Paul Strohm - The Wife of Bath's Prologue (in Middle English) lyrics

The Prologe of the Wyves Tale of Bathe "Experience, though noon auctoritee Were in this world, were right ynogh to me To speke of wo that is in mariage; For, lordynges, sith I twelf yeer was of age, Thonked be God, that is eterne on lyve, Housbondes at chirche dore I have had fyve - For I so ofte have ywedded bee - And alle were worthy men in hir degree. But me was toold, certeyn, nat longe agoon is, That sith that Crist ne wente nevere but onis To weddyng in the Cane of Galilee, That by the same ensample, taughte he me, That I ne sholde wedded be but ones. Herkne eek, lo, which a sharpe word for the nones, Biside a welle Jhesus, God and Man, Spak in repreeve of the Samaritan. "Thou hast yhad fyve housbondes," quod he, "And thilke man the which that hath now thee Is noght thyn housbonde;" thus seyde he certeyn. What that he mente ther by, I kan nat seyn; But that I axe, why that the fifthe man Was noon housbonde to the Samaritan? How manye myghte she have in mariage? Yet herde I nevere tellen in myn age Upon this nombre diffinicioun. Men may devyne, and glosen up and doun, But wel I woot, expres, withoute lye, God bad us for to wexe and multiplye; That gentil text kan I wel understonde. Eek wel I woot, he seyde, myn housbonde Sholde lete fader and mooder, and take to me; But of no nombre mencioun made he, Of bigamye, or of octogamye; Why sholde men speke of it vileynye? Lo, heere the wise kyng, daun Salomon; I trowe he hadde wyves mo than oon- As, wolde God, it leveful were to me To be refresshed half so ofte as he! Which yifte of God hadde he, for alle hise wyvys! No man hath swich that in this world alyve is. God woot, this noble kyng, as to my wit, The firste nyght had many a myrie fit With ech of hem, so wel was hym on lyve! Yblessed be God, that I have wedded fyve; (Of whiche I have pyked out the beste, Bothe of here nether purs and of here cheste. Diverse scoles maken parfyt clerkes, And diverse practyk in many sondry werkes Maketh the werkman parfyt sekirly; Of fyve husbondes scoleiyng am I.) Welcome the sixte, whan that evere he shal. For sothe I wol nat kepe me chaast in al. Whan myn housbonde is fro the world ygon, Som Cristen man shal wedde me anon. For thanne th'apostle seith that I am free, To wedde, a Goddes half, where it liketh me. He seith, that to be wedded is no synne, Bet is to be wedded than to brynne. What rekketh me, thogh folk seye vileynye Of shrewed Lameth and of bigamye? I woot wel Abraham was an hooly man, And Jacob eek, as ferforth as I kan, And ech of hem hadde wyves mo than two, And many another holy man also. Whanne saugh ye evere in any manere age, That hye God defended mariage By expres word? I pray you, telleth me, Or where comanded he virginitee? I woot as wel as ye it is no drede, Th'apostel, whan he speketh of maydenhede; He seyde that precept therof hadde he noon. Men may conseille a womman to been oon, But conseillyng is no comandement; He putte it in oure owene juggement. For hadde God comanded maydenhede, Thanne hadde he dampned weddyng with the dede; And certein, if ther were no seed ysowe, Virginitee, wherof thanne sholde it growe? Poul dorste nat comanden, atte leeste, A thyng of which his maister yaf noon heeste. The dart is set up of virginitee; Cacche who so may, who renneth best lat see. But this word is nat taken of every wight, But ther as God lust gyve it of his myght. I woot wel, th'apostel was a mayde; But nathelees, thogh that he wroot and sayde He wolde that every wight were swich as he, Al nys but conseil to virginitee; And for to been a wyf, he yaf me leve Of indulgence, so it is no repreve To wedde me, if that my make dye, Withouten excepcioun of bigamye. Al were it good no womman for to touche, He mente, as in his bed or in his couche; For peril is bothe fyr and tow t'a**emble; Ye knowe what this ensample may resemble. This is al and som, he heeld virginitee Moore parfit than weddyng in freletee. Freletee clepe I, but if that he and she Wolde leden al hir lyf in chastitee. I graunte it wel, I have noon envie, Thogh maydenhede preferre bigamye; Hem liketh to be clene, body and goost. Of myn estaat I nyl nat make no boost, For wel ye knowe, a lord in his houshold, He nath nat every vessel al of gold; Somme been of tree, and doon hir lord