Foryield2630 it you; there is no more to say:
Unto my father gladly will I wend,2631
And with him dwell, unto my lifë’s end,
“Where I was foster’d as a child full small,
Till I be dead my life there will I lead,
A widow clean in body, heart, and all.
For since I gave to you my maidenhead,
And am your truë wife, it is no dread,2632
God shieldë2633 such a lordë’s wife to take
Another man to husband or to make.2634
“And of your newë wife, God of his grace
So grant you weal and all prosperity:
For I will gladly yield to her my place,
In which that I was blissful wont to be.
For since it liketh you, my Lord,” quoth she,
“That whilom weren all mine heartë’s rest,
That I shall go, I will go when you lest.
“But whereas ye me proffer such dowaire
As I first brought, it is well in my mind,
It was my wretched clothës, nothing fair,
The which to me were hard now for to find.
O goodë God! how gentle and how kind
Ye seemed by your speech and your viságe,
The day that maked was our marriáge!
“But sooth is said—algate2635 I find it true,
For in effect it proved is on me—
Love is not old as when that it is new.
But certes, Lord, for no adversity,
To dien in this case, it shall not be
That e’er in word or work I shall repent
That I you gave mine heart in whole intent.
“My Lord, ye know that in my father’s place
Ye did me strip out of my poorë weed,2636
And richëly ye clad me of your grace;
To you brought I nought ellës, out of dread,
But faith, and nakedness, and maidenhead;
And here again your clothing I restore,
And eke your wedding ring for evermore.
“The remnant of your jewels ready be
Within your chamber, I dare safely sayn:
Naked out of my father’s house,” quoth she,
“I came, and naked I must turn again.
All your pleasance would I follow fain:2637
But yet I hope it be not your intent
That smockless2638 I out of your palace went.
“Ye could not do so dishonést2639 a thing,
That thilkë2640 womb, in which your children lay,
Shouldë before the people, in my walking,
Be seen all bare: and therefore I you pray,
Let me not like a worm go by the way:
Remember you, mine owen Lord so dear,
I was your wife, though I unworthy were.
“Wherefore, in guerdon2641 of my maidenhead,
Which that I brought and not again I bear,
As vouchësafe to give me to my meed2642
But such a smock as I was wont to wear,
That I therewith may wrie2643 the womb of her
That was your wife: and here I take my leave
Of you, mine owen Lord, lest I you grieve.”
“The smock,” quoth he, “that thou hast on thy back,
Let it be still, and bear it forth with thee.”
But well unnethës2644 thilkë word he spake,
But went his way for ruth and for pitý.
Before the folk herselfë stripped she,
And in her smock, with foot and head all bare,
Toward her father’s house forth is she fare.2645
The folk her follow’d weeping on her way,
And fortune aye they cursed as they gon:2646
But she from weeping kept her eyen drey,2647
Nor in this timë wordë spake she none.
Her father, that this tiding heard anon,
Cursed the day and timë, that natúre
Shope2648 him to be a living creatúre.
For, out of doubt, this oldë poorë man
Was ever in suspéct of her marriáge:
For ever deem’d he, since it first began,
That when the lord fulfill’d had his coráge,2649
He wouldë think it were a disparáge2650
To his estate, so low for to alight,
And voidë2651 her as soon as e’er he might.
Against2652 his daughter hastily went he
(For he by noise of folk knew her coming),
And with her oldë coat, as it might be,
He cover’d her, full sorrowfully weepíng:
But on her body might he it not bring,2653
For rudë was the cloth, and more of age
By dayës fele2654 than at her marriáge.
Thus with her father for a certain space
Dwelled this flow’r of wifely patience,
That neither by her words nor by her face,
Before the folk nor eke in their absence,
Ne shewed she that her was done offence,
Nor of her high estate no rémembránce
Ne haddë she, as by2655 her countenance.
