And not only my gold, but my chaffare:
Take what you lest, God shilde that ye spare.
But o thing is, ye know it wel ynough
Of chapmen, that hir money is hir plough.
We moun creancen while we han a name,
But goodles for to ben it is no game.
Pay it agen, whan it lith in your ese;
After my might ful fayn wold I you plese.
Thise hundred frankes fet he forth anon,
And prively he toke hem to Dan John :
No wight in al this world wist of this lone,
Saving this marchant, and Dan John alone.
They drinke, and speke, and rome a while and pleye,
Til that Dan John rideth to his abbeye.
The morwe came, and forth this marchant rideth
To Flandres ward, his prentis wel him gideth,
Til he came in to Brugges merily.
Now goth this marchant faste and besily
About his nede, and bieth, and creanceth;
He neither playeth at the dis, ne danceth;
But as a marchant, shortly for to tell,
He ledeth his lif, and ther I let him dwell.
The sonday next the marchant was agon,
To Seint Denis yeomen is Dan John,
With croune and berde all fresh and newe yshave.
In all the hous ther n'as so litel a knave,
Ne no wight elles, that he n'as ful fain,
For that my lord Dan John was come again.
And shortly to the point right for to gon,
This faire wif accordeth with Dan John,
That for thise hundred frankes he shuld all night
Haven hire in his armes bolt-upright:
And this accord parformed was in dede.
In mirth all night a besy lif they lede
Til it was day, that Dan John yede his way,
And bad the meinie farewel, have good day.
For non of hem, ne no wight in the toun,
Hath of Dan John right non suspectioun ;
And forth he rideth home to his abbey,
Or wher him liste, no more of him I sey.
I thanke you, by God and by Seint Jame.
But natheles I toke unto our Dame,
Your wif at home, the same gold again
Upon your benche, she wote it wel certain,
By certain tokenes that I can hire tell.
Now by your leve, I may no lenger dwell;
Our abbot wol out of this toun anon,
And in his compagnie I muste gon.
Grete wel our dame, min owen nece swete,
And farewel, dere cosin, til we mete.
This marchant, which that was ful ware and wise,
Creanced hath, and paide eke in Paris
To certain Lumbardes redy in hir hond
The summe of gold, and gate of hem his bond,
And home he goth, mery as a popingay.
For wel he knew he stood in swiche array,
That nedes muste he winne in that viage
A thousand frankes, above all his costage.
His wif ful redy mette him at the gate,
As she was wont of old usage algate :
And all that night in mirthe they ben sette,
For he was riche, and clerely out of dette.
Whan it was day, this marchant gan enbrace
His wif all newe, and kiste hire in hire face,
And up he goth, and maketh it ful tough.
No more, quod she, by God ye have ynough:
And wantonly agen with him she plaide,
Til at the last this marchant to hire saide.
By God, quod he, I am a litel wrothe
With you, my wif, although it be me lothe:
And wote ye why? by God, as that I gesse,
That ye han made a manere strangenesse
Betwixen me and my cosin Dan John.
Ye shuld have warned me, or I had gon,
That he you had an hundred frankes paide
By redy token and held him evil apaide,
For that I to him spake of chevisance :
(Me semed so as by his contenance)
But natheles by God our heven king,
I thoughte not to axe of him no thing.
This marchant, whan that ended was the faire, I pray thee, wif, ne do thou no more so.
To Seint Denis he gan for to repaire,
And with his wif he maketh feste and chere,
And telleth hire that chaffare is so dere,
That nedes muste he make a chevisance,
For he was bonde in a recognisance,
To payen twenty thousand sheldes anon.
For which this marchant is to Paris gon
To borwe of certain frendes that he hadde
A certain frankes, and som with him he ladde.
And whan that he was come in to the toun,
For gret chiertee and gret affectioun
Unto Dan John he goth him first to pleye;
Not for to axe or borwe of him moneye,
But for to wete and seen of his welfare,
And for to tellen him of his chaffare,
As frendes don, whan they ben mette in fere.
Dan John him maketh feste and mery chere;
And he him tolde agen ful specially,
How he had wel ybought and graciously
(Thanked be God) all hole his marchandise:
Save that he must in alle manere wise
Maken a chevisance, as for his beste:
And than he shulde ben in joye and reste.
Dan John answered, Certes I am fain,
That ye in hele be comen home again:
And if that I were riche, as have I blisse,
Of twenty thousand sheldes shuld ye not misse,
For ye so kindely this other day
Leute me gold, and as I can and may
Tell me alway, er that I fro thee go,
If any dettour hath in min absence
Ypaide thee, lest thurgh thy negligence
I might him axe a thing that he hath paide.
