THE PROLOGUE

Here biginneth the Book of the Tales of Caunterbury

Whan that Aprille with his showers sweet

The drought of march hath pierced to the roote,
And bathed every vein in such liqour
Of which power engendred is the flower;
Whan zephirus eek with his sweete breath
Inspired hath in every grove and heath
Tendre croppes, and the young sun
And small fowles maken melodye,
That sleepen al the nyght with open eye
(so priketh them nature in his heart);
Than longen folk to go on pilgrimages,
And palmers for to seek strange lands,
To far saints, hallowed in sundry lands;
And specially from every shires end
Of Engelond to Caunterbury they wend,
The holy blisful martyr for to seek,
That them hath help when that they were sick.

It befell that in that season on a day,

In Southwark at the tabard as I lay
Ready to wenden on my pilgrymage
To Caunterbury with full devout heart,
At nyght was come into that hostelry
Wel nine and twenty in a company,
Of sundry folk, by aventure yfall
In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all,
That toward Caunterbury would on ride.
The rooms and the stables were wide,
And well we were eased at best.
And shortly, when the sun was to rest,
So had I spoken with them everyone,
That I was of their fellowship anon,
And made forward early for to rise,
To take our way there as I to you say.

But natheles, while I have time and space,

Er that I further in this tale pace,
Me thinketh it acordaunt to resound
To telle you all the condition
Of each of them, so as it seemed me,
And which they were, and of what degree,
And eack in what array that they were in;
And at a knyght then will I first begin.

THE KNIGHT'S PORTRAIT

A knyght there was, and that a worthy man,
That fro the time that he first began
To riden out, he loved chivalrie,
Truth and honour, freedom and curteisye.
Full worthy was he in his lord’s war,
And thereto had he riden, no man farer,
As well in christendom as in heathenesse,
And ever honoured for his worthynesse.

At mortal battles had he been fifteen,

And foughten for oure faith
In lists thrice, and ay slayn his foe.
And evermore he had a sovereyn eyes;
And though that he were worthy, he was wise,
And of his manner as meek as is a maid.
He never yet no villainy ne saide
He was a verray, perfect gentle knyght.

THE YEOMAN'S PORTRAIT

A yeman hadde he,
And he was clad in coat and hood of green.
A sheaf of peacock-arrows, bright and keen,
Under his belt he bore full thriftily,
(well coulde he dress his gear yemanly:
His arrows drooped not with featheres low)
A nuthead hadde he, with a brown visage.
Of woodcraft well could he all the usage.
And by his side a sword and a buckler,
An horn he bar, the baldric was of greene;
A forrester was he, soothly, as I guesse.

THE PRIORESS' PORTRAIT

Ther was also a nun, a prioresse,
That of her smiling was full simple and coy;
Hire greattest oath was but by saint Loy;
And she was called madame Eglentyne.
Full well she song the service divine,
Entuned in her nose full seemly,
And french she spak full faire and fetisly,

At meat well ytaught was she withal:

She let no morsel from her lippes falle,
Ne wette her fingers in her sauce deep;
Well could she carry a morsel and wel kepe
That no drop ne fall upon her breast.
In curteisie was set full much her pleasure.
Her over-lippe wiped she so clean
That in her cup ther was no morsel seen
Of grease, whan she dronken hadde her draught.
Full seemly after her meat she reached’
And certainly she was of great desport,
And full pleasaunt, and amiable of sport.

Ful seemly her wimple pinched was,

Her mouth full small, and therto soft and red.

THE MONK'S PORTRAIT

A monk there was, a fair for the exceedlingly,
An outrider, that loved greenery,
A manly man, to been an abbot able.
Jingling in a whistling wind as clear
And eek as loud as dooth the chapel-bell.
There as this lord was keeper of the cell,
By-cause that it was old and somewhat strict
This ilke monk let olde things pace,
And held after the new world the space.
Ne that a monk, whan he is cloisterless,
Is likned til a fish that is waterless,
And I said his opinion was good.
What should he study and make himselve mad,
Upon a book in cloistre alway to pour,
Or toil with his hands, and labour,
How shall the world be served?