servyse. God clepeth folk to hym in sondry wyse, And everich hath of God a propre yifte - Som this, som that, as hym liketh shifte. Virginitee is greet perfeccioun, And continence eek with devocioun. But Crist, that of perfeccioun is welle, Bad nat every wight he sholde go selle Al that he hadde, and gyve it to the poore, And in swich wise folwe hym and his foore. He spak to hem that wolde lyve parfitly, And lordynges, by youre leve, that am nat I. I wol bistowe the flour of myn age In the actes and in fruyt of mariage. Telle me also, to what conclusion Were membres maad of generacion, And of so parfit wys a wright ywroght? Trusteth right wel, they were maad for noght. Glose whoso wole, and seye bothe up and doun, That they were maked for purgacioun Of uryne, and oure bothe thynges smale Were eek to knowe a femele from a male, And for noon other cause, -say ye no? The experience woot wel it is noght so. So that the clerkes be nat with me wrothe, I sey this: that they maked ben for bothe, That is to seye, for office and for ese Of engendrure, ther we nat God displese. Why sholde men elles in hir bookes sette That man shal yelde to his wyf hire dette? Now wherwith sholde he make his paiement, If he ne used his sely instrument? Thanne were they maad upon a creature To purge uryne, and eek for engendrure. But I seye noght that every wight is holde, That hath swich harneys as I to yow tolde, To goon and usen hem in engendrure. Thanne sholde men take of chastitee no cure. Crist was a mayde, and shapen as a man, And many a seint, sith that the world bigan; Yet lyved that evere in parfit chastitee. I nyl envye no virginitee. Lat hem be breed of pured whete-seed, And lat us wyves hoten barly-breed; And yet with barly-breed, Mark telle kan, Oure Lord Jhesu refresshed many a man. In swich estaat as God hath cleped us I wol persevere; I nam nat precius. In wyfhod I wol use myn instrument As frely as my Makere hath it sent. If I be daungerous, God yeve me sorwe! Myn housbonde shal it have bothe eve and morwe, Whan that hym list come forth and paye his dette. An housbonde I wol have, I wol nat lette, Which shal be bothe my dettour and my thral, And have his tribulacioun withal Upon his flessh whil that I am his wyf. I have the power durynge al my lyf Upon his propre body, and noght he. Right thus the Apostel tolde it unto me, And bad oure housbondes for to love us weel. Al this sentence me liketh every deel" - Up stirte the Pardoner, and that anon; "Now, dame," quod he, "by God and by Seint John! Ye been a noble prechour in this cas. I was aboute to wedde a wyf; allas! What sholde I bye it on my flessh so deere? Yet hadde I levere wedde no wyf to-yeere!" "Abyde," quod she, "my tale in nat bigonne. Nay, thou shalt drynken of another tonne, Er that I go, shal savoure wors than ale. And whan that I have toold thee forth my tale Of tribulacioun in mariage, Of which I am expert in al myn age, This to seyn, myself have been the whippe, - Than maystow chese wheither thou wolt sippe Of thilke tonne that I shal abroche, Be war of it, er thou to ny approche; For I shal telle ensamples mo than ten. Whoso that nyl be war by othere men, By hym shul othere men corrected be. The same wordes writeth Ptholomee; Rede it in his Almageste, and take it there." "Dame, I wolde praye yow, if youre wyl it were," Seyde this Pardoner, "as ye bigan, Telle forth youre tale, spareth for no man, And teche us yonge men of your praktike." "Gladly," quod she, "sith it may yow like. But yet I praye to al this compaignye, If that I speke after my fantasye, As taketh not agrief of that I seye, For myn entente nis but for to pleye." Now, sire, now wol I telle forth my tale, As evere moote I drynken wyn or ale, I shal seye sooth, tho housbondes that I hadde, As thre of hem were goode, and two were badde. The thre men were goode, and riche, and olde; Unnethe myghte they the statut holde In which that they were bounden unto me- Ye woot wel what I meene of this, pardee! As help me God, I laughe whan I thynke How pitously a-nyght I made hem swynke. And, by my fey, I tolde of it no stoor, They had me yeven hir gold and hir tresoor; Me neded nat do lenger diligence To wynne hir love, or doon hem reverence, They loved me so wel, by God above, That I ne tolde no deyntee of hir love. A wys womman wol sette hire evere in