No wonder is, for in her great estate
Her ghost2656 was ever in plein2657 humility;
No tender mouth, no heartë delicate,
No pomp, and no semblánt of royalty;
But full of patient benignity,
Discreet and pridëless, aye honouráble,
And to her husband ever meek and stable.
Men speak of Job, and most for his humbléss,
As clerkës, when them list, can well indite,
Namely2658 of men; but, as in soothfastness,
Though clerkës praisë women but a lite,2659
There can no man in humbless him acquite
As women can, nor can be half so true
As women be, but it be fall of new.2660
Pars Sexta
From Bologn’ is the earl of Panic’ come,
Of which the fame up sprang to more and less;
And to the people’s earës all and some
Was know’n eke, that a newë marchioness
He with him brought, in such pomp and richéss
That never was there seen with mannë’s eye
So noble array in all West Lombardy.
The marquis, which that shope2661 and knew all this,
Ere that the earl was come, sent his messáge2662
For thilkë poorë sely2663 Griseldis;
And she, with humble heart and glad viságe,
Nor with no swelling thought in her coráge,2664
Came at his hest,2665 and on her knees her set,
And rev’rently and wisely she him gret.2666
“Griseld’,” quoth he, “my will is utterly,
This maiden, that shall wedded be to me,
Received be to-morrow as royally
As it possible is in my house to be;
And eke that every wight in his degree
Have his estate2667 in sitting and servíce,
And in high pleasance, as I can devise.
“I have no women sufficient, certáin,
The chambers to array in ordinance
After my lust;2668 and therefore would I fain
That thine were all such manner governance:
Thou knowest eke of old all my pleasánce;
Though thine array be bad, and ill besey,2669
Do thou thy dévoir at the leastë way.”2670
“Not only, Lord, that I am glad,” quoth she,
“To do your lust, but I desire also
You for to serve and please in my degree,
Withoutë fainting, and shall evermo’:
Nor ever for no weal, nor for no woe,
Ne shall the ghost2671 within mine heartë stent2672
To love you best with all my true intent.”
And with that word she gan the house to dight,2673
And tables for to set, and beds to make,
And pained her2674 to do all that she might,
Praying the chamberéres for Goddë’s sake
To hasten them, and fastë sweep and shake,
And she the most servíceable of all
Hath ev’ry chamber arrayed, and his hall.
Abouten undern2675 gan the earl alight,
That with him brought these noble children tway;
For which the people ran to see the sight
Of their array, so richëly besey;2676
And then at erst2677 amongës them they say,
That Walter was no fool, though that him lest2678
To change his wife; for it was for the best.
For she is fairer, as they deemen2679 all,
Than is Griseld’, and more tender of age,
And fairer fruit between them shouldë fall,
And morë pleasant, for her high lineage:
Her brother eke so fair was of viságe,
That them to see the people hath caught pleasánce,
Commending now the marquis’ governance.
“O stormy people, unsad2680 and ev’r untrue,
And undiscreet, and changing as a vane,
Delighting ev’r in rumour that is new,
For like the moon so waxë ye and wane:
Aye full of clapping, dear enough a jane,2681
Your doom2682 is false, your constance evil preveth,2683
A full great fool is he that you believeth.”
Thus saidë the sad2684 folk in that citý,
When that the people gazed up and down;
For they were glad, right for the novelty,
To have a newë lady of their town.
No more of this now make I mentioún,
But to Griseld’ again I will me dress,
And tell her constancy and business.
Full busy was Griseld’ in ev’ry thing
That to the feastë was appertinent;
Right nought was she abash’d2685 of her clothing,
Though it were rude, and somedeal eke to-rent;2686
But with glad cheer unto the gate she went
With other folk, to greet the marchioness,
And after that did forth her business.
With so glad cheer his guestës she receiv’d
And so conningly2687 each in his degree,
That no defaultë no man apperceiv’d,
But aye they wonder’d what she mightë be
That in so poor array was for to see,
And coudë2688 such honoúr and reverence;
And worthily they praisë her prudence.
