Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Charles Brockden Brown (1771–1810). Edgar Huntley; or, Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker. 1857.

The Canterbury Tales

The Maunciples Tale

WHAN Phebus dwelled here in this erthe adoun,As olde bokes maken mencioun,He was the moste lusty bachilerIn al this world, and eek the beste archer;He slow Phitoun, the serpent, as he laySlepinge agayn the sonne upon a day;And many another noble worthy dedeHe with his bowe wroghte, as men may rede.Pleyen he coude on every minstralcye,And singen, that it was a melodye,To heren of his clere vois the soun.Certes the king of Thebes, Amphioun,That with his singing walled that citee,Coude never singen half so wel as he.Therto he was the semelieste manThat is or was, sith that the world bigan.What nedeth it his fetures to discryve?For in this world was noon so fair on lyve.He was ther-with fulfild of gentillesse,Of honour, and of parfit worthinesse.This Phebus, that was flour of bachelrye,As wel in fredom as in chivalrye,For his desport, in signe eek of victorieOf Phitoun, so as telleth us the storie,Was wont to beren in his hand a bowe.Now had this Phebus in his hous a crowe,Which in a cage he fostred many a day,And taughte it speken, as men teche a Iay.Whyt was this crowe, as is a snow-whyt swan,And countrefete the speche of every manHe coude, whan he sholde telle a tale.Ther-with in al this world no nightingaleNe coude, by an hondred thousand deel,Singen so wonder merily and weel.Now had this Phebus in his hous a wyf,Which that he lovede more than his lyf,And night and day dide ever his diligenceHir for to plese, and doon hir reverence,Save only, if the sothe that I shal sayn,Ialous he was, and wolde have kept hir fayn;For him were looth by-iaped for to be.And so is every wight in swich degree;But al in ydel, for it availleth noght.A good wyf, that is clene of werk and thoght,Sholde nat been kept in noon await, certayn;And trewely, the labour is in vaynTo kepe a shrewe, for it wol nat be.This holde I for a verray nycetee,To spille labour, for to kepe wyves;Thus writen olde clerkes in hir lyves.But now to purpos, as I first bigan:This worthy Phebus dooth all that he canTo plesen hir, weninge by swich plesaunce,And for his manhede and his governaunce,That no man sholde han put him from hir grace.But god it woot, ther may no man embraceAs to destreyne a thing, which that natureHath naturelly set in a creature.Tak any brid, and put it in a cage,And do al thyn entente and thy corageTo fostre it tendrely with mete and drinke,Of alle deyntees that thou canst bithinke,And keep it al-so clenly as thou may;Al-though his cage of gold be never so gay,Yet hath this brid, by twenty thousand fold,Lever in a forest, that is rude and cold,Gon ete wormes and swich wrecchednesse.For ever this brid wol doon his bisinesseTo escape out of his cage, if he may;His libertee this brid desireth ay.Lat take a cat, and fostre him wel with milk,And tendre flesh, and make his couche of silk,And lat him seen a mous go by the wal;Anon he weyveth milk, and flesh, and al,And every deyntee that is in that hous,Swich appetyt hath he to ete a mous.Lo, here hath lust his dominacioun,And appetyt flemeth discrecioun.A she-wolf hath also a vileins kinde;The lewedeste wolf that she may finde,Or leest of reputacion wol she take,In tyme whan hir lust to han a make.Alle thise ensamples speke I by thise menThat been untrewe, and no-thing by wommen.For men han ever a likerous appetytOn lower thing to parfourne hir delytThan on hir wyves, be they never so faire,Ne never so trewe, ne so debonaire.Flesh is so newefangel, with meschaunce,That we ne conne in no-thing han pleasaunceThat souneth in-to vertu any whyle.This Phebus, which that thoghte upon no gyle,Deceyved was, for al his Iolitee;For under him another hadde she,A man of litel reputacioun,Noght worth to Phebus in comparisoun.The more harm is; it happeth ofte so,Of which ther cometh muchel harm and wo.And so bifel, whan Phebus was absent,His wyf anon hath for hir lemman sent,Hir lemman? certes, this is a knavish speche!Foryeveth it me, and that I yow biseche.The wyse Plato seith, as ye may rede,The word mot nede accorde with the dede.If men shal telle proprely a thing,The word mot cosin be to the werking.I am a boistous man, right thus seye I,Ther nis no difference, trewely,Bitwixe a wyf that is of heigh degree,If of hir body dishonest she be,And a povre wenche, other than this—If it so be, they werke bothe amis—But that the gentile, in estaat above,She shal be cleped his lady, as in love;And for that other is a povre womman,She shal be cleped his wenche, or his lemman.And, god it woot, myn owene dere brother,Men leyn that oon as lowe as lyth that other.Right so, bitwixe a titlelees tirauntAnd an outlawe, or a theef erraunt,The same I seye, ther is no difference.To Alisaundre told was this sentence;That, for the tyrant is of gretter might,By force of meynee for to sleen doun-right,And brennen hous and hoom, and make al plain,Lo! therfor is he cleped a capitain;And, for the outlawe hath but smal meynee,And may nat doon so greet an harm as he,Ne bringe a contree to so greet mescheef,Men clepen him an outlawe or a theef.But, for I am a man noght textuel,I wol noght telle of textes never a del;I wol go to my tale, as I bigan.Whan Phebus wyf had sent for hir lemman,Anon they wroghten al hir lust volage.The whyte crowe, that heng ay in the cage,Biheld hir werk, and seyde never a word.And whan that hoom was come Phebus, the lord,This crowe sang ‘cokkow! cokkow! cokkow!’