CANTERBURY TALES

by Geoffry Chaucer

The Reeve's Tale

The Prologe of the Reves Tale

        Whan folk hadde laughen at this nyce cas
 Of Absolon and hende Nicholas,
 Diverse folk diversely they seyde,
 But for the moore part they loughe and pleyde.
5 Ne at this tale I saugh no man hym greve,
 But it were oonly Osewold the Reve.
 Bycause he was of carpenteres craft,
 A litel ire is in his herte ylaft;
 He gan to grucche, and blamed it a lite.
10        "So theek," quod he, "ful wel koude I thee quite
 With bleryng of a proud milleres eye,
 If that me liste speke of ribaudye.
 But ik am oold, me list no pley for age,
 Gras-tyme is doon, my fodder is now forage,
15 This white top writeth myne olde yeris,
 Myn herte is also mowled as myne heris,
 But if I fare as dooth an open-ers, -
 That ilke fruyt is ever lenger the wers,
 Til it be roten in mullok or in stree.
20 We olde men, I drede, so fare we,
 Til we be roten kan we nat be rype.
 We hoppen ay whil that the world wol pype,
 For in oure wyl ther stiketh evere a nayl,
 To have an hoor heed and a grene tayl,
25 As hath a leek, for thogh oure myght be goon,
 Oure wyl desireth folie evere in oon.
 For whan we may nat doon, than wol we speke,
 Yet in oure asshen olde is fyr yreke.
        "Foure gleedes han we whiche I shal devyse, -
30 Avauntyng, liyng, anger, coveitise;
 Thise foure sparkles longen unto eelde.
 Oure olde lemes mowe wel been unweelde,
 But wyl ne shal nat faillen, that is sooth.
 And yet ik have alwey a coltes tooth,
35 As many a yeer as it is passed henne
 Syn that my tappe of lif bigan to renne.
 For sikerly, whan I was bore, anon
 Deeth drough the tappe of lyf, and leet it gon,
 And ever sithe hath so the tappe yronne,
40 Til that almoost al empty is the tonne.
 The streem of lyf now droppeth on the chymbe;
 The sely tonge may wel rynge and chymbe
 Of wrecchednesse that passed is ful yoore.
 With olde folk, save dotage, is namoore!"
45        Whan that oure Hoost hadde herd this sermonyng,
 He gan to speke as lordly as a kyng,
 He seide, "What amounteth al this wit?
 What shul we speke alday of hooly writ?
 The devel made a reve for to preche,
50 And of a soutere a shipman, or a leche.
 Sey forth thy tale, and tarie nat the tyme.
 Lo Depeford, and it is half-wey pryme.
 Lo Grenewych, ther many a shrewe is inne!
 It were al tyme thy tale to bigynne."
55        "Now sires," quod this Osewold the Reve,
 "I pray yow alle, that ye nat yow greve,
 Thogh I answere, and somdeel sette his howve,
 For leveful is with force force of-showve.
        This dronke Millere hath ytoold us heer
60 How that bigyled was a carpenteer,
 Peraventure in scorn, for I am oon.
 And, by youre leve, I shal hym quite anoon;
 Right in his cherles termes wol I speke.
 I pray to God his nekke mote to-breke;
65 He kan wel in myn eye seen a stalke,
 But in his owene he kan nat seen a balke."

The Reeve's Prologue

      When folk had laughed their fill at this nice pass
Of Absalom and clever Nicholas,
Then divers folk diversely had their say;
And most of them were well amused and gay,
Nor at this tale did I see one man grieve,
Save it were only old Oswald the reeve,
Because he was a carpenter by craft.
A little anger in his heart was left,
And he began to grouse and blame a bit.
      "S' help me," said he, "full well could I be quit
With blearing of a haughty miller's eye,
If I but chose to speak of ribaldry.
But I am old; I will not play, for age;
Grass time is done, my fodder is rummage,
This white top advertises my old years,
My heart, too, is as mouldy as my hairs,
Unless I fare like medlar, all perverse.
For that fruit's never ripe until it's worse,
And falls among the refuse or in straw.
We ancient men, I fear, obey this law:
Until we're rotten, we cannot be ripe;
We dance, indeed, the while the world will pipe.
liesire sticks in our nature like a nail
To have, if hoary head, a verdant tail,
As has the leek; for though our strength be gone,
Our wish is yet for folly till life's done.
For when we may not act, then will we speak;
Yet in our ashes is there fire to reek
      "Four embers have we, which I shall confess:
Boasting and lying, anger, covetousness;
These four remaining sparks belong to eld.
Our ancient limbs may well be hard to wield,
But lust will never fail us, that is truth.
And yet I have had always a colt's tooth,
As many years as now are past and done
Since first my tap of life began to run.
For certainly, when I was born, I know
Death turned my tap of life and let it flow;
And ever since that day the tap has run
Till nearly empty now is all the tun.
The stream of life now drips upon the chime;
The silly tongue may well ring out the time
Of wretchedness that passed so long before;
For oldsters, save for dotage, there's no more."
Now when our host had heard this sermoning,
Then did he speak as lordly as a king;
He said: "To what amounts, now, all this wit?
Why should we talk all day of holy writ?
