CANTERBURY TALES

by Geoffry Chaucer

The Cook's Tale

The Prologe of the Cokes Tale

        The COOK of Londoun, whil the Reve spak,
 For joye him thoughte, he clawed him on the bak.
 "Ha! ha!" quod he, "for Criste passioun,
 This miller hadde a sharp conclusioun
5 Upon his argument of herbergage.
 Wel seyde Salomon in his langage,
 `Ne bryng nat every man into thyn hous,'
 For herberwynge by nyghte is perilous.
 Wel oghte a man avysed for to be,
10 Whom that be broghte into his pryvetee.
 I pray to God so yeve me sorwe and care,
 If evere sitthe I highte Hogge of Ware,
 Herde I a millere bettre yset awerk.
 He hadde a jape of malice in the derk.
15 But God forbede that we stynte heere,
 And therfore, if ye vouche-sauf to heere
 A tale of me that am a povre man,
 I wol yow telle, as wel as evere I kan,
 A litel jape that fil in oure citee."
20        Oure Hoost answerde and seide, "I graunte it thee,
 Now telle on, Roger, looke that it be good,
 For many a pastee hastow laten blood,
 And many a Jakke of Dovere hastow soold
 That hath been twies hoot and twies coold.
25 Of many a pilgrim hastow Cristes curs,
 For of thy percely yet they fare the wors,
 That they han eten with thy stubbel goos,
 For in thy shoppe is many a flye loos.
 Now telle on, gentil Roger, by thy name,
30 But yet I pray thee, be nat wroth for game;
 A man may seye ful sooth in game and pley."
        "Thou seist ful sooth," quod Roger, "by my fey;
 But `sooth pley quaad pley,' as the Flemyng seith.
 And therfore, Herry Bailly, by thy feith,
35 Be thou nat wrooth, er we departen heer,
 Though that my tale be of an hostileer.
 But nathelees I wol nat telle it yit,
 But er we parte, ywis, thou shalt be quit."
 And ther-with-al he lough and made cheere,
40 And seyde his tale, as ye shul after heere.
The Prologue of the Cook's Tale

The cook from London, while the reeve yet spoke,
Patted his back with pleasure at the joke.
"Ha, ha!" laughed he, "by Christ's great suffering,
This miller had a mighty sharp ending
Upon his argument of harbourage!
For well says Solomon, in his language,
'Bring thou not every man into thine house;'
For harbouring by night is dangerous.
Well ought a man to know the man that he
Has brought into his own security.
I pray God give me sorrow and much care
If ever, since I have been Hodge of Ware,
Heard I of miller better brought to mark.
A wicked jest was played him in the dark.
But God forbid that we should leave off here;
And therefore, if you'll lend me now an ear,
From what I know, who am but a poor man,
I will relate, as well as ever I can,
A little trick was played in our city."
Our host replied: "I grant it readily.
Now tell on, Roger; see that it be good;
For many a pasty have you robbed of blood,
And many a Jack of Dover have you sold
That has been heated twice and twice grown cold.
From many a pilgrim have you had Christ's curse,
For of your parsley they yet fare the worse,
Which they have eaten with your stubble goose;
For in your shop full many a fly is loose.
Now tell on, gentle Roger, by your name.
But yet, I pray, don't mind if I make game,
A man may tell the truth when it's in play."
"You say the truth," quoth Roger, "by my fay!
But 'true jest, bad jest' as the Fleming saith.
And therefore, Harry Bailey, on your faith,
Be you not angry ere we finish here,
If my tale should concern an inn-keeper.
Nevertheless, I'll tell not that one yet,
But ere we part your jokes will I upset."
And thereon did he laugh, in great good cheer,
And told his tale, as you shall straightway hear. 