oon To gete hire love, ther as she hath noon. But sith I hadde hem hoolly in myn hond, And sith they hadde me yeven all hir lond, What sholde I taken heede hem for to plese, But it were for my profit and myn ese? I sette hem so a-werke, by my fey, That many a nyght they songen "weilawey!" The bacon was nat fet for hem, I trowe, That som men han in Ess** at Dunmowe. I governed hem so wel after my lawe, That ech of hem ful blisful was, and fawe To brynge me gaye thynges fro the fayre. They were ful glad whan I spak to hem faire, For, God it woot, I chidde hem spitously. Now herkneth hou I baar me proprely, Ye wise wyves, that kan understonde. Thus shul ye speke and bere hem wrong on honde; For half so boldely kan ther no man Swere and lyen, as a womman kan. I sey nat this by wyves that been wyse, But if it be whan they hem mysavyse. A wys wyf, it that she kan hir good, Shal beren hym on hond the cow is wood, And take witnesse of hir owene mayde, Of hir a**ent; but herkneth how I sayde. "Sir olde kaynard, is this thyn array? Why is my neighebores wyf so gay? She is honoured overal ther she gooth; I sitte at hoom, I have no thrifty clooth. What dostow at my neighebores hous? Is she so fair? Artow so amorous? What rowne ye with oure mayde? Benedicite, Sir olde lecchour, lat thy japes be! And if I have a gossib or a freend Withouten gilt, thou chidest as a feend If that I walke or pleye unto his hous. Thou comest hoom as dronken as a mous And prechest on thy bench, with yvel preef! Thou seist to me, it is a greet meschief To wedde a povre womman, for costage, And if she be riche and of heigh parage, Thanne seistow it is a tormentrie To soffre hire pride and hir malencolie. And if she be fair, thou verray knave, Thou seyst that every holour wol hir have; She may no while in chastitee abyde That is a**ailled upon ech a syde. Thou seyst, som folk desiren us for richesse, Somme for oure shape, and somme for oure fairnesse, And som for she kan outher synge or daunce, And som for gentillesse and daliaunce, Som for hir handes and hir armes smale; Thus goth al to the devel by thy tale. Thou seyst, men may nat kepe a castel wal, It may so longe a**ailled been overal. And if that she be foul, thou seist that she Coveiteth every man that she may se; For as a spaynel she wol on hym lepe Til that she fynde som man hir to chepe; Ne noon so grey goos gooth ther in the lake As, seistow, wol been withoute make; And seyst, it is an hard thyng for to welde A thyng that no man wole, his thankes, helde. Thus seistow, lorel, whan thow goost to bedde, And that no wys man nedeth for to wedde, Ne no man that entendeth unto hevene - With wilde thonder-dynt and firy levene Moote thy welked nekke be tobroke! Thow seyst that droppyng houses, and eek smoke, And chidyng wyves maken men to flee Out of hir owene hous, a! benedicitee! What eyleth swich an old man for to chide? Thow seyst, we wyves wol oure vices hide Til we be fast, and thanne we wol hem shewe, - Wel may that be a proverbe of a shrewe! Thou seist, that oxen, a**es, hors, and houndes, They been a**ayd at diverse stoundes; Bacyns, lavours, er that men hem bye, Spoones and stooles, and al swich housbondrye, And so been pottes, clothes, and array; But folk of wyves maken noon a**ay Til they be wedded, olde dotard shrewe! And thanne, seistow, we wol oure vices shewe. Thou seist also, that it displeseth me But if that thou wolt preyse my beautee, And but thou poure alwey upon my face, And clepe me "faire dame" in every place, And but thou make a feeste on thilke day That I was born, and make me fressh and gay, And but thou do to my norice honour, And to my chamberere withinne my bour, And to my fadres folk and hise allyes- Thus seistow, olde barel-ful of lyes! And yet of oure apprentice Janekyn, For his crispe heer, shynynge as gold so fyn, And for he squiereth me bothe up and doun, Yet hastow caught a fals suspecioun. I wol hym noght, thogh thou were deed tomorwe! But tel me this, why hydestow, with sorwe, The keyes of my cheste awey fro me? It is my good as wel as thyn, pardee; What, wenestow make an ydiot of oure dame? Now by that lord that called is Seint Jame, Thou shalt nat bothe, thogh that thou were wood, Be maister of my body and of my good; That oon thou shalt forgo, maugree thyne eyen. What nedeth thee of me to enquere or spyen? I