This wif was not aferde ne affraide,
But boldely she saide, and that anon;
Mary I defie that false monk Dan John,
I kepe not of his tokenes never a del:
He toke me certain gold, I wote it wel.
What evil thedome on his monkes snoute !
For, God it wote, I wend withouten doute,
That he had yeve it me, because of you,
To don therwith min honour and my prow,
For cosinage, and eke for belle chere,
That he hath had ful often times here.
But sith I see I stonde in swiche disjoint,
I wol answere you shortly to the point.
Ye have mo slakke dettours than am I :
For I wol pay you wel and redily
Fro day to day, and if so be I faille,
I am your wif, score it upon my taile,
And I shal pay as sone as ever I may.
For by my trouth, I have on min array,
And not in waste, bestowed it every del.
And for I have bestowed it so wel
For your honour, for Goddes sake I say,
As beth not wrothe, but let us laugh and play.
Ye shal my joly body han to wedde:
By God I n'ill not pay you but a-bedde:
Foryeve it me, min owen spouse dere;
Turne hitherward and maketh better chere.
This marchant saw ther was no remedy:
And for to chide, it n'ere but a foly,
Sith that the thing may not amended be.
Now, wif, he said, and I foryeve it thee;
But by thy lif ne be no more so large;
Kepe bet my good, this yeve I thee in charge.
Thus endeth now my tale, and God us sende
Taling ynough, unto our lives ende.
WEL said by corpus Domini, quod our Hoste,
Now longe mote thou sailen by the coste,
Thou gentil Maister, gentil Marinere.
God give the monke a thousand last quad yere.
A ha, felawes, beth ware of swiche a jape.
The monke put in the mannes hode an ape,
And in his wifes eke, by Seint Austin.
Draweth no monkes more into your in.
But now passe over, and let us seke aboute,
Who shal now tellen first of all this route
Another tale and with that word he said,
As curteisly as it had ben a maid,
My lady Prioresse, by your leve, So that I wist I shuld you not agreve, I wolde demen, that ye tellen shold A tale next, if so were that ye wold. Now wol ye vouchesauf, my lady dere? Gladly, quod she, and saide as ye shul here.
O LORD our lord, thy name how merveillous
Is in this large world ysprad! (quod she)
For not al only thy laude precious
Parfourmed is by men of dignitee,
But by the mouth of children thy bountee
Parfourmed is, for on the brest souking
Somtime shewen they thin herying.
Wherfore in laude, as I can best and may,
Of thee and of the white lily flour,
Which that thee bare, and is a maide alway,
To tell a storie I wol do my labour;
Not that I may encresen hire honour,
For she hireselven is honour and rote
Of bountee, next hire sone, and soules bote.
O mother maide, o maide and mother fre,
O bushe unbrent, brenning in Moyses sight,
That ravishedest doun fro the deitee,
Thurgh thin humblesse, the gost that in thee alight:
Of whos vertue, whan he thin herte light,
Conceived was the fathers sapience:
Helpe me to tell it in thy reverence.
Lady, thy bountee, thy magnificence,
Thy vertue and thy gret humilitee,
Ther may no tonge expresse in no science:
For somtime, lady, or men pray to thee,
Thou gost beforn of thy benignitee,
And getest us the light, of thy prayere,
To giden us unto thy sone so dere.
My conning is so weke, o blisful quene, For to declare thy grete worthinesse, That I ne may the weighte not sustene ; But as a child of twelf moneth old or lesse, That can unnethes any word expresse, Right so fare I, and therfore I you pray, Gideth my song, that I shal of you say.
THER was in Asie, in a gret citee,
Amonges Cristen folk a Jewerie,
Sustened by a lord of that contree,
For foule usure, and lucre of vilanie,
Hateful to Crist, and to his compagnie :
And thurgh the strete men mighten ride and wende
For it was free, and open at eyther ende.
A litel scole of Cristen folk ther stood Doun at the ferther ende, in which ther were Children an hepe comen of Cristen blood, That lerned in that scole yere by yere, Swiche manere doctrine as men used there: This is to say, to singen and to rede, As smale children don in hir childhede.
Among thise children was a widewes sone,
A litel clergion, sevene yere of age,
That day by day to scole was his wone,
And eke also, wheras he sey the image
Of Cristes moder, had he in usage,
As him was taught, to knele adoun, and say
Ave Marie, as he goth by the way.