In all this meanë whilë she not stent2689
This maid, and eke her brother, to commend
With all her heart in full benign intent,
So well, that no man could her praise amend:
But at the last, when that these lordës wend2690
To sittë down to meat, he gan to call
Griseld’, as she was busy in the hall.
“Griseld’,” quoth he, as it were in his play,
“How liketh thee my wife, and her beauty?”
“Right well, my Lord,” quoth she, “for, in good fay,2691
A fairer saw I never none than she:
I pray to God give you prosperity;
And so I hope, that he will to you send
Pleasance enough unto your livës’ end.
“One thing beseech I you, and warn also,
That ye not prickë with no tórmentíng
This tender maiden, as ye have done mo:2692
For she is foster’d in her nourishing
More tenderly, and, to my supposing,
She mightë not adversity endure
As could a poorë foster’d creatúre.”
And when this Walter saw her patience,
Her gladdë cheer, and no malíce at all,
And2693 he so often had her done offence,
And she aye sad2694 and constant as a wall,
Continuing ev’r her innocence o’er all,
The sturdy marquis gan his heartë dress2695
To rue upon her wifely steadfastness.
“This is enough, Griselda mine,” quoth he,
“Be now no more aghast, nor evil paid,2696
I have thy faith and thy benignity
As well as ever woman was, assay’d,
In great estate and poorëly array’d:
Now know I, dearë wife, thy steadfastness;”
And her in arms he took, and gan to kiss.
And she for wonder took of it no keep;2697
She heardë not what thing he to her said:
She far’d as she had start out of a sleep,
Till she out of her mazedness abraid.2698
“Griseld’,” quoth he, “by God that for us died,
Thou art my wifë, none other I have,
Nor ever had, as God my soulë save.
“This is thy daughter, which thou hast suppos’d
To be my wife; that other faithfully
Shall be mine heir, as I have aye dispos’d;
Thou bare them of thy body truëly:
At Bologna kept I them privily:
Take them again, for now may’st thou not say
That thou hast lorn2699 none of thy children tway.
“And folk, that otherwise have said of me,
I warn them well, that I have done this deed
For no malíce, nor for no cruelty,
But to assay in thee thy womanhead:
And not to slay my children (God forbid),
But for to keep them privily and still,
Till I thy purpose knew, and all thy will.”
When she this heard, in swoon adown she falleth
For piteous joy; and after her swooning,
She both her youngë children to her calleth,
And in her armës piteously weeping
Embraced them, and tenderly kissing,
Full like a mother, with her saltë tears
She bathed both their visage and their hairs.
O, what a piteous thing it was to see
Her swooning, and her humble voice to hear!
“Grand mercy, Lord, God thank it you,” quoth she,
That ye have saved me my children dear;
Now reck2700 I never to be dead right here;
Since I stand in your love, and in your grace,
No force of2701 death, nor when my spirit pace.2702
“O tender, O dear, O young children mine,
Your woeful mother weened steadfastly2703
That cruel houndës, or some foul vermíne,
Had eaten you; but God of his mercy,
And your benignë father tenderly
Have done you keep:”2704 and in that samë stound,2705
All suddenly she swapt2706 down to the ground.
And in her swoon so sadly2707 holdeth she
Her children two, when she gan them embrace,
That with great sleight2708 and great difficulty
The children from her arm they can arace,2709
O! many a tear on many a piteous face
Down ran of them that stoodë her beside,
Unneth2710 aboutë her might they abide.
Walter her gladdeth, and her sorrow slaketh:2711
She riseth up abashed2712 from her trance,
And every wight her joy and feastë maketh,
Till she hath caught again her countenance.