trowe thou woldest loke me in thy chiste. Thou sholdest seye, "Wyf, go wher thee liste, Taak youre disport, I wol not leve no talys, I knowe yow for a trewe wyf, dame Alys." We love no man that taketh kepe or charge Wher that we goon, we wol ben at our large. Of alle men yblessed moot he be, The wise astrologien, Daun Ptholome, That seith this proverbe in his Almageste: `Of alle men his wysdom is the hyeste, That rekketh nevere who hath the world in honde.' By this proverbe thou shalt understonde, Have thou ynogh, what thar thee recche or care How myrily that othere folkes fare? For certeyn, olde dotard, by youre leve, Ye shul have queynte right ynogh at eve. He is to greet a nygard, that wolde werne A man to lighte his candle at his lanterne; He shal have never the la**e light, pardee, Have thou ynogh, thee thar nat pleyne thee. Thou seyst also, that if we make us gay With clothyng and with precious array, That it is peril of oure chastitee: And yet, with sorwe, thou most enforce thee, And seye thise wordes in the Apostles name, "In habit, maad with chastitee and shame, Ye wommen shul apparaille yow," quod he, "And noght in tressed heer and gay perree, As perles, ne with gold, ne clothes riche." After thy text, ne after thy rubriche I wol nat wirche, as muchel as a gnat! Thou seydest this, that I was lyk a cat; For whoso wolde senge a cattes skyn, Thanne wolde the cat wel dwellen in his in. And if the cattes skyn be slyk and gay, She wol nat dwelle in house half a day, But forth she wole, er any day be dawed, To shewe hir skyn, and goon a-caterwawed. This is to seye, if I be gay, sire shrewe, I wol renne out, my borel for to shewe. Sire olde fool, what eyleth thee to spyen, Thogh thou preye Argus, with his hundred eyen, To be my warde-cors, as he kan best, In feith,he shal nat kepe me but me lest; Yet koude I make his berd, so moot I thee. Thou seydest eek, that ther been thynges thre, The whiche thynges troublen al this erthe, And that no wight ne may endure the ferthe. O leeve sire shrewe, Jesu shorte thy lyf! Yet prechestow, and seyst an hateful wyf Yrekened is for oon of thise meschances. Been ther none othere maner resemblances That ye may likne youre parables to, But if a sely wyf be oon of tho? Thou likenest wommenes love to helle, To bareyne lond, ther water may nat dwelle. Thou liknest it also to wilde fyr; The moore it brenneth, the moore it hath desir To consume every thyng that brent wole be. Thou seyest, right as wormes shende a tree, Right so a wyf destroyeth hir housbond. This knowe they, that been to wyves bonde." Lordynges, right thus, as ye have understonde, Baar I stifly myne olde housbondes on honde, That thus they seyden in hir dronkenesse; And al was fals, but that I took witnesse On Janekyn and on my nece also. O lord! The pyne I dide hem, and the wo Ful giltelees, by Goddes sweete pyne! For as an hors I koude byte and whyne, I koude pleyne, thogh I were in the gilt, Or elles often tyme hadde I been spilt. Who so that first to mille comth first grynt; I pleyned first, so was oure werre ystynt. They were ful glad to excuse hem ful blyve Of thyng of which they nevere agilte hir lyve. Of wenches wolde I beren hym on honde, Whan that for syk unnethes myghte he stonde, Yet tikled it his herte, for that he! Wende that I hadde of hym so greet chiertee. I swoor that al my walkynge out by nyghte Was for t'espye wenches that he dighte. Under that colour hadde I many a myrthe; For al swich wit is yeven us in oure byrthe, Deceite, wepyng, spynnyng, God hath yive To wommen kyndely whil they may lyve. And thus of o thyng I avaunte me, Atte ende I hadde the bettre in ech degree, By sleighte, or force, or by som maner thyng, As by continueel murmur or grucchyng. Namely a bedde hadden they meschaunce; Ther wolde I chide and do hem no plesaunce, I wolde no lenger in the bed abyde, If that I felte his arm over my syde Til he had maad his raunsoun unto me; Thanne wolde I suffre hym do his nycetee. And therfore every man this tale I telle, Wynne who so may, for al is for to selle; With empty hand men may none haukes lure. For wynnyng wolde I al his lust endure And make me a feyned appetit; And yet in bacon hadde I nevere delit; That made me that evere I wolde hem chide. For thogh the pope hadde seten hem biside, I wolde nat spare hem at hir owene bord, For by