The Canon’s Yeoman’s TaleThe Prologue
When ended was the life of Saint Cecile,Ere we had ridden fully five mile,At Boughton-under-Blee us gan o’ertakeA man, that clothed was in clothes black,And underneath he wore a white surplice.His hackenay, which was all pomely-gris,So sweated, that it wonder was to see;It seem’d as he had pricked miles three.The horse eke that his yeoman rode uponSo sweated, that unnethes might he gon.About the peytrel stood the foam full high;He was of foam, as flecked as a pie.A maile twyfold on his crupper lay;It seemed that he carried little array;All light for summer rode this worthy man.And in my heart to wonder I beganWhat that he was, till that I understoodHow that his cloak was sewed to his hood;For which, when I had long advised me,I deemed him some Canon for to be.His hat hung at his back down by a lace,For he had ridden more than trot or pace;He hadde pricked like as he were wood.A clote-leaf he had laid under his hood,For sweat, and for to keep his head from heat.But it was joye for to see him sweat;His forehead dropped as a stillatoryWere full of plantain or of paritory.And when that he was come, he gan to cry,“God save,” quoth he, “this jolly company.Fast have I pricked,” quoth he, “for your sake,Because that I would you overtake,To riden in this merry company.”His Yeoman was eke full of courtesy,And saide, “Sirs, now in the morning tideOut of your hostelry I saw you ride,And warned here my lord and sovereign,Which that to ride with you is full fain,For his disport; he loveth dalliance.”“Friend, for thy warning God give thee good chance,”Said oure Host; “certain it woulde seemThy lord were wise, and so I may well deem;He is full jocund also, dare I lay;Can he aught tell a merry tale or tway,With which he gladden may this company?”“Who, Sir? my lord? Yea, Sir, withoute lie,He can of mirth and eke of jollityNot but enough; also, Sir, truste me,An ye him knew all so well as do I,Ye would wonder how well and craftilyHe coulde work, and that in sundry wise.He hath take on him many a great emprise,Which were full hard for any that is hereTo bring about, but they of him it lear.As homely as he rides amonges you,If ye him knew, it would be for your prow:Ye woulde not forego his acquaintanceFor muche good, I dare lay in balanceAll that I have in my possession.He is a man of high discretion.I warn you well, he is a passing man.”Well,” quoth our Host, “I pray thee tell me than,Is he a clerk, or no? Tell what he is.”“Nay, he is greater than a clerk, y-wis,”Saide this Yeoman; “and, in wordes few,Host, of his craft somewhat I will you shew,I say, my lord can such a subtlety(But all his craft ye may not weet of me,And somewhat help I yet to his working),That all the ground on which we be ridingTill that we come to Canterbury town,He could all cleane turnen up so down,And pave it all of silver and of gold.”And when this Yeoman had this tale toldUnto our Host, he said; “Ben’dicite!This thing is wonder marvellous to me,Since that thy lord is of so high prudence,Because of which men should him reverence,That of his worship recketh he so lite;His overest slop it is not worth a miteAs in effect to him, so may I go;It is all baudy and to-tore also.Why is thy lord so sluttish, I thee pray,And is of power better clothes to bey,If that his deed accordeth with thy speech?Telle me that, and that I thee beseech.”
“Why?” quoth this Yeoman, “whereto ask ye me?God help me so, for he shall never the(But I will not avowe that I say,And therefore keep it secret, I you pray);He is too wise, in faith, as I believe.Thing that is overdone, it will not preveAright, as clerkes say; it is a vice;Wherefore in that I hold him lewd and nice.”For when a man hath over great a wit,Full oft him happens to misusen it;So doth my lord, and that me grieveth sore.God it amend; I can say now no more.”
“Thereof no force, good Yeoman, “quoth our Host;“Since of the conning of thy lord, thou know’st,Tell how he doth, I pray thee heartily,Since that be is so crafty and so sly.Where dwelle ye, if it to telle be?”“In the suburbes of a town,” quoth he,“Lurking in hernes and in lanes blind,Where as these robbers and these thieves by kindHolde their privy fearful residence,As they that dare not show their presence,So fare we, if I shall say the soothe.”“Yet,” quoth our Hoste, “let me talke to thee;Why art thou so discolour’d of thy face?”“Peter!” quoth he, “God give it harde grace,I am so us’d the hote fire to blow,That it hath changed my colour, I trow;I am not wont in no mirror to pry,But swinke sore, and learn to multiply.We blunder ever, and poren in the fire,And, for all that, we fail of our desireFor ever we lack our conclusionTo muche folk we do illusion,And borrow gold, be it a pound or two,Or ten or twelve, or many summes mo’,And make them weenen, at the leaste way,That of a pounde we can make tway.Yet is it false; and aye we have good hopeIt for to do, and after it we grope:But that science is so far us beforn,That we may not, although we had it sworn,It overtake, it slides away so fast;It will us make beggars at the last.”While this Yeoman was thus in his talking,This Canon drew him near, and heard all thingWhich this Yeoman spake, for suspicionOf menne’s speech ever had this Canon:For Cato saith, that he that guilty is,Deemeth all things be spoken of him y-wis;Because of that he gan so nigh to drawTo his Yeoman, that he heard all his saw;And thus he said unto his Yeoman tho“Hold thou thy peace,and speak no wordes mo’:For if thou do, thou shalt it dear abie.Thou slanderest me here in this companyAnd eke discoverest that thou shouldest hide.”“Yea,” quoth our Host, “tell on, whatso betide;Of all his threatening reck not a mite.”“In faith,” quoth he, “no more do I but lite.”And when this Canon saw it would not beBut his Yeoman would tell his privity,He fled away for very sorrow and shame.
“Ah!” quoth the Yeoman, “here shall rise a game;All that I can anon I will you tell,Since he is gone; the foule fiend him quell!For ne’er hereafter will I with him meet,For penny nor for pound, I you behete.He that me broughte first unto that game,Ere that he die, sorrow have he and shame.For it is earnest to me, by my faith;That feel I well, what so any man saith;And yet for all my smart, and all my grief,For all my sorrow, labour, and mischief,I coulde never leave it in no wise.Now would to God my witte might sufficeTo tellen all that longeth to that art!But natheless yet will I telle part;Since that my lord is gone, I will not spare;Such thing as that I know, I will declare.”