The devil makes a steward for to preach,
And of a cobbler, a sailor or a leech.
Tell, forth your tale, and do not waste the time.
Here's Deptford! And it is half way to prime.
There's Greenwich town that many a scoundrel's in;
It is high time your story should begin."
"Now, sirs," then said this Oswald called the reeve,
"I pray you all, now, that you will not grieve
Though I reply and somewhat twitch his cap;
It's lawful to meet force with force, mayhap.
"This drunken miller has related here
How was beguiled and fooled a carpenter-
Perchance in scorn of me, for I am one.
So, by your leave, I'll him requite anon;
All in his own boor's language will I speak.
I only pray to God his neck may break.
For in my eye he well can see the mote,
But sees not in his own the beam, you'll note."


Heere bigynneth the Reves Tale

        At TRUMPYNGTOUN, nat fer fro Cantebrigge,
 Ther gooth a brook, and over that a brigge,
 Upon the whiche brook ther stant a melle;
70 And this is verray sooth that I yow telle.
 A millere was ther dwellynge many a day;
 As any pecok he was proud and gay.
 Pipen he koude and fisshe, and nettes beete,
 And turne coppes, and wel wrastle and sheete;
75 Ay by his belt he baar a long panade,
 And of a swerd ful trenchant was the blade.
 A joly poppere baar he in his pouche;
 Ther was no man, for peril, dorste hym touche.
 A Sheffeld thwitel baar he in his hose.
80 Round was his face, and camus was his nose;
 As piled as an ape was his skulle.
 He was a market-betere atte fulle.
 Ther dorste no wight hand upon hym legge,
 That he ne swoor he sholde anon abegge.
85 A theef he was for sothe of corn and mele,
 And that a sly, and usaunt for to stele.
 His name was hoote deynous Symkyn.
 A wyf he hadde, ycomen of noble kyn;
 The person of the toun hir fader was.
90 With hire he yaf ful many a panne of bras,
 For that Symkyn sholde in his blood allye.
 She was yfostred in a nonnerye;
 For Symkyn wolde no wyf, as he sayde,
 But she were wel ynorissed and a mayde,
95 To saven his estaat of yomanrye.
 And she was proud, and peert as is a pye.
 A ful fair sighte was it upon hem two;
 On halydayes biforn hire wolde he go
 With his typet wound aboute his heed,
100 And she cam after in a gyte of reed;
 And Symkyn hadde hosen of the same.
 Ther dorste no wight clepen hire but 'dame';
 Was noon so hardy that went by the weye
 That with hire dorste rage or ones pleye,
105 But if he wolde be slayn of Symkyn
 With panade, or with knyf, or boidekyn.
 For jalous folk ben perilous everemo;
 Algate they wolde hire wyves wenden so.
 And eek, for she was somdel smoterlich,
110 She was as digne as water in a dich,
 And ful of hoker and of bisemare.
 Hir thoughte that a lady sholde hire spare,
 What for hire kynrede and hir nortelrie
 That she hadde lerned in the nonnerie.
115        A doghter hadde they bitwixe hem two
 Of twenty yeer, withouten any mo,
 Savynge a child that was of half yeer age;
 In cradel it lay and was a propre page.
 This wenche thikke and wel ygrowen was,
120 With kamus nose, and eyen greye as glas,
 With buttokes brode, and brestes rounde and hye;
 But right fair was hire heer, I wol nat lye.
        This person of the toun, for she was feir,
 In purpos was to maken hire his heir,
125 Bothe of his catel and his mesuage,
 And straunge he made it of hir mariage.
 His purpos was for to bistowe hire hye
 Into som worthy blood of auncetrye;
 For hooly chirches good moot been despended
130 On hooly chirches blood, that is descended.
 Therfore he wolde his hooly blood honoure
 Though that he hooly chirche sholde devoure.
        Greet sokene hath his millere, out of doute,
 With whete and malt of al the land aboute;
135 And nameliche ther was a greet collegge
 Men clepen the Soler Halle at Cantebregge;
 Ther was hir whete and eek hir malt ygrounde.
 And on a day it happed, in a stounde,
 Sik lay the maunciple on a maladye;
140 Men wenden wisly that he sholde dye.
 For which this millere stal bothe mele and corn
 And hundred tyme moore than biforn;
 For therbiforn he stal but curteisly,
 But now he was a theef outrageously,
145 For which the wardeyn chidde and made fare.
 But therof sette the millere nat a tare;
 He cracketh boost, and swoor it was nat so.
        Thanne were ther yonge povre scolers two,
 That dwelten in this halle, of which I seye.
150 Testif they were, and lusty for to pleye,
 And oonly for hire myrthe and revelrye,
 Upon the wardeyn bisily they crye
 To yeve hem leve, but a litel stounde,
 To goon to mille and seen hir corn ygrounde;
155 And hardily they dorste leye hir nekke
 The millere sholde not stele hem half a pekke
 Of corn by sleighte, ne by force hem reve;
 And at the laste the wardeyn yaf hem leve.
 John highte that oon, and Aleyn highte that oother;
160 Of o toun were they born, that highte Strother,
 Fer in the north, I kan nat telle where.