my trouthe I quitte hem word for word. As help me verray God omnipotent, Though I right now sholde make my testament, I ne owe hem nat a word, that it nys quit. I broghte it so aboute by my wit, That they moste yeve it up as for the beste, Or elles hadde we nevere been in reste. For thogh he looked as a wood leon, Yet sholde he faille of his conclusioun. Thanne wolde I seye, "Goode lief, taak keep, How mekely looketh Wilkyn oure sheep! Com neer, my spouse, lat me ba thy cheke! Ye sholde been al pacient and meke, And han a sweete spiced conscience, Sith ye so preche of Jobes pacience. Suffreth alwey, syn ye so wel kan preche, And but ye do, certein we shal yow teche That it is fair to have a wyf in pees. Oon of us two moste bowen, doutelees; And sith a man is moore resonable, Than womman is, ye moste been suffrable." What eyleth yow to grucche thus and grone? Is it for ye wolde have my queynte allone? Wy, taak it al! lo, have it every deel! Peter! I shrewe yow, but ye love it weel; For if I wolde selle my bele chose, I koude walke as fressh as is a rose But I wol kepe it for youre owene tooth. Ye be to blame, by God! I sey yow sooth." Swiche manere wordes hadde we on honde. Now wol I speken of my fourthe housbonde. My fourthe housbonde was a revelour - This is to seyn, he hadde a paramour - And I was yong and ful of ragerye, Stibourn and strong, and joly as a pye. Wel koude I daunce to an harpe smale, And synge, ywis, as any nyghtyngale, Whan I had dronke a draughte of sweete wyn. Metellius, the foule cherl, the swyn, That with a staf birafte his wyf hire lyf, For she drank wyn, thogh I hadde been his wyf, He sholde nat han daunted me fro drynke. And after wyn on Venus moste I thynke, For al so siker as cold engendreth hayl, A likerous mouth moste han a likerous tayl. In wommen vinolent is no defence, This knowen lecchours by experience. But, Lord Crist! whan that it remembreth me Upon my yowthe and on my jolitee, It tikleth me aboute myn herte roote. Unto this day it dooth myn herte boote That I have had my world, as in my tyme. But age, allas, that al wole envenyme, Hath me biraft my beautee and my pith! Lat go, farewel, the devel go therwith! The flour is goon, ther is namoore to telle, The bren as I best kan, now moste I selle; But yet to be right myrie wol I fonde. Now wol I tellen of my fourthe housbonde. I seye, I hadde in herte greet despit That he of any oother had delit; But he was quit, by God and by Seint Joce! I made hym of the same wode a croce; Nat of my body in no foul manere, But certeinly, I made folk swich cheere That in his owene grece I made hym frye For angre and for verray jalousye. By God, in erthe I was his purgatorie, For which I hope his soule be in glorie, For, God it woot, he sat ful ofte and song Whan that his shoo ful bitterly hym wrong! Ther was no wight save God and he, that wiste In many wise how soore I hym twiste. He deyde whan I cam fro Jerusalem, And lith ygrave under the roode-beem, Al is his tombe noght so curyus As was the sepulcre of hym Daryus, Which that Appelles wroghte subtilly. It nys but wast to burye hym preciously, Lat hym fare-wel, God yeve his soule reste, He is now in his grave, and in his cheste. Now of my fifthe housbonde wol I telle. God lete his soule nevere come in helle! And yet was he to me the mooste shrewe; That feele I on my ribbes al by rewe, And evere shal, unto myn endyng day. But in oure bed he was ful fressh and gay, And therwithal so wel koude he me glose Whan that he solde han my bele chose, That thogh he hadde me bet on every bon He koude wynne agayn my love anon. I trowe I loved hym beste, for that he Was of his love daungerous to me. We wommen han, if that I shal nat lye, In this matere a queynte fantasye; Wayte what thyng we may nat lightly have, Therafter wol we crie al day and crave. Forbede us thyng, and that desiren we; Preesse on us faste, and thanne wol we fle; With daunger oute we al oure chaffare. Greet prees at market maketh deere ware, And to greet cheep is holde at litel prys; This knoweth every womman that is wys. My fifthe housbonde, God his soule blesse, Which that I took for love and no richesse, He somtyme was a clerk of Oxenford, And hadde left scole, and wente at hom to bord With my gossib, dwellynge in oure toun, God have hir soule! hir name was Alisoun. She knew myn herte