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Heere
bigynneth the Somonour his Tale
45
Lordynges, ther is in Yorkshire, as I gesse,
A mersshy contree
called Holdernesse,
In which ther wente
a lymytour aboute,
To preche, and eek
to begge, it so no doute.
And so bifel that
on a day this frere
50 Hadde preched at a chirche
in his manere,
And specially, aboven
every thyng,
Excited he the peple
in his prechyng
To trentals, and to
yeve, for Goddes sake,
Wherwith men myghte
hooly houses make,
55 Ther as divine servyce
is honoured,
Nat ther as it is
wasted and devoured,
Ne ther it nedeth
nat for to be yive,
As to possessioners,
that mowen lyve,
Thanked be God, in
wele and habundaunce.
60 "Trentals," seyde he,
"deliveren fro penaunce
Hir freendes soules,
as wel olde as yonge, -
Ye, whan that they
been hastily ysonge,
Nat for to holde a
preest holy and gay -
He syngeth nat but
o masse in a day.
65 Delivereth out," quod
he, "anon the soules!
Ful hard it is with
flesshhook or with oules
To been yclawed, or
to brenne or bake.
Now spede yow hastily,
for Cristes sake!"
And whan this frere
had seyd al his entente,
70 With qui cum patre forth
his wey he wente.
Whan folk in chirche had yeve him what hem leste,
He wente his wey,
no lenger wolde he reste,
With scrippe and tipped
staf, ytukked hye,
In every hous he gan
to poure and prye,
75 And beggeth mele and
chese, or elles corn.
His felawe hadde a
staf tipped with horn,
A peyre of tables
al of yvory,
And a poyntel polysshed
fetisly,
And wrooth the names
alwey, as he stood,
80 Of alle folk that yaf
hym any good,
Ascaunces that he
wolde for hem preye.
"Yif us a busshel
whete, malt, or reye,
A goddes kechyl, or
a trype of chese,
Or elles what yow
lyst, we may nat cheese;
85 A goddes halfpeny, or
a masse peny,
Or yif us of youre
brawn, if ye have eny;
A dagon of youre blanket,
leeve dame,
Oure suster deere,
- lo! Heere I write youre name, -
Bacon or beef, or
swich thyng as ye fynde."
90
A sturdy harlot wente ay hem bihynde,
That was hir hostes
man, and bar a sak,
And what men yaf hem,
leyde it on his bak.
And whan that he was
out at dore, anon
He planed awey the
names everichon
95 That he biforn had writen
in his tables;
He served hem with
nyfles and with fables.
"Nay, ther thou lixt, thou Somonour!" quod the Frere.
"Pees," quod oure Hoost, "for Cristes mooder deere!
Tel forth thy tale,
and spare it nat at al."
100
"So thryve I," quod this Somonour, "so I shal!"
So longe he wente, hous by hous, til he
Cam til an hous ther
he was wont to be
Refresshed moore than
in an hundred placis.
Syk lay the goode
man whos that the place is;
105 Bedrede upon a couche
lowe he lay.
"Deus hic!" quod he,
"O Thomas, freend, good day!"
Seyde this frere,
curteisly and softe.
"Thomas," quod he,
"God yelde yow! Ful ofte
Have I upon this bench
faren ful weel;
110 Heere have I eten many
a myrie meel."
And fro the bench
he droof awey the cat,
And leyde adoun his
potente and his hat,
And eek his scrippe,
and sette hym softe adoun.
His felawe was go
walked into toun
115 Forth with his knave,
into that hostelrye
Where as he shoop
hym thilke nyght to lye.
"O deere maister," quod this sike man,
"How han ye fare sith
that March bigan?
I saugh yow noght
this fourtenyght or moore."
120 "God woot," quod he,
"laboured have I ful soore,
And specially, for
thy savacion
Have I seyd many a
precious orison,
And for oure othere
freendes, God hem blesse!
I have to day been
at youre chirche at messe,
125 And seyd a sermon after
my symple wit,
Nat al after the text
of hooly writ;
For it is hard to
yow, as I suppose,
And therfore wol I
teche yow al the glose.