Thus hath this widewe hire litel sone ytaught
Our blisful Lady, Cristes moder dere,
To worship ay, and he forgate it naught :
For sely childe wol alway sone lere.
But ay,
whan I remembre on this matere,
Seint Nicholas stant ever in my presence,
For he so yong to Crist did reverence.
This litel childe his litel book lerning,
As he sate in the scole at his primere,
He Alma redemptoris herde sing,
As children lered hir antiphonere :
And as he dorst, he drow him nere and nere,
And herkened ay the wordes and the note,
Til he the firste vers coude al by rote.
Nought wist he what this Latin was to say, For he so yonge and tendre was of age; But on a day his felaw gan he pray To expounden him this song in his langage, Or telle him why this song was in usage: This prayde he him to construe and declare, Ful often time upon his knees bare.
His felaw, which that elder was than he,
Answerd him thus: This song, I have herd say,
Was maked of our blisful Lady fre,
Hire to salue, and eke hire for to prey
To ben our help, and socour whan we dey.
I can no more expound in this matere :
I lerne song, I can but smal grammere.
And is this song maked in reverence
Of Cristes moder? said this innocent;
Now certes I wol don my diligence
To conne it all, or Cristemasse be went,
Though that I for my primer shal be shent,
And shal be beten thries in an houre,
I wol it conne, our Ladie for to honoure.
His felaw taught him homeward prively
Fro day to day, til he coude it by rote,
And than he song it wel and boldely
Fro word to word according with the note:
Twies a day it passed thurgh his throte,
To scoleward and homeward whan he wente:
On Cristes moder set was his entente.
As I have said, thurghout the Jewerie
This litel child as he came to and fro,
Ful merily than wold he sing and crie,
O Alma redemptoris, ever mo:
The swetenesse hath his herte persed so
Of Cristes moder, that to hire to pray
He cannot stint of singing by the way.
Our firste fo, the serpent Sathanas,
That hath in Jewes herte his waspes nest,
Up swale and said, O Ebraike peple, alas!
Is this to you a thing that is honest,
That swiche a boy shal walken as him leste
In your despit, and sing of swiche sentence,
Which is again our lawes reverence ?
From thennesforth the Jewes han conspired
This innocent out of this world to chace:
An homicide therto han they hired,
That in an aleye had a privee place,
And as the child gan forthby for to pace,
This cursed Jew him hent, and held him fast,
And cut his throte, and in a pit him cast.
I say that in a wardrope they him threwe,
Wher as thise Jewes purgen hir entraille.
O cursed folk, of Herodes alle newe,
What may your evil entente you availle ?
Mordre wol out, certein it wol not faille,
And namely ther the honour of God shal sprede :
The blood out crieth on your cursed dede.
O martyr souded in virginitee,
Now maist thou singe, and folwen ever in on
The white lamb celestial, quod she,
Of which the gret Evangelist Seint John
In Pathmos wrote, which sayth that they that gon
Beforn this lamb, and singe a song al newe,
That never fleshly woman they ne knewe.
This poure widewe awaiteth al that night
After hire litel childe, and he came nought:
For which as sone as it was dayes light,
With face pale of drede and besy thought,
She hath at scole and elleswher him sought,
Til finally she gan so fer aspie,
That he last seen was in the Jewerie.
With modres pitee in hire brest enclosed She goth, as she were half out of hire minde, To every place, wher she hath supposed By likelihed hire litel child to finde : And ever on Cristes moder meke and kinde She cried, and at the laste thus she wrought, Among the cursed Jewes she him sought.
She freyneth, and she praieth pitously To every Jew that dwelled in thilke place, To telle hire, if hire child went ought forthby: They sayden, Nay; but Jesu of his grace Yave in hire thought, within a litel space, That in that place after hire sone she cride, Ther he was casten in a pit beside.
O grete God, that parformest thy laude By mouth of innocentes, lo here thy might! This gemme of chastitee, this emeraude, And eke of martirdome the rubie bright, Ther he with throte ycorven lay upright, He Alma redemptoris gan to singe So loude, that all the place gan to ringe.
The Cristen folk, that thurgh the strete wente, In comen, for to wondre upon this thing: And hastifly they for the provost sente. He came anon withouten tarying, And herieth Crist, that is of heven king, And eke his moder, honour of mankind, And after that the Jewes let he binde.
This child with pitous lamentation Was taken up, singing his song alway: And with honour and gret procession, They carien him unto the next abbey. His moder swouning by the bere lay; Unnethes might the peple that was there This newe Rachel bringen fro his bere.