and eek my privetee Bet than oure parisshe preest, as moot I thee. To hir biwreyed I my conseil al, For hadde myn housbonde pissed on a wal, Or doon a thyng that sholde han cost his lyf, To hir, and to another worthy wyf, And to my nece, which that I loved weel, I wolde han toold his conseil every deel. And so I dide ful often, God it woot, That made his face ful often reed and hoot For verray shame, and blamed hym-self, for he Had toold to me so greet a pryvetee. And so bifel that ones, in a Lente - So often tymes I to my gossyb wente, For evere yet I loved to be gay, And for to walke in March, Averill, and May, Fro hous to hous to heere sondry talys - That Jankyn Clerk and my gossyb, dame Alys, And I myself into the feeldes wente. Myn housbonde was at London al that Lente; I hadde the bettre leyser for to pleye, And for to se, and eek for to be seye Of lusty folk; what wiste I, wher my grace Was shapen for to be, or in what place? Therfore I made my visitaciouns To vigilies and to processiouns, To prechyng eek, and to thise pilgrimages, To pleyes of myracles, and to mariages; And wered upon my gaye scarlet gytes. Thise wormes ne thise motthes, ne thise mytes, Upon my peril, frete hem never a deel; And wostow why? for they were used weel! Now wol I tellen forth what happed me. I seye, that in the feeldes walked we, Til trewely we hadde swich daliance, This clerk and I, that of my purveiance I spak to hym, and seyde hym, how that he, If I were wydwe, sholde wedde me. For certeinly, I sey for no bobance, Yet was I nevere withouten purveiance Of mariage, n'of othere thynges eek. I holde a mouses herte nat worth a leek That hath but oon hole for to sterte to, And if that faille, thanne is al ydo. I bar hym on honde, he hadde enchanted me, - My dame taughte me that soutiltee. And eek I seyde, I mette of hym al nyght, He wolde han slayn me as I lay upright, And al my bed was ful of verray blood; But yet I hope that he shal do me good, For blood bitokeneth gold, as me was taught- And al was fals, I dremed of it right naught, But as I folwed ay my dames loore As wel of this, as of othere thynges moore. But now sir, lat me se, what I shal seyn? A ha, by God, I have my tale ageyn. Whan that my fourthe housbonde was on beere, I weep algate, and made sory cheere, As wyves mooten, for it is usage- And with my coverchief covered my visage; But for that I was purveyed of a make, I wepte but smal, and that I undertake. To chirche was myn housbonde born amorwe With neighebores that for hym maden sorwe; And Janekyn oure clerk was oon of tho. As help me God! whan that I saugh hym go After the beere, me thoughte he hadde a paire Of legges and of feet so clene and faire, That al myn herte I yaf unto his hoold. He was, I trowe, a twenty wynter oold, And I was fourty, if I shal seye sooth, But yet I hadde alwey a coltes tooth. Gat-tothed I was, and that bicam me weel, I hadde the prente of Seinte Venus seel. As help me God, I was a lusty oon, And faire, and riche, and yong, and wel bigon, And trewely, as myne housbondes tolde me, I hadde the beste quonyam myghte be. For certes, I am al Venerien In feelynge, and myn herte is Marcien. Venus me yaf my lust, my likerousnesse, And Mars yaf me my sturdy hardynesse. Myn ascendent was Taur, and Mars therinne, Allas, allas, that evere love was synne! I folwed ay myn inclinacioun By vertu of my constellacioun; That made me I koude noght withdrawe My chambre of Venus from a good felawe. Yet have I Martes mark upon my face, And also in another privee place. For God so wys be my savacioun, I ne loved nevere by no discrecioun, But evere folwede myn appetit, Al were he short, or long, or blak, or whit. I took no kep, so that he liked me, How poore he was, ne eek of what degree. What sholde I seye, but at the monthes ende This joly clerk Jankyn, that was so hende Hath wedded me with greet solempnytee, And to hym yaf I al the lond and fee That evere was me yeven therbifoore; But afterward repented me ful soore; He nolde suffre nothyng of my list. By God, he smoot me ones on the lyst For that I rente out of his book a leef, That of the strook myn ere wax al deef. Stibourne I was as is a leonesse, And of my tonge a verray jangleresse, And walke I wolde, as I had doon biforn, From hous to hous, although he had it sworn, For which he often-tymes wolde