        This Aleyn maketh redy al his gere,
 And on an hors the sak he caste anon.
 Forth goth Aleyn the clerk, and also John,
165 With good swerd and with bokeler by hir syde.
 John knew the wey, - hem nedede no gyde, -
 And at the mille the sak adoun he layth.
 Aleyn spak first, "Al hayl, Symond, y-fayth!
 Hou fares thy faire doghter and thy wyf?"
170        "Aleyn, welcome," quod Symkyn, "by my lyf!
 And John also, how now, what do ye heer?"
        "Symond," quod John, "by God, nede has na peer.
 Hym boes serve hymself that has na swayn,
 Or elles he is a fool, as clerkes sayn.
175 Oure manciple, I hope he wil be deed,
 Swa werkes ay the wanges in his heed;
 And forthy is I come, and eek Alayn,
 To grynde oure corn and carie it ham agayn;
 I pray yow spede us heythen that ye may."
180        "It shal be doon," quod Symkyn, "by my fay!
 What wol ye doon whil that is in hande?"
        "By God, right by the hopur wil I stande,"
 Quod John, "and se howgates the corn gas in.
 Yet saugh I nevere, by my fader kyn,
185 How that the hopur wagges til and fra."
        Aleyn answerde, "John, and wiltow swa?
 Thanne wil I be bynethe, by my croun,
 And se how that the mele falles doun
 Into the trough; that sal be my disport.
190 For John, y-faith, I may been of youre sort;
 I is as ille a millere as ar ye."
        This millere smyled of hir nycetee,
 And thoghte, "Al this nys doon but for a wyle.
 They wene that no man may hem bigyle,
195 But by my thrift, yet shal I blere hir ye,
 For al the sleighte in hir philosophye.
 The moore queynte crekes that they make,
 The moore wol I stele whan I take.
 In stide of flour yet wol I yeve hem bren.
200 'The gretteste clerkes been noght wisest men,'
 As whilom to the wolf thus spak the mare.
 Of al hir art ne counte I noght a tare."
        Out at the dore he gooth ful pryvely,
 Whan that he saugh his tyme, softely.
205 He looketh up and doun til he hath founde
 The clerkes hors, ther as it stood ybounde
 Bihynde the mille, under a levesel;
 And to the hors he goth hym faire and wel;
 He strepeth of the brydel right anon.
210 And whan the hors was laus, he gynneth gon
 Toward the fen, ther wilde mares renne,
 And forth with 'wehee,' thurgh thikke and thurgh thenne
        This millere gooth agayn, no word he seyde,
 But dooth his note, and with the clerkes pleyde,
215 Til that hir corn was faire and weel ygrounde.
 And whan the mele is sakked and ybounde,
 This John goth out and fynt his hors away,
 And gan to crie "Harrow!" and "Weylaway!
 Oure hors is lorn, Alayn, for Goddes banes,
220 Step on thy feet! Com of man, man, al atanes!
 Allas, our wardeyn has his palfrey lorn."
 This Aleyn al forgat, bothe mele and corn;
 Al was out of his mynde his housbonderie.
 "What, whilk way is he geen?" he gan to crie.
225        The wyf cam lepynge inward with a ren.
 She seyde, "Allas! youre hors goth to the fen
 With wilde mares, as faste as he may go.
 Unthank come on his hand that boond hym so,
 And he that bettre sholde han knyt the reyne!"
230        "Allas," quod John, "Aleyn, for Cristes peyne,
 Lay doun thy swerd, and I wil myn alswa.
 I is ful wight, God waat, as is a raa;
 By Goddes herte, he sal nat scape us bathe!
 Why ne had thow pit the capul in the lathe?
235 Ilhayl! by God, Alayn, thou is a fonne!"
        Thise sely clerkes han ful faste yronne
 Toward the fen, bothe Aleyn and eek John.
        And whan the millere saugh that they were gon,
 He half a busshel of hir flour hath take,
240 And bad his wyf go knede it in a cake.
 He seyde, "I trowe the clerkes were aferd
 Yet kan a millere make a clerkes berd,
 For al his art; now lat hem goon hir weye!
 Lo, wher he gooth! ye, lat the children pleye.
245 They gete hym nat so lightly, by my croun."
        Thise sely clerkes rennen up and doun
 With 'Keep! keep! stand! stand! jossa, warderere,
 Ga whistle thou, and I shal kepe hym heere!'
 But shortly, til that it was verray nyght,
250 They koude nat, though they dide al hir myght,
 Hir capul cacche, he ran alwey so faste,
 Til in a dych they caughte hym atte laste.
        Wery and weet, as beest is in the reyn,
 Comth sely John, and with him comth Aleyn.
255 "Allas," quod John, "the day that I was born!
 Now are we dryve til hethyng and til scorn.
 Oure corn is stoln, men wil us fooles calle,
 Bathe the wardeyn and oure felawes alle,
 And namely the millere, weylaway!"
260        Thus pleyneth John as he gooth by the way
 Toward the mille, and Bayard in his hond.
 The millere sittynge by the fyr he fond,
 For it was nyght, and forther myghte they noght;
 But for the love of God they hym bisoght
265 Of herberwe and of ese, as for hir peny.
        The millere seyde agayn, "If ther be eny,
 Swich as it is, yet shal ye have youre part.