With turment, and with shameful deth eche on This provost doth thise Jewes for to sterve, That of this morder wiste, and that anon; He n'olde no swiche cursednesse observe Evil shal he have, that evil wol deserve. Therfore with wilde hors he did hem drawe, And after that he heng hem by the lawe.
Upon his bere ay lith this innocent Beforn the auter while the masse last : And after that, the abbot with his covent Han spedde hem for to berie him ful fast: And whan they holy water on him cast,
Yet spake this child, whan spreint was the holy water,
And sang, o Alma redemptoris mater.
This abbot, which that was an holy man,
As monkes ben, or elles ought to be,
This yonge child to conjure he began,
And said; O dere child, I halse thee
In vertue of the holy Trinitee,
Tell me what is thy cause for to sing,
Sith that thy throte is cut to my seming.
My throte is cut unto my nekke-bon,
Saide this child, and as by way of kinde
I shuld have deyd, ye longe time agon:
But Jesu Crist, as ye in bookes finde,
Wol that his glory last and be in minde,
And for the worship of his moder dere,
Yet may I sing o Alma loude and clere.
This welle of mercie, Cristes moder swete,
I loved alway, as after my conning:
And whan that I my lif shulde forlete,
To me she came, and bad me for to sing
This antem veraily in my dying,
As ye han herde, and, whan that I had songe,
Me thought she laid a grain upon my tonge.
Wherfore I sing, and sing I mote certain
In honour of that blisful maiden free,
Til fro my tonge of taken is the grain.
And after that thus saide she to me;
My litel child, than wol I fetchen thee,
Whan that the grain is fro thy tong ytake:
Be not agaste, I wol thee not forsake.
This holy monk, this abbot him mene I,
His tonge out caught, and toke away the grain;
And he yave up the gost ful softely.
And whan this abbot had this wonder sein,
His salte teres trilled adoun as reyne:
And groff he fell al platte upon the ground,
And still he lay, as he had ben ybound.
The covent lay eke upon the pavement Weping and herying Cristes moder dere. And after that they risen, and forth ben went, And toke away this martir fro his bere, And in a tombe of marble stones clere Enclosen they his litel body swete: Ther he is now, God lene us for to mete.
O yonge Hew of Lincoln, slain also With cursed Jewes, as it is notable, For it n'is but a litel while ago, Pray eke for us, we sinful folk unstable, That of his mercy God so merciable On us his grete mercie multiplie, For reverence of his moder Marie.
WHAN said was this miracle, every man
As sober was, that wonder was to see,
Til that our hoste to japen he began,
And than at erst he loked upon me,
And saide thus; What man art thou? quod he.
Thou lokest, as thou woldest finde an hare,
For ever upon the ground I see thee stare.
Approche nere, and loke up merily.
Now ware you, sires, and let this man have place.
He in the waste is shapen as wel as I :
This were a popet in an arme to enbrace
For any woman, smal and faire of face.
He semeth elvish by his contenance,
For unto no wight doth he daliance.
Say now somwhat, sin other folk han saide ; Tell us a tale of mirthe and that anon. Hoste, quod I, ne be not evil apaide, For other tale certes can I non, But of a rime I lerned yore agon. Ye, that is good, quod he, we shullen here Som deintee thing, me thinketh by thy chere.
LISTENETH, lordinges, in good entent,
And I wol tell you verament
Of mirthe and of solas,
Al of a knight was faire and gent
In bataille and in turnament,
His name was sire Thopas.
Yborne he was in fer contree,
In Flandres, al beyonde the see,
At Popering in the place,
His father was a man ful free,
And lord he was of that contree,
As it was Goddes grace.
Sire Thopas was a doughty swain,
White was his face as paindemaine
His lippes red as rose.
His rudde is like scarlet in grain,
And I you tell in good certain
He had a semely nose.
His here, his berde, was like safroun,
That to his girdle raught adoun,
His shoon of cordewane ; Of Brugges were his hosen broun ; His robe was of ciclatoun,
That coste many a jane.
He coude hunt at the wilde dere,
And ride on hauking for the rivere
With grey goshauk on honde :
Therto he was a good archere,
Of wrastling was ther non his pere,
Ther ony ram shuld stonde.
Ful many a maide bright in bour
They mourned for him par amour,
Whan hem were bet to slepe;
But he was chaste and no lechour,
And swete as is the bramble flour,
That bereth the red hepe.
And so it fell upon a day,
Forsoth, as I you tellen may,
Sire Thopas wold out ride;
He worth upon his stede gray,
And in his hond a launcegay,
A long swerd by his side.
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