Heere bigynneth the Cookes Tale

        A prentys whilom dwelled in oure citee,
 And of a craft of vitailliers was hee.
 Gaillard he was as goldfynch in the shawe,
 Broun as a berye, a propre short felawe,
45 With lokkes blake, ykembd ful fetisly.
 Dauncen he koude so wel and jolily
 That he was cleped Perkyn Revelour.
 He was as ful of love and paramour
 As is the hyve ful of hony sweete:
50 Wel was the wenche with hym myghte meete.
 At every bridale wolde he synge and hoppe;
 He loved bet the taverne than the shoppe.
 For whan ther any ridyng was in Chepe,
 Out of the shoppe thider wolde he lepe -
55 Til that he hadde al the sighte yseyn,
 And daunced wel, he wolde nat come ayeyn -
 And gadered hym a meynee of his sort
 To hoppe and synge and maken swich disport;
 And ther they setten stevene for to meete
60 To pleyen at the dys in swich a streete.
 For in the toune nas ther no prentys
 That fairer koude caste a paire of dys
 Than Perkyn koude, and therto he was free
 Of his dispense, in place of pryvetee.
65 That fond his maister wel in his chaffare;
 For often tyme he foond his box ful bare.
 For sikerly a prentys revelour
 That haunteth dys, riot, or paramour,
 His maister shal it in his shoppe abye,
70 Al have he no part of the mynstralcye.
 For thefte and riot, they been convertible
 Al konne he pleye on gyterne or ribible.
 Revel and trouthe, as in a lowe degree,
 They been ful wrothe al day, as men may see.
75        This joly prentys with his maister bood,
 Til he were ny out of his prentishood,
 Al were he snybbed bothe erly and late,
 And somtyme lad with revel to Newegate.
 But atte laste his maister hym bithoghte,
80 Upon a day, whan he his papir soughte,
 Of a proverbe that seith this same word,
 'Wel bet is roten appul out of hoord
 Than that it rotie al the remenaunt.'
 So fareth it by a riotous servaunt;
85 It is ful lasse harm to lete hym pace,
 Than he shende alle the servantz in the place
 Therfore his maister yaf hym acquitance,
 And bad hym go, with sorwe and with meschance!
 And thus this joly prentys hadde his leve.
90 Now lat hym riote al the nyghte or leve.
 And for ther is no theef withoute a lowke,
 That helpeth hym to wasten and to sowke
 Of that he brybe kan or borwe may,
 Anon he sente his bed and his array
95 Unto a compeer of his owene sort,
 That lovede dys, and revel, and disport,
 And hadde a wyf that heeld for contenance
 A shoppe, and swyved for hir sustenance.
 
Here begins the Cook's Tale

There lived a 'prentice, once, in our city,
And of the craft of victuallers was he;
Happy he was as goldfinch in the glade,
Brown as a berry, short, and thickly made,
With black hair that he combed right prettily.
He could dance well, and that so jollily,
That he was nicknamed Perkin Reveller.
He was as full of love, I may aver,
As is a beehive full of honey sweet;
Well for the wench that with him chanced to meet.
At every bridal would he sing and hop,
Loving the tavern better than the shop.
When there was any festival in Cheap,
Out of the shop and thither would he leap,
And, till the whole procession he had seen,
And danced his fill, he'd not return again.
He gathered many fellows of his sort
To dance and sing and make all kinds of sport.
And they would have appointments for to meet
And play at dice in such, or such, a street.
For in the whole town was no apprentice
Who better knew the way to throw the dice
Than Perkin; and therefore he was right free
With money, when in chosen company.
His master found this out in business there;
For often-times he found the till was bare.
For certainly a revelling bond-boy
Who loves dice, wine, dancing, and girls of joy-
His master, in his shop, shall feel the effect,
Though no part have he in this said respect;
For theft and riot always comrades are,
And each alike he played on gay guitar.
Revels and truth, in one of low degree,
Do battle always, as all men may see.
This 'prentice shared his master's fair abode
Till he was nigh out of his 'prenticehood,
Though he was checked and scolded early and late,
And sometimes led, for drinking, to Newgate;
But at the last his master did take thought,
Upon a day, when he his ledger sought,
On an old proverb wherein is found this word:
"Better take rotten apple from the hoard
Than let it lie to spoil the good ones there."
So with a drunken servant should it fare;
It is less ill to let him go, apace,
Than ruin all the others in the place.
Therefore he freed and cast him loose to go
His own road unto future care and woe;
And thus this jolly 'prentice had his leave.
Now let him riot all night long, or thieve.
But since there's never thief without a buck
To help him waste his money and to suck
All he can steal or borrow by the way,
Anon he sent his bed and his array
To one he knew, a fellow of his sort,
Who loved the dice and revels and all sport,
And had a wife that kept, for countenance,
A shop, and whored to gain her sustenance.

(Chaucer did not finish this tale.)

Continue on to the Man of Law's Tale

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