 Myn hous is streit, but ye han lerned art;
 Ye konne by arguments make a place
270 A myle brood of twenty foot of space.
 Lat se now if this place may suffise,
 Or make it rowm with speche, as is your gise."
        "Now, Symond," seyde John, "by seint Cutberd,
 Ay is thou myrie, and this is faire answerd.
275 I have herd seyd, 'Man sal taa of twa thynges
 Slyk as he fyndes, or taa slyk as he brynges.'
 But specially I pray thee, hooste deere,
 Get us som mete and drynke, and make us cheere,
 And we wil payen trewely atte fulle.
280 With empty hand men may na haukes tulle;
 Loo, heere oure silver, redy for to spende."
        This millere into toun his doghter sende
 For ale and breed, and rosted hem a goos,
 And booned hire hors, it sholde namoore go loos;
285 And in his owene chambre hem made a bed,
 With sheetes and with chalons faire yspred,
 Noght from his owene bed ten foot or twelve.
 His doghter hadde a bed, al by hirselve,
 Right in the same chambre by and by.
290 It myghte be no bet, and cause why?
 Ther was no roumer herberwe in the place.
 They soupen and they speke, hem to solace,
 And drynken evere strong ale atte beste.
 Aboute mydnyght wente they to reste.
295        Wel hath this millere vernysshed his heed;
 Ful pale he was for dronken, and nat reed.
 He yexeth, and he speketh thurgh the nose
 As he were on the quakke, or on the pose.
 To bedde he goth, and with hym goth his wyf.
300 As any jay she light was and jolyf,
 So was hir joly whistle wel ywet.
 The cradel at hir beddes feet is set,
 To rokken, and to yeve the child to sowke.
 And whan that dronken al was in the crowke,
305 To bedde wente the doghter right anon;
 To bedde goth Aleyn and also John;
 Ther nas na moore, - hem nebede no dwale.
 This millere hath so wisely bibbed ale
 That as an hors he fnorteth in his sleep,
310 Ne of his tayl bihynde he took no keep.
 His wyf bar hym a burdon, a ful strong;
 Men myghte hir rowtyng heere two furlong;
 The wenche rowteth eek, par compaignye.
        Aleyn the clerk, that herde this melodye,
315 He poked John, and seyde, "Slepestow?
 Herdestow evere slyk a sang er now?
 Lo, swilk a complyn is ymel hem alle,
 A wilde fyr upon thair bodyes falle!
 Wha herkned evere slyk a ferly thyng?
320 Ye, they sal have the flour of il endyng.
 This lange nyght ther tydes me na reste;
 But yet, nafors, al sal be for the beste.
 For, John," seyde he, "als evere moot I thryve,
 If that I may, yon wenche wil I swyve.
325 Som esement has lawe yshapen us;
 For, John, ther is a lawe that says thus,
 That gif a man in a point be agreved,
 That in another he sal be reveled.
 Oure corn is stoln, sothly, it is na nay,
330 And we han had an il fit al this day;
 And syn I sal have neen amendement
 Agayn my los, I will have esement.
 By Goddes sale, it sal neen other bee!"
        This John answerde, "Alayn, avyse thee!
335 The millere is a perilous man, "he seyde,
 "And gif that he out of his sleep abreyde,
 He myghte doon us bathe a vileynye."
        Aleyn answerde, "I counte hym nat a flye."
 And up he rist, and by the wenche he crepte.
340 This wenche lay uprighte, and faste slepte,
 Til he so ny was, er she myghte espie,
 That it had been to late for to crie,
 And shortly for to seyn, they were aton.
 Now pley, Aleyn, for I wol speke of John.
345        This John lith stille a furlong wey or two,
 And to hymself he maketh routhe and wo.
 "Allas!" quod he, "this is a wikked jape;
 Now may I seyn that I is but an ape.
 Yet has my felawe somwhat for his harm;
350 He has the milleres doghter in his arm.
 He auntred hym, and has his nedes sped,
 And I lye as a draf-sak in my bed;
 And when this jape is tald another day,
 I sal been halde a daf, a cokenay!
355 I wil arise and auntre it, by my fayth!
 'Unhardy is unseely,' thus men sayth."
 And up he roos, and softely he wente
 Unto the cradel, and in his hand it hente,
 And baar it softe unto his beddes feet.
360        Soon after this the wyf hir rowtyng leet,
 And gan awake, and wente hire out to pisse,
 And cam agayn, and gan hir cradel mysse
 And groped heer and ther, but she found noon.
 "Allas!" quod she, "I hadde almoost mysgoon;
365 I hadde almoost goon to the clerkes bed.
 Ey, benedicite! thanne hadde I foule ysped."
 And forth she gooth til she the cradel fond.
 She gropeth alwey forther with hir hond,
 And foond the bed, and thoghte noght but good,
370 By cause that the cradel by it stood,
 And nyste wher she was, for it was derk;
 But faire and wel she creep in to the clerk,
 And lith ful stille, and wolde han caught a sleep.
 Withinne a while this John the clerk up leep,
375 And on this goode wyf he leith on soore.
 So myrie a fit ne hadde she nat ful yoore;
 He priketh harde and depe as he were mad.