His head was bald, that shone as any glass,

And eek his face, as he hadde been anoint.
He was a lord full fat and in good point;
His eye glitter, and rolling in his head,
That steamed as a furnace of a cauldron;
He was not pale as a for-pined ghost.

THE FRIAR'S PORTRAIT

A frere there was, a wanton and a merry,
So muche of daliance and fair language.
Full well beloved and familiar was he
For he hadde power of confessioun,
As saide hymself, more than a curat,
For of his order he was licentiat.
Full sweetly heard he confessioun,
And pleasant was his absolution:
He was an easy man to give penaunce,
Ther as he would to have a good pitance.
For many a man so hard is of his hearte,
He may not weep, although him sore smart.
Therfore in steade of weping and prayers
Men moote give silver to the poor friar.
Of songs he bar utterly the prays.
His neck white was as the flour-de-lys;
Thereto he strong was as a champioun.
He knew the taverns well in every town
And everich hostiler and barmaid
Better than a lazar or a beggerman;
For unto such a worthy man as he
Acorded not, as by his faculty,
To have with seke lazars aquaintance.
But all with riche and sellers of vitual.
And over-al, there as profit shoulde arise,
Curteys he was and lowly of service.
There was no man no-where so virtuous.
He was the best begger in his house;
For though a widow hadde noght a shoe,
So plesaunt was his ‘howd‘ye do‘,
Yet would he have a farthyng, er he went.
And rage he could, as it were right a whelp .
In dispute-days there could he much help ,
For there he was not like a cloisterer
With a threadbare cape, as is a poor scholar,
But he was like a master or a pope.
Of double worsted was his semi-cape,
That rounded as a belle out of the dress.
Somewhat he lisped, for his wantownesse,
To make his english sweat up-on his tongue;
And in his harping, whan that he hadde sung,
His eye twinkled in his head aryght,
As do the starres in the frosty nyght.
This worthy friar was cleped Huberd.

THE MERCHANT'S PORTRAIT

A merchant was there with a forked beard,
In motley, and high on horse he sat;
His reasons he spak full solemnely,
Sounding alway th' increases of his winning
He would the sea were kept for any thing
This worthy man full well his wit beset:
There was no wight that he was in debt,
So estately was he of his governaunce
With his bargaines and with his commerce.
For sothe he was a worthy man with-alle,
But, sooth to say, I not how men him calle.

THE CLERK'S PORTRAIT

A clerk there was also,
That unto logic hadde longe y-go.
As lean was his horse as is a rake,
And he was not right fat, I undertake,
But looked hollow, and there-to soberly.
Full threadbare was his overeste coat;
For he hadde geten him yet no benefice,
Ne was so worldly for to have office.
For him was prefered have at his bed-head
Twenty bookes, clad in black or red,
Of Aristotle and his philosophie,
Than robes riche, or fiddle, or gay saunter.
But all be that he was a philosophre,
Yet hadde he but little gold in coffer;
But all that he mighte of his friends get,
On bookes and on learninge he it spente,
And busily gan for the souls preye
Of them that give him wherwith to learn.
Of studie took he most care and most indeede,
Noght o word spak he more than was neede,
And that was said in form and reverence,
And short and quick and full of hy sentence;
Soundinge in moral virtue was his speche,
And gladly woulde he learne and gladly teache.

THE MAN OF THE LAW'S PORTRAIT

A sergeant of the lawe, wary and wise,
There was also, full riche of excellence.
Discreet he was and of great reverence
He seemed such, his wordes weren so wise.
Justice he was full often in,

No-where so busy a man as he there was,

And yet he seemed busier than he was.

Ther coulde no wight pinche at his writyng;

And every statut coulde he fully by rote.

THE SHIPMAN'S PORTRAIT

A shipman was there, woning for by west;
In a gown of folding to the knee.

Full many a draughte of wine had he y-drawn

While that the chapmen sleep.
Of nice conscience took he no keep.
With many a tempest hadde his beard been shake.