preche, And me of olde Romayn geestes teche, How he Symplicius Gallus lefte his wyf, And hir forsook for terme of al his lyf, Noght but for open-heveded he hir say, Lookynge out at his dore, upon a day. Another Romayn tolde he me by name, That for his wyf was at a someres game Withoute his wityng, he forsook hir eke. And thanne wolde he upon his Bible seke That like proverbe of Ecclesiaste, Where he comandeth, and forbedeth faste, Man shal nat suffre his wyf go roule aboute, "Who so that buyldeth his hous al of salwes, And priketh his blynde hors over the falwes, And suffreth his wyf to go seken halwes, Is worthy to been hanged on the galwes!" But al for noght, I sette noght an hawe Of his proverbes, n'of his olde sawe, Ne I wolde nat of hym corrected be. I hate hym that my vices telleth me; And so doo mo, God woot, of us than I. This made hym with me wood al outrely, I nolde noght forbere hym in no cas. Now wol I seye yow sooth, by seint Thomas, Why that I rente out of his book a leef, For which he smoot me so that I was deef. He hadde a book that gladly, nyght and day, For his desport he wolde rede alway. He cleped it Valerie and Theofraste, At whiche book he lough alwey ful faste. And eek ther was som tyme a clerk at Rome, A cardinal that highte Seint Jerome, That made a book agayn Jovinian, In whiche book eek ther was Tertulan, Crisippus, Trotula, and Helowys, That was abbesse nat fer fro Parys, And eek the Parables of Salomon, Ovides Art, and bookes many on, And alle thise were bounden in o volume, And every nyght and day was his custume Whan he hadde leyser and vacacioun From oother worldly occupacioun To reden on this book of wikked wyves. He knew of hem mo legendes and lyves Than been of goode wyves in the Bible. For trusteth wel, it is an impossible That any clerk wol speke good of wyves, But if it be of hooly seintes lyves, Ne of noon oother womman never the mo. Who peyntede the leon, tel me, who? By God! if wommen hadde writen stories, As clerkes han withinne hire oratories, They wolde han writen of men moore wikkednesse Than all the mark of Adam may redresse. The children of Mercurie and Venus Been in hir wirkyng ful contrarius, Mercurie loveth wysdam and science, And Venus loveth ryot and dispence. And for hire diverse disposicioun Ech falleth in otheres exaltacioun, And thus, God woot, Mercurie is desolat In Pisces, wher Venus is exaltat; And Venus falleth ther Mercurie is reysed. Therfore no womman of no clerk is preysed. The clerk, whan he is oold and may noght do Of Venus werkes worth his olde sho, Thanne sit he doun, and writ in his dotage That wommen kan nat kepe hir mariage. But now to purpos, why I tolde thee That I was beten for a book, pardee. Upon a nyght Jankyn, that was oure sire, Redde on his book as he sat by the fire Of Eva first, that for hir wikkednesse Was al mankynde broght to wrecchednesse, For which that Jhesu Crist hymself was slayn, That boghte us with his herte blood agayn. Lo, heere expres of womman may ye fynde, That womman was the los of al mankynde. Tho redde he me how Sampson loste hise heres, Slepynge, his lemman kitte it with hir sheres, Thurgh whiche tresoun loste he bothe hise yen. Tho redde he me, if that I shal nat lyen, Of Hercules and of his Dianyre, That caused hym to sette hymself afyre. No thyng forgat he the penaunce and wo That Socrates hadde with hise wyves two, How Xantippa caste pisse upon his heed. This sely man sat stille as he were deed; He wiped his heed, namoore dorste he seyn But, "Er that thonder stynte, comth a reyn." Of Phasipha, that was the queene of Crete, For shrewednesse hym thoughte the tale swete- Fy! Speke namoore - it is a grisly thyng - Of hir horrible lust and hir likyng. Of Clitermystra for hire lecherye, That falsly made hir housbonde for to dye, He redde it with ful good devocioun. He tolde me eek for what occasioun Amphiorax at Thebes loste his lyf. Myn housbonde hadde a legende of his wyf Eriphilem, that for an ouche of gold Hath prively unto the Grekes told Wher that hir housbonde hidde hym in a place, For which he hadde at Thebes sory grace. Of Lyvia tolde he me, and of Lucye, They bothe made hir housbondes for to dye, That oon for love, that oother was for hate. Lyvia hir housbonde, on an even late, Empoysoned hath, for that she was his fo. Lucia, likerous, loved hir housbonde