 This joly lyf han thise two clerkes lad
 Til that the thridde cok bigan to synge.
380        Aleyn wax wery in the dawenynge,
 For he had swonken al the longe nyght,
 And seyde, "Fare weel, Malyne, sweete wight!
 The day is come, I may no lenger byde;
 But everemo, wher so I go or ryde,
385 I is thyn awen clerk, swa have I seel!"
        "Now, deere lemman," quod she, "go, far weel!
 But er thow go, o thyng I wol thee telle:
 Whan that thou wendest homward by the melle,
 Right at the entre of the dore bihynde
390 Thou shalt a cake of half a busshel fynde
 That was ymaked of thyn owene mele,
 Which that I heelp my sire for to stele.
 And, goode lemman, God thee save and kepe!"
 And with that word almoost she gan to wepe.
395        Aleyn up rist, and thoughte, "Er that it dawe
 I wol crepen in by my felawe,"
 And fond the cradel with his hand anon.
 "By God," thoughte he, al wrang I have mysgon.
 Myn heed is toty of my swynk to-nyght,
400 That makes me that I ga nat aright.
 I woot wel by the cradel I have mysgo;
 Heere lith the millere and his wyf also."
 And forth he goth, a twenty devel way,
 Unto the bed ther as the millere lay.
405 He wende have cropen by his felawe John,
 And by the millere in the creep anon,
 And caughte hym by the nekke, and softe he spak.
 He seyde, "Thou John, thou swynes-heed, awak,
 For Cristes saule, and heer a noble game.
410 For by that lord called is seint Jame,
 As I have thries in this shorte nyght
 Swyved the milleres doghter bolt upright,
 Whil thow hast, as a coward, been agast."
        "Ye, false harlot," quod the millere, "hast?
415 A, false traitor! false clerk!" quod he,
 Tow shalt be deed, by Goddes dignitee!
 Who dorste be so boold to disparage
 My doghter, that is come of swich lynage?'
 And by the throte-bolle he caughte Alayn,
420 And he hente hym despitously agayn,
 And on the nose he smoot hym with his fest.
 Doun ran the blody streem upon his brest;
 And in the floor, with nose and mouth tobroke,
 They walwe as doon two pigges in a poke;
425 And up they goon, and doun agayn anon,
 Til that the millere sporned at a stoon,
 And doun he fil bakward upon his wyf,
 That wiste no thyng of this nyce stryf;
 For she was falle aslepe a lite wight
430 With John the clerk, that waked hadde al nyght,
 And with the fal out of hir sleep she breyde.
 "Help! hooly croys of Bromeholm," she seyde,
 'In manus tuas! Lord, to thee I calle!
 Awak, Symond! The feend is on me falle.
435 Myn herte is broken; help! I nam but deed
 Ther lyth oon upon my wombe and on myn heed.
 Help. Symkyn, for the false clerkes fighte!"
        This John stirte up as faste as ever he myghte,
 And graspeth by the walles to and fro,
440 To fynde a staf; and she stirte up also,
 And knew the estres bet than dide this John,
 And by the wal a staf she foond anon,
 And saugh a litel shymeryng of a light,
 For at an hole in shoon the moone bright;
445 And by that light she saugh hem bothe two,
 But sikerly she nyste who was who,
 But as she saugh a whit thyng in hir ye.
 And whan she gan this white espye,
 She wende the clerk hadde wered a volupeer,
450 And with the staf she drow ay neer and neer,
 And wende han hit this Aleyn at the fulle,
 And smoot the millere on the pyled skulle,
 That doun he gooth, and cride, "Harrow! I dye!"
 Thise clerkes beete hym weel and lete hym lye;
455 And greythen hem, and tooke hir hors anon,
 And eek hire mele, and on hir wey they gon.
 And at the mille yet they tooke hir cake
 Of half a busshel flour, ful wel ybake.
        Thus is the proude millere wel ybete,
460 And hath ylost the gryndynge of the whete,
 And payed for the soper everideel
 Of Aleyn and of John, that bette hym weel.
 His wyf is swyved, and his doghter als.
 Lo, swich it is a millere to be fals!
465 And therfore this proverbe is seyd ful sooth,
 'Hym thar nat wene wel that yvele dooth';
 A gylour shal hymself bigyled be.
 And God, that sitteth heighte in magestee,
 Save al this compaignye, grete and smale!
470 Thus have I quyt the Millere in my tale.

Heere is ended the Reves Tale

Here begins the Reeve's Tale

At Trumpington, not far from Cambridge town,
There is a bridge wherethrough a brook runs down,
Upon the side of which brook stands a mill;
And this is very truth that now I tell.
A miller dwelt there, many and many a day;
As any peacock he was proud and gay.
He could mend nets, and he could fish, and flute,
Drink and turn cups, and wrestle well, and shoot;
And in his leathern belt he did parade
A cutlass with a long trenchant blade.
A pretty dagger had he in his pouch;
There was no man who durst this man to touch.
A Sheffield whittler bore he in his hose;
Round was his face and turned-up was his nose.
As bald as any ape's head was his skull;
He was a market-swaggerer to the full.