THE WIFE OF BATH'S PORTRAIT

A good Wyf was there of Bath,
But she was somewhat deaf, and that was pity.
In all the parish-wives ne was there none
That to th’ offering before her shoulde go on;
And if there did, certain so wrath was she,
That she was out of all charity.
Husbands at church-door she hadde five,
Withouten other companye in youth,
But thereof needeth not to spake as now.
And thrice hadde she been at Jerusalem;
She hadde passed many a strange stream;
She could much of wanderinge by the waye.
Gap-toothed was she, soothly for to saye.

In fellowship well coulde she laughe and carpe.

Of remedies of love she knew per chaunce,
For she coulde of that art the olde dance.

THE PARSON'S PORTRAIT

A good man was there of religioun,
And was a poor parson of a town,
But riche he was of holy thoght and work.
He was also a learned man, a clerk,
That Christes gospel truely woulde preach;
His parishioners devoutly woulde he teache.
Benign he was, and wonder diligent,
And in adversity full patient.

Full looth were him to cursen for his tithes,

But rather would he given, out of doubt,
Un-to his poor parishioners about
Of his offring and eek of his substaunce.
He could in little thing have sufficiency.
Wide was his parishe, and houses far a-sunder,
But he ne leave not, for rinn ne thonder,
In sicknesse nor in misgrief to visite
The furtherest in his parishe, muche and little,
This noble example to his sheep he gave,
That first he wroughte, and afterward he taughte.
Out of the gospel he the words caughte,
And this proverb he added eek thereto,
That if gold ruste, what shall iron do?
For if a priest be foul, on whom we truste,
No wonder is a lewd man to ruste;

To drawen folk to heaven by fairnesse,

By good exsample, this was his business.
But it were any person obstinate,
What so he were, of height or low estate,
Him would he snubben sharply for the nones.

THE MILLER'S PORTRAIT

The miller was a stout carl for the nones;
Full big he was of brawn, and eek of bones.
He was short-shouldered, broad, a thick knotty;
There was no door that he would have off hinge,
Or breake it at a running with his head.

Upon the cop right of his nose he hade

A wart, and theron stood a toft of hairs,
Red as the brustles of a sows ears;
His mouth as great was as a great furnace.
He was a jester and a buffoon,
And that was most of sin and harlotries.
Well coulde he stealen corn
And yet he hadde a thumb of gold, by God.
A baggepipe well coulde he blowe,
And therwithal he broughte us out of towne.

THE REEVE'S PORTRAIT

The reve was a thin choleric man.

Ther was no auditor coulde on him win.

Well wise he by the droughte and by the rain
The yielding of his seed and of his grain.
His lord’s sheep, his cattle, his dairy,
His swine, his horse, his store, and his poultry
Was whoolly in this steward governing,
And by his covenant yaf the reckoning.
There coulde no man bringe him in arrearage.
There ne baillif, ne herdman, nor other serf,
That he knew the tricks and his deceits;
They were afraid of him as of the death.

He coude better than his lord purchase.

Full riche he was astored privately:
His lord well coulde he please sutlely,
To give and lend him of his owne good,
And have a thank.
In youth he hadde learned a good mister;
He was a well good wrighte, a carpenter.

THE SUMMONER'S PORTRAIT

A summonour was there with us in that place,
That hadde a fire-red cherubynnes face,
For pimpled he was, with eyes narrowe.
As hot he was and lecherous as a sparrowe,
With scalled brows black and piled beard.
Of his visage children were afraid.
There ne quick-silver, ne brimstoon,
Borac, whitelead, ne oil of tarter noon;
Ne ointment that woulde cleanse and byte,
That him mighte help en of his whelkes white,
Nor of the knobbes sittinge on his cheeks.
Well loved he garlic, oinons, and eek leeks,
And for to drinken strong wine, red as blood;
Than woulde he spake and crie as he were mad.
And whan that he well dronken hadde the wine,
Than woulde he speke no word but latin.

He woulde suffer for a quart of wine

A good fellow to have his concubine
A twelf-month, and excuse him at full;
Full prively a trick eek coulde he pulle.

In danger hadde he at his owne guise

The young youths of the diocese,
And knew his consel, and was all he said.