Walter her doth so faithfully pleasánce,
That it was dainty for to see the cheer
Betwixt them two, since they be met in fere.2713
The ladies, when that they their timë sey,2714
Have taken her, and into chamber gone,
And stripped her out of her rude array,
And in a cloth of gold that brightly shone,
And with a crown of many a richë stone
Upon her head, they into hall her brought:
And there she was honoúred as her ought.
Thus had this piteous day a blissful end;
For every man and woman did his might
This day in mirth and revel to dispend,
Till on the welkin2715 shone the starrës bright:
For more solémn in every mannë’s sight
This feastë was, and greater of costage,2716
Than was the revel of her marriáge.
Full many a year in high prosperity
Lived these two in concord and in rest;
And richëly his daughter married he
Unto a lord, one of the worthiest
Of all Itále; and then in peace and rest
His wifë’s father in his court he kept,
Till that the soul out of his body crept.
His son succeeded in his heritage,
In rest and peace, after his father’s day:
And fortunate was eke in marriáge,
All2717 he put not his wife in great assay:
This world is not so strong, it is no nay,2718
As it hath been in oldë timës yore;
And hearken what this author saith, therefore;
This story is said,2719 not for that wivës should
Follow Griselda in humility,
For it were importáble2720 though they would;
But for that every wight in his degree
Shouldë be constant in adversity,
As was Griselda; therefore Petrarch writeth
This story, which with high style he inditeth.
For, since a woman was so patient
Unto a mortal man, well more we ought
Receiven all in gree2721 that God us sent.
For great skill is he proved that he wrought:2722
But he tempteth no man that he hath bought,
As saith Saint James, if ye his ’pistle read;
He proveth folk all day, it is no dread.2723
And suffereth us, for our exercise,
With sharpë scourges of adversity
Full often to be beat in sundry wise;
Not for to know our will, for certes he,
Ere we were born, knew all our fraïlty;
And for our best is all his governance;
Let us then live in virtuous sufferance.
But one word, lordings, hearken, ere I go:
It were full hard to findë now-a-days
In all a town Griseldas three or two:
For, if that they were put to such assays,
The gold of them hath now so bad allays2724
With brass, that though the coin be fair at eye,2725
It wouldë rather break in two than ply.2726
For which here, for the Wifë’s love of Bath—
Whose life and all her sex may God maintain
In high mast’rý, and ellës were it scath—2727
I will, with lusty heartë fresh and green,
Say you a song to gladden you, I ween:
And let us stint of earnestful mattére.
Hearken my song, that saith in this mannére.
L’Envoy of Chaucer
“Griseld’ is dead, and eke her patience,
And both at once are buried in Itále:
For which I cry in open audience,
No wedded man so hardy be t’ assail
His wifë’s patience, in trust to find
Griselda’s, for in certain he shall fail.
“O noble wivës, full of high prudence,
Let no humility your tonguës nail:
Nor let no clerk have cause or diligence
To write of you a story of such marvail,
As of Griselda patient and kind,
Lest Chichëvache2728 you swallow in her entrail.
“Follow Echo, that holdeth no silence,
But ever answereth at the countertail;2729
Be not bedaffed2730 for your innocence,
But sharply take on you the governail;2731
Imprintë well this lesson in your mind,
For common profit, since it may avail.
“Ye archiwivës,2732 stand aye at defence,
Since ye be strong as is a great camail,2733
Nor suffer not that men do you offence.
And slender wivës, feeble in battail,
Be eager as a tiger yond in Ind;
Aye clapping as a mill, I you counsail.
“Nor dread them not, nor do them reverence;
For though thine husband armed be in mail,
The arrows of thy crabbed eloquence
Shall pierce his breast, and eke his aventail;2734
In jealousy I rede2735 eke thou him bind,
And thou shalt make him couch2736 as doth a quail.
“If thou be fair, where folk be in presénce
Shew thou thy visage and thine apparail:
If thou be foul, be free of thy dispence;
To get thee friendës aye do thy travail:
Be aye of cheer as light as leaf on lind,2737
And let him care, and weep, and wring, and wail.”