‘What, brid?’ quod Phebus, ‘what song singestow?Ne were thow wont so merily to singeThat to myn herte it was a reioisingeTo here thy vois? allas! what song is this?’‘By god,’ quod he, ‘I singe nat amis;Phebus,’ quod he, ‘for al thy worthinesse,For al thy beautee and thy gentilesse,For al thy song and al thy minstralcye,For al thy waiting, blered is thyn yëWith oon of litel reputacioun,Noght worth to thee, as in comparisoun,The mountance of a gnat; so mote I thryve!For on thy bed thy wyf I saugh him swyve.’What wol ye more? the crowe anon him tolde,By sadde tokenes and by wordes bolde,How that his wyf had doon hir lecherye,Him to gret shame and to gret vileinye;And tolde him ofte, he saugh it with his yën.This Phebus gan aweyward for to wryen,Him thoughte his sorweful herte brast a-two;His bowe he bente, and sette ther-inne a flo,And in his ire his wyf thanne hath he slayn.This is theffect, ther is na-more to sayn;For sorwe of which he brak his minstralcye,Bothe harpe, and lute, and giterne, and sautrye;And eek he brak his arwes and his bowe.And after that, thus spak he to the crowe:‘Traitour,’ quod he, ‘with tonge of scorpioun,Thou hast me broght to my confusioun!Allas! that I was wroght! why nere I deed?O dere wyf, o gemme of lustiheed,That were to me so sad and eek so trewe,Now lystow deed, with face pale of hewe,Ful giltelees, that dorste I swere, y-wis!O rakel hand, to doon so foule amis!O trouble wit, o ire recchelees,That unavysed smytest giltelees!O wantrust, ful of fals suspecioun,Where was thy wit and thy discrecioun?O every man, be-war of rakelnesse,Ne trowe no-thing with-outen strong witnesse;Smyt nat to sone, er that ye witen why,And beeth avysed wel and sobrelyEr ye doon any execucioun,Up-on your ire, for suspecioun.Allas! a thousand folk hath rakel ireFully fordoon, and broght hem in the mire.Allas! for sorwe I wol my-selven slee!’And to the crowe, ‘o false theef!’ seyde he,‘I wol thee quyte anon thy false tale!Thou songe whylom lyk a nightingale;Now shaltow, false theef, thy song forgon,And eek thy whyte fetheres everichon,Ne never in al thy lyf ne shaltou speke.Thus shal men on a traitour been awreke;Thou and thyn of-spring ever shul be blake,Ne never swete noise shul ye make,But ever crye agayn tempest and rayn,In tokeninge that thurgh thee my wyf is slayn.’And to the crowe he stirte, and that anon,And pulled his whyte fetheres everichon,And made him blak, and refte him al his song,And eek his speche, and out at dore him slongUn-to the devel, which I him bitake;And for this caas ben alle crowes blake.—Lordings, by this ensample I yow preye,Beth war, and taketh kepe what I seye:Ne telleth never no man in your lyfHow that another man hath dight his wyf;He wol yow haten mortally, certeyn.Daun Salomon, as wyse clerkes seyn,Techeth a man to kepe his tonge wel;But as I seyde, I am noght textuel.But nathelees, thus taughte me my dame:‘My sone, thenk on the crowe, a goddes name;My sone, keep wel thy tonge and keep thy freend.A wikked tonge is worse than a feend.My sone, from a feend men may hem blesse;My sone, god of his endelees goodnesseWalled a tonge with teeth and lippes eke,For man sholde him avyse what he speke.My sone, ful ofte, for to muche speche,Hath many a man ben spilt, as clerkes teche;But for a litel speche avyselyIs no men shent, to speke generally.My sone, thy tonge sholdestow restreyneAt alle tyme, but whan thou doost thy peyneTo speke of god, in honour and preyere.The firste vertu, sone, if thou wolt lere,Is to restreyne and kepe wel thy tonge.—Thus lerne children whan that they ben yonge.—My sone, of muchel speking yvel-avysed,Ther lasse speking hadde y-nough suffysed,Comth muchel harm, thus was me told and taught.In muchel speche sinne wanteth naught.Wostow wher-of a rakel tonge serveth?Right as a swerd forcutteth and forkervethAn arm a-two, my dere sone, right soA tonge cutteth frendship al a-two.A Iangler is to god abhominable;Reed Salomon, so wys and honurable;Reed David in his psalmes, reed Senekke.My sone, spek nat, but with thyn heed thou bekke.Dissimule as thou were deef, if that thou hereA Iangler speke of perilous matere.The Fleming seith, and lerne it, if thee leste,That litel Iangling causeth muchel reste.My sone, if thou no wikked word hast seyd,Thee thar nat drede for to be biwreyd;But he that hath misseyd, I dar wel sayn,He may by no wey clepe his word agayn.Thing that is seyd, is seyd; and forth it gooth,Though him repente, or be him leef or looth.He is his thral to whom that he hath saydA tale, of which he is now yvel apayd.My sone, be war, and be non auctour neweOf tydinges, whether they ben false or trewe.Wher-so thou come, amonges hye or lowe,Kepe wel thy tonge, and thenk up-on the crowe.