Glosynge is a glorious
thyng, certeyn,
130 For lettre sleeth, so
as we clerkes seyn.
There have I taught
hem to be charitable,
And spende hir good
ther it is resonable;
And there I saugh
oure dame. A! where is she?"
"Yond in the yerd I trowe that she be,"
135 Seyde this man, "and
she wol come anon."
"Ey, maister, welcome be ye, by Seint John!"
Seyde this wyf, "How
fare ye, hertely?"
The frere ariseth up ful curteisly,
And hire embraceth
in his armes narwe,
140 And kiste hire sweete,
and chirketh as a sparwe
With his lyppes: "Dame,"
quod he, "right weel,
As he that is youre
servent every deel,
Thanked be God, that
yow yaf soule and lyf!
Yet saugh I nat this
day so fair a wyf
145 In al the chirche, God
so save me!"
"Ye, God amende defautes, sire," quod she.
"Algates, welcome
be ye, by my fey!"
"Graunt mercy, dame, this have I founde alwey.
But of youre grete
goodnesse, by youre leve,
150 I wolde prey yow that
ye nat yow greve,
I wole with Thomas
speke a litel throwe.
Thise curatz been
ful necligent and slowe
To grope tendrely
a conscience
In shrift; in prechyng
is my diligence,
155 And studie in Petres
wordes and in Poules.
I walke, and fisshe
Cristen mennes soules,
To yelden Jhesu Crist
his propre rente;
To sprede his word
is set al myn entente."
"Now, by youre leve, o deere sire," quod she
160 "Chideth him weel, for
seinte Trinitee!
He is as angry as
a pissemyre,
Though that he have
al that he kan desire,
Though I hym wrye
a-nyght and make hym warm,
And over hym leye
my leg outher myn arm,
165 He groneth lyk oure
boor, lith in oure sty.
Oother desport right
noon of hym have I;
I may nat plese hym
in no maner cas."
"O Thomas, je vous dy, Thomas! Thomas!
This maketh the feend;
this moste ben amended.
170 Ire is a thyng that
hye God defended,
And therof wol I speke
a word or two."
"Now, maister," quod the wyf, er that I go,
What wol ye dyne?
I wol go theraboute."
"Now dame," quod he," now je vous dy sanz doute,
175 Have I nat of a capon
but the lyvere,
And of youre softe
breed nat but a shyvere,
And after that a rosted
pigges heed -
But that I nolde no
beest for me were deed -
Thanne hadde I with
yow hoomly suffisaunce.
180 I am a man of litel
sustenaunce;
My spirit hath his
fostryng in the bible.
The body is ay so
redy and penyble
To wake, that my stomak
is destroyed.
I prey yow, dame,
ye be nat anoyed,
185 Though I so freendly
yow my conseil shewe.
By god! I wolde nat
telle it but a fewe."
"Now, sire," quod she, "but o word er I go.
My child is deed withinne
thise wykes two,
Soone after that ye
wente out of this toun."
190
"His deeth saugh I by revelacioun,"
Seide this frere,
"at hoom in oure dortour.
I dar wel seyn that,
er that half an hour
After his deeth, I
saugh hym born to blisse
In myn avision, so
God me wisse!
195 So didde oure sexteyn
and oure fermerer,
That han been trewe
freres fifty yeer;
They may now - God
be thanked of his loone! -
Maken hir jubilee
and walke allone.
And up I roos, and
al oure covent eke,
200 With many a teere trillyng
on my cheke,
Withouten noyse or
claterynge of belles;
Te Deum was oure song,
and nothyng elles,
Save that to Crist
I seyde an orison,
Thankynge hym of his
revelacion.
205 For, sire and dame,
trusteth me right weel,
Oure orisons been
moore effectueel,
And moore we seen
of Cristes secree thynges,
Than burel folk, although
they weren kynges.
We lyve in poverte
and in abstinence,
210 And burell folk in richesse
and despence
Of mete and drynke,
and in hir foul delit.
We han this worldes
lust al in despit.