A shield hadde he made him of a cake.

THE PARDONER'S PORTRAIT

With him there rode a gentil pardoner
By ounces henge his lockes that he hadde,
And ther-with he his shouldres overspradde;
But thin it lay, by threads on and on.

Such glaringe eyes hadde he as an hare.

His wallet lay before him in his lappe,

Brimful of pardon, come from Rome all hot.
A voice he hadde as small as hath a goat.

Ne was there such another pardoner

For in his bag he hadde a pillow-case,
Which that he said was oure lady’s veil:
He hadde a cross of brass full of stones,
And in a glass he hadde pigges bones.
But with thse relikes, whan that he fond
A poore person dwellynge up-on land,
Up-on a day he gat hym more money
Than that the parson gat in monthes twelve;
And thus, with feined flatterye and japes,
He made the parson and the people his apes.
But truely to tellen at laste,
He was in churche a noble ecclesiaste.
Wel coulde he reade a lesson or a storie,
But alderbest he song an offertorie;
For well he wiste, whan that song was songe,
He moste preache and well smooth his tongue
To win silver, as he full well coulde;
Therefore he song the merrierly and loud.

Now have I told you soothly, in a clause,

Th' estate, th' array, the number, and eek the cause
Why that assembled was this companye
In Southwerk at this gentil hostelrye.
But now is time to you for to telle
How that we bared us that ilke nyght,
Whan we were in that hostelrie alight;
And after will I telle of our voyage
And all the remenant of oure pilgrimage.
But first I pray yow, of youre curteisye,
That ye n' impute it not my villiany,
Though that I plainly speke in this matter,
To telle yow hir wordes and hir manner,
Ne thogh I speke hir wordes proprely.

Crist spak hymself ful brode in hooly writ,

My wit is short, ye may wel understonde.

Great manner made oure host us every one,
And to the supper settle he us anon.
He served us with victuals at the best;
Strong was the wine, and wel to drynke us leste.
A seemly man oure hoste was withalle
Eek therto he was right a myrie man,
And after supper playen he began,
And spak of mirth amonges othere thynges,
Whan that we hadde made oure reckoninges,
And seyde thus: “Now, lordings, trewely,
Ye been to me right welcome, heartely;
For by my truthe, if that I shal nat lie,
I ne saw this year so myrie a companye
Fain wolde I do yow myrthe, wiste I how.
And of a myrthe I am right now bythoght,
To do yow ease, and it shal cost nought.

Ye goon to Caunterbury -- God yow speede,

The blisful martyr quite yow youre neede!
And wel I woot, as ye goon by the waye,
Ye shapen yow to tales and to playe;
For trewely, comfort ne myrthe is now
To ride by the waye dumb as a stone;
And therfore wol I maken yow disport,
As I seyde erst, and do yow som comfort.

This is the poynt, to speken short and plain,

That ech of yow, to shorten oure waye,
In this voyage shal telle tales two
To Caunterbury-ward, I mean it so,
And homward he shal tellen othere two,
Of aventures that whilom han bifalle.
And which of yow that bereth hym best of alle,
That is to seyn, that telleth in this case
Tales of best sentence and most amusement,
Shal have a supper at oure all cost
Heere in this place, sittynge by this post,
Whan that we come agayn fro Caunterbury.
And for to make yow the moore merry,
I wol my-selven goodly with yow ryde,
Right at myn owne cost, and be youre guide,
And who-so will my judgement renouce
Shal paye al that we spenden by the weye.”

Amorne, whan that day bigan to sprynge,

Up roos oure hoost, and was oure all cock,
And gathered us togidre alle in a flock,

Lat se now who shal telle the firste tale.

Now draweth cut, er that we ferrer depart;

He which that hath the shorteste shal bigynne.

The truth is this, the cut fell to the knyght,

He seyde, “Syn I shal bigynne the game,

What, welcome be the cut, a Gods name!
Now lat us ryde, and herkneth what I seye.”

And with that word we ryden forth oure weye,

And he bigan with right a myrie cheere
His tale anon, and seyde as ye may heere.