There durst no man a hand on him to lay,
Because he swore he'd make the beggar pay.
A thief he was, forsooth, of corn and meal,
And sly at that, accustomed well to steal.
His name was known as arrogant Simpkin.
A wife he had who came of gentle kin;
The parson of the town her father was.
With her he gave full many a pan of brass,
To insure that Simpkin with his blood ally.
She had been bred up in a nunnery;
For Simpkin would not have a wife, he said,
Save she were educated and a maid
To keep up his estate of yeomanry.
And she was proud and bold as is a pie.
A handsome sight it was to see those two;
On holy days before her he would go
With a broad tippet bound about his head;
And she came after in a skirt of red,
While Simpkin's hose were dyed to match that same.
There durst no man to call her aught but dame;
Nor was there one so hardy, in the way,
As durst flirt with her or attempt to play,
Unless he would be slain by this Simpkin
With cutlass or with knife or with bodkin.
For jealous folk are dangerous, you know,
At least they'd have their wives to think them so.
Besides, because she was a dirty bitch,
She was as high as water in a ditch;
And full of scorn and full of back-biting.
She thought a lady should be quite willing
To greet her for her kin and culture, she
Having been brought up in that nunnery.
      A daughter had they got between the two,
Of twenty years, and no more children, no,
Save a boy baby that was six months old;
It lay in cradle and was strong and bold.
This girl right stout and well developed was,
With nose tip-tilted and eyes blue as glass,
With buttocks broad, and round breasts full and high,
But golden was her hair, I will not lie.
      The parson of the town, since she was fair,
Was purposeful to make of her his heir,
Both of his chattels and of his estate,
But all this hinged upon a proper mate.
He was resolved that he'd bestow her high
Into some blood of worthy ancestry;
For Holy Church's goods must be expended
On Holy Church's blood, as it's descended.
Therefore he'd honour thus his holy blood,
Though Holy Church itself became his food.
      Large tolls this miller took, beyond a doubt,
With wheat and malt from all the lands about;
Of which I'd specify among them all
A Cambridge college known as Soler Hall;
He ground their wheat and all their malt he ground.
And on a day it happened, as they found,
The manciple got such a malady
That all men surely thought that he should die.
Whereon this miller stole both flour and wheat
A hundredfold more than he used to cheat;
For theretofore he stole but cautiously,
But now he was a thief outrageously,
At which the warden scolded and raised hell;
The miller snapped his fingers, truth to tell,
And cracked his brags and swore it wasn't so.
There were two poor young clerks, whose names I know,
That dwelt within this Hall whereof I say.
Willful they were and lusty, full of play,
And (all for mirth and to make reverly)
After the warden eagerly did they cry
To give them leave, at least for this one round,
To go to mill and see their produce ground;
And stoutly they proclaimed they'd bet their neck
The miller should not steal one half a peck
Of grain, by trick, nor yet by force should thieve;
And at the last the warden gave them leave.
John was the one and Alain was that other;
In one town were they born, and that called Strother,
Far in the north, I cannot tell you where.
      This Alain, he made ready all his gear,
And on a horse loaded the sack anon.
Forth went Alain the clerk, and also John,
With good sword and with buckler at their side.
John knew the way and didn't need a guide,
And at the mill he dropped the sack of grain.
"Ah, Simon, hail, good morn," first spoke Alain.
"How fares it with your fair daughter and wife?"
      "Alain! Welcome," said Simpkin, "by my life,
And John also. How now? What do you here?"
      "Simon," said John, "by God, need makes no peer;
He must himself serve who's no servant, eh?
Or else he's but a fool, as all clerks say.
Our manciple- I hope he'll soon be dead,
So aching are the grinders in his head-
And therefore am I come here with Alain
To grind our corn and carry it home again;
I pray you speed us thither, as you may."
"It shall be done," said Simpkin, "by my fay.
What will you do the while it is in hand?"
      "By God, right by the hopper will I stand,"
Said John, "and see just how the corn goes in;
I never have seen, by my father's kin,
Just how the hopper waggles to and fro."
      Alain replied: "Well, John, and will you so?
Then will I get beneath it, by my crown,
To see there how the meal comes sifting down
Into the trough; and that shall be my sport.
For, John, in faith, I must be of your sort;
I am as bad a miller as you be."
      The miller smiled at this, their delicacy,
And thought: "All this is done but for a wile;
They think there is no man may them beguile;
But, by my thrift, I will yet blear their eyes,
For all the tricks in their philosophies.
The more odd tricks and stratagems they make,
The more I'll steal when I begin to take.
In place of flour I'll give them only bran.
'The greatest clerk is not the wisest man,'
As once unto the grey wolf said the mare.
But all their arts- I rate them not a tare."
      Out of the door he went, then, secretly,
When he had seen his chance, and quietly;
He looked up and looked down, until he found
The clerks' horse where it stood, securely bound.
Behind the mill, under an arbour green;
And to the horse he went, then, all unseen;
He took the bridle off him and anon,
When the said horse was free, why he was gone
Toward the fen, for wild mares ran therein,
And with a neigh he went, through thick and thin.
      This miller straight went back and no word said,
But did his business and with these clerks played,
Until their corn was fairly, fully ground.