so, That for he sholde alwey upon hire thynke, She yaf hym swich a manere love-drynke That he was deed, er it were by the morwe. And thus algates housbondes han sorw. Thanne tolde he me, how that Latumyus Compleyned unto his felawe Arrius, That in his gardyn growed swich a tree, On which he seyde how that hise wyves thre Hanged hemself, for herte despitus. "O leeve brother," quod this Arrius, "Yif me a plante of thilke blissed tree, And in my gardyn planted it shal bee." Of latter date of wyves hath he red, That somme han slayn hir housbondes in hir bed, And lete hir lecchour dighte hir al the nyght, Whan that the corps lay in the floor upright. And somme han dryve nayles in hir brayn Whil that they slepte, and thus they han hem slayn. Somme han hem yeve poysoun in hir drynke. He spak moore harm than herte may bithynke, And therwithal he knew of mo proverbes Than in this world ther growen gras or herbes. "Bet is," quod he, "thyn habitacioun Be with a leon, or a foul dragoun, Than with a womman usynge for to chyde." "Bet is," quod he, "hye in the roof abyde Than with an angry wyf doun in the hous, They been so wikked and contrarious. They haten that hir housbondes loveth ay." He seyde, "a womman cast hir shame away Whan she cast of hir smok," and forther mo, "A fair womman, but she be chaast also, Is lyk a goldryng in a sowes nose." Who wolde leeve, or who wolde suppose The wo that in myn herte was, and pyne? And whan I saugh he wolde nevere fyne To reden on this cursed book al nyght, Al sodeynly thre leves have I plyght Out of his book, right as he radde, and eke I with my fest so took hym on the cheke, That in oure fyr he ril bakward adoun. And he up-stirte as dooth a wood leoun, And with his fest he smoot me on the heed That in the floor I lay, as I were deed. And whan he saugh how stille that I lay, He was agast, and wolde han fled his way, Til atte laste out of my swogh I breyde. 'O, hastow slayn me, false theef,' I seyde, 'And for my land thus hastow mordred me? Er I be deed, yet wol I kisse thee.' And neer he cam and kneled faire adoun, And seyde, 'Deere suster Alisoun, As help me God, I shal thee nevere smyte. That I have doon, it is thyself to wyte, Foryeve it me, and that I thee biseke." And yet eftsoones I hitte hym on the cheke, And seyde, 'Theef, thus muchel am I wreke; Now wol I dye, I may no lenger speke.' But atte laste, with muchel care and wo, We fille acorded by us selven two. He yaf me al the bridel in myn hond, To han the governance of hous and lond, And of his tonge, and of his hond also, And made hym brenne his book anon right tho. And whan that I hadde geten unto me By maistrie, al the soveraynetee, And that he seyde, 'Myn owene trewe wyf, Do as thee lust the terme of al thy lyf, Keepe thyn honour, and keep eek myn estaat,' - After that day we hadden never debaat. God help me so, I was to hym as kynde As any wyf from Denmark unto Ynde, And also trewe, and so was he to me. I prey to God, that sit in magestee, So blesse his soule for his mercy deere. Now wol I seye my tale, if ye wol heere. Biholde the wordes bitwene the Somonour and the Frere. The Frere lough whan he hadde herd al this.- "Now dame," quod he, "so have I joye or blis, This is a long preamble of a tale." And whan the Somonour herde the Frere gale, "Lo," quod the Somonour, "Goddes armes two, A frere wol entremette hym everemo. Lo goode men, a flye and eek a frere Wol falle in every dyssh and eek mateere. What spekestow of preambulacioun? What, amble, or trotte, or pees, or go sit doun, Thou lettest oure disport in this manere." "Ye, woltow so, sire Somonour?" quod the Frere, "Now by my feith, I shal er that I go Telle of a somonour swich a tale or two That alle the folk shal laughen in this place." "Now elles, frere, I bishrewe thy face," Quod this Somonour, "and I bishrewe me, But if I telle tales two or thre Of freres, er I come to Sidyngborne, That I shal make thyn herte for to morne, For wel I woot thy pacience in gon." Oure Hooste cride, "Pees, and that anon!" And seyde, "lat the womman telle hire tale, Ye fare as folk that dronken were of ale. Do, dame, telle forth youre tale, and that is best." "Al redy, sire," quod she, "right as yow lest, If I have licence of this worthy Frere." "Yis, dame," quod he, "tel forth, and I wol heere." Heere endeth the Wyf of Bathe hir Prologe.