But when the flour was sacked and the ears bound,
This John went out, to find his horse away,
And so he cried: "Hello!" and "Weladay!
Our horse is lost! Alain, for Jesus' bones
Get to your feet, come out, man, now, at once!
Alas, our warden's palfrey's lost and lorn!"
This Alain forgot all, both flour and corn,
Clean out of mind was all his husbandry,
"What? Which way did he go?" began to cry.
      The wife came bounding from the house, and then
She said: "Alas! Your horse went to the fen,
With the wild mares, as fast as he could go.
A curse light on the hand that tied him so,
And him that better should have knotted rein!"
      "Alas!" quoth John, "Alain, for Jesus' pain,
Lay off your sword, and I will mine also;
I am as fleet, God knows, as is a roe;
By God's heart, he shall not escape us both!
Why didn't you put him in the barn? My oath!
Bad luck, by God, Alain, you are a fool!"
      These foolish clerks began to run and roll
Toward the marshes, both Alain and John.
      And when the miller saw that they were gone,
He half a bushel of their flour did take
And bade his wife go knead it and bread make.
He said: "I think those clerks some trickery feared;
Yet can a miller match a clerkling's beard,
For all his learning; let them go their way.
Look where they go, yea, let the children play,
They'll catch him not so readily, by my crown!"
      Those simple clerks went running up and down
With "Look out! Halt! Halt! here! 'Ware the rear!
Go whistle, you, and I will watch him here!"
But briefly, till it came to utter night
They could not, though they put forth all their might,
That stallion catch, he always ran so fast,
Till in a ditch they trapped him at the last.
      Weary and wet, as beast is in the rain,
Came foolish John and with him came Alain.
"Alas," said John, "the day that I was born!
Now are we bound toward mockery and scorn.
Our corn is stolen, folk will call us fools,
The warden and the fellows at the schools,
And specially this miller. Weladay!"
      Thus John complained as he went on his way
Toward the mill, with Bayard once more bound.
The miller sitting by the fire he found,
For it was night, and farther could they not;
But, for the love of God, they him besought
For shelter and for supper, for their penny.
      The miller said to them: "If there be any,
Such as it is, why you shall have your part.
My house is small, but you have learned your art;
You can, by metaphysics, make a place
A full mile wide in twenty feet of space.
Let us see now if this place will suffice,
Or make more room with speech, by some device."
      "Now, Simon," said John, "by Saint Cuthbert's beard,
You're always merry and have well answered.
As I've heard, man shall take one of two things:
Such as he finds, or take such as he brings.
But specially, I pray you, mine host dear,
Give us some meat and drink and some good cheer,
And we will pay you, truly, to the full.
With empty hand no man takes hawk or gull;
Well, here's our silver, ready to be spent."
      This miller to the town his daughter sent
For ale and bread, and roasted them a goose,
And tied their horse, that it might not go loose;
And then in his own chamber made a bed,
With sheets and with good blankets fairly spread,
Not from his bed more than twelve feet, or ten.
The daughter made her lone bed near the men,
In the same chamber with them, by and by;
It could not well be bettered, and for why?
There was no larger room in all the place.
They supped and talked, and gained some small solace,
And drank strong ale, that evening, of the best.
Then about midnight all they went to rest.
      Well had this miller varnished his bald head,
For pale he was with drinking, and not red.
He hiccoughed and he mumbled through his nose,
As he were chilled, with humours lachrymose.
To bed he went, and with him went his wife.
As any jay she was with laughter rife,
So copiously was her gay whistle wet.
The cradle near her bed's foot-board was set,
Handy for rocking and for giving suck.
And when they'd drunk up all there was in crock,
To bed went miller's daughter, and anon
To bed went Alain and to bed went John.
There was no more; they did not need a dwale.
This miller had so roundly bibbed his ale
That, like a horse, he snorted in his sleep,
While of his tail behind he kept no keep.
His wife joined in his chorus, and so strong,
Men might have heard her snores a full furlong;
And the girl snored, as well, for company.
      Alain the clerk, who heard this melody,
He poked at John and said: "Asleep? But how?
Did you hear ever such a song ere now?
Lo, what a compline is among them all!
Now may the wild-fire on their bodies fall!
Who ever heard so outlandish a thing?
But they shall have the flour of ill ending.
Through this long night there'll be for me no rest;
But never mind, 'twill all be for the best.
For, John," said he, "so may I ever thrive,
As, if I can, that very wench I'll swive.
Some recompense the law allows to us;
For, John, there is a statute which says thus,
That if a man in one point be aggrieved,
Yet in another shall he be relieved.
Our corn is stolen, to that there's no nay,
And we have had an evil time this day.
But since I may not have amending, now,
Against my loss I'll set some fun- and how!
By God's great soul it shan't be otherwise!"
      This John replied: "Alain, let me advise.
The miller is a dangerous man," he said,
"And if he be awakened, I'm afraid
He may well do us both an injury."
      But Alain said: "I count him not a fly."
And up he rose and to the girl he crept.
This wench lay on her back and soundly slept,
Until he'd come so near, ere she might spy,
It was too late to struggle, then, or cry;
And, to be brief, these two were soon alone.
Now play, Alain! For I will speak of John.
      This John lay still a quarter-hour, or so,
Pitied himself and wept for all his woe.
"Alas," said he, "this is a wicked jape!
Now may I say that I am but an ape.
Yet has my friend, there, something for his harm;
He has the miller's daughter on his arm.
He ventured, and his pains are now all fled,
While I lie like a sack of chaff in bed;
And when this jape is told, another day,
I shall be held an ass, a milksop, yea!
I will arise and chance it, by my fay!
'Unhardy is unhappy,' as they say."
And up he rose, and softly then he went
To find the cradle for expedient,
And bore it over to his own foot-board.
      Soon after this the wife no longer snored,
But woke and rose and went outside to piss,
And came again and did the cradle miss,
And groped round, here and there, but found it not.
"Alas!" thought she, "my way I have forgot.
I nearly found myself in the clerks' bed.
Eh, ben'cite, but that were wrong!" she said.
And on, until by cradle she did stand.
And, groping a bit farther with her hand,
She found the bed, and thought of naught but good,
Because her baby's cradle by it stood,;
And knew not where she was, for it was dark;
But calmly then she crept in by the clerk,
And lay right still, and would have gone to sleep.
But presently this John the clerk did leap,
And over on this goodwife did he lie.
No such gay time she'd known in years gone by.
He pricked her hard and deep, like one gone mad.
And so a jolly life these two clerks had
Till the third cock began to crow and sing.
      Alain grew weary in the grey dawning,
For he had laboured hard through all the night;
And said: "Farewell, now, Maudy, sweet delight!
The day is come, I may no longer bide;
But evermore, whether I walk or ride,
I am your own clerk, so may I have weal."
      "Now, sweetheart," said she, "go and fare you well!
But ere you go, there's one thing I must tell.
When you go walking homeward past the mill,
Right at the entrance, just the door behind,
You shall a loaf of half a bushel find
That was baked up of your own flour, a deal
Of which I helped my father for to steal.
And, darling, may God save you now and keep!"
And with that word she almost had to weep.
      Alain arose and thought: "Ere it be dawn,
I will go creep in softly by friend John."
And found the cradle with his hand, anon.
"By God!" thought he, "all wrong I must have gone;
My head is dizzy from my work tonight,
And that's why I have failed to go aright.
I know well, by this cradle, I am wrong,
For here the miller and his wife belong."
And on he went, and on the devil's way,
Unto the bed wherein the miller lay.
He thought to have crept in by comrade John,
So, to the miller, in he got anon,
And caught him round the neck, and softly spake,
Saying: "You, John, you old swine's head, awake,
For Christ's own soul, and hear a noble work,
For by Saint James, and as I am a clerk,
I have, three times in this short night, no lack,
Swived that old miller's daughter on her back,
While you, like any coward, were aghast."
      "You scoundrel," cried the miller, "you trespassed?
Ah, traitor false and treacherous clerk!" cried he,
"You shall be killed, by God's own dignity!
Who dares be bold enough to bring to shame
My daughter, who is born of such a name?"
And by the gullet, then, he caught Alain.
And pitilessly he handled him amain,
And on the nose he smote him with his fist.
Down ran the bloody stream upon his breast;
And on the floor, with nose and mouth a-soak,
They wallowed as two pigs do in a poke.
And up they came, and down they both went, prone,
Until the miller stumbled on a stone,
And reeled and fell down backwards on his wife,
Who nothing knew of all this silly strife;
For she had fallen into slumber tight
With John the clerk, who'd been awake all night.
But at the fall, from sleep she started out.
"Help, holy Cross of Bromholm!" did she shout,
"In manus tuas, Lord, to Thee I call!
Simon, awake, the Fiend is on us all
My heart is broken, help, I am but dead!
There lies one on my womb, one on my head!
Help, Simpkin, for these treacherous clerks do fight!"
      John started up, as fast as well he might,
And searched along the wall, and to and fro,
To find a staff; and she arose also,
And knowing the room better than did John,
She found a staff against the wall, anon;
And then she saw a little ray of light,
For through a hole the moon was shining bright;
And by that light she saw the struggling two,
But certainly she knew not who was who,
Except she saw a white thing with her eye.
And when she did this same white thing espy,
She thought the clerk had worn a nightcap here.
And with the staff she nearer drew, and near,
And, thinking to hit Alain on his poll,
She fetched the miller on his bald white skull,
And down he went, crying out, "Help, help, I die!"
The two clerks beat him well and let him lie;
And clothed themselves, and took their horse anon,
And got their flour, and on their way were gone.
And at the mill they found the well-made cake
Which of their meal the miller's wife did bake.
      Thus is the haughty miller soundly beat,
And thus he's lost his pay for grinding wheat,
And paid for the two suppers, let me tell,
Of Alain, and of John, who've tricked him well.
His wife is taken, also his daughter sweet;
Thus it befalls a miller who's a cheat.
And therefore is this proverb said with truth,
"An evil end to evil man, forsooth."
The cheater shall himself well cheated be.
And God, Who sits on high in majesty,
Save all this company, both strong and frail!
Thus have I paid this miller with my tale.

Here is ended the Reeve's Tale

Continue on to the Cook's Tale

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