Lazar and Dives lyveden
diversly,
And divers gerdon
hadden they therby.
215 Whoso wol preye, he
moot faste and be clene,
And fatte his soule,
and make his body lene.
We fare as seith th'apostle;
clooth and foode
Suffisen us, though
they be nat ful goode.
The clennesse and
the fastynge of us freres
220 Maketh that crist accepteth
oure preyeres.
Lo, Moyses fourty dayes and fourty nyght
Fasted, er that the
heighe God of myght
Spak with hym in the
mountayne of Synay.
With empty wombe,
fastynge many a day,
225 Receyved he the lawe
that was writen
With Goddes fynger;
and Elye, wel ye witen,
In mount Oreb, er
he hadde any speche
With hye God, that
is oure lyves leche,
He fasted longe, and
was in contemplaunce.
230
Aaron, that hadde the temple in governaunce,
And eek the othere
preestes everichon,
Into the temple whan
they sholde gon
To preye for the peple,
and do servyse,
They nolden drynken
in no maner wyse
235 No drynke which that
myghte hem dronke make,
But there in abstinence
preye and wake,
Lest that they deyden.
Taak heede what I seye!
But they be sobre
that for the peple preye,
War that - I seye
namoore, for it suffiseth.
240
Oure Lord Jhesu, as hooly writ devyseth,
Yaf us ensample of
fastynge and preyeres -
Therfore we mendynantz,
we sely freres -
Been wedded to poverte
and continence,
To charite, humblesse,
and abstinence,
245 To persecucioun for
rightwisnesse,
To wepynge, misericorde,
and clennesse.
And therfore may ye
se that oure preyeres -
I speke of us, we
mendynantz, we freres -
Been to the hye God
moore acceptable
250 Than youres, with youre
feestes at the table.
Fro Paradys first,
if I shal nat lye,
Was man out chaced
for his glotonye;
And chaast was man
in paradys, certeyn.
But herkne now, Thomas, what I shal seyn.
255 I ne have no text of
it, as I suppose,
But I shal fynde it
in a maner glose,
That specially oure
sweete Lord Jhesus
Spak this by freres,
whan he seyde thus:
'Blessed be they that
povere in spirit been.'
260 And so forth al the
gospel may ye seen,
Wher it be likker
oure professioun,
Or hirs that swymmen
in possessioun.
Fy on hire pompe and
on hire glotonye!
And for hir lewednesse
I hem diffye.
265
My thynketh they been lyk Jovinyan,
Fat as a whale, and
walkynge as a swan,
Al vinolent as botel
in the spence.
Hir preyere is of
ful greet reverence,
Whan they for soules
seye the psalm of Davit;
270 Lo, 'buf!' they seye,
'cor meum eructavit!'
Who folweth Cristes
gospel and his foore,
But we that humble
been, and chaast, and poore,
Werkeris of Goddes
word, nat auditours?
Therfore, right as
an hauk up at a sours
275 Up springeth into th'eir,
right so prayeres
Of charitable and
chaste bisy freres
Maken hir sours to
Goddes eres two.
Thomas! Thomas! So
moote I ryde or go,
And by that lord that
clepid is seint Yve,
280 Nere thou oure brother,
sholdestou nat thryve.
In our chapitre prayer
we day and nyght
To Crist, that he
thee sende heele and myght
Thy body for to weelden
hastily."
"God woot," quod he, "nothyng therof feele I!
285 As help me Crist, as
I in fewe yeres,
Have spent upon diverse
manere freres
Ful many a pound;
yet fare I never the bet.
Certeyn, my good have
I almoost biset.
Farwel, my gold, for
it is al ago!"
290
The frere answerde, "O Thomas, dostow so?
What nedeth yow diverse
freres seche?
What nedeth hym that
hath a parfit leche
To sechen othere leches
in the toun?
Youre inconstance
is youre confusioun.
295 Holde ye thanne me,
or elles oure covent,
To praye for yow been
insufficient?
Thomas, that jape
nys nat worth a myte.
Youre maladye is for
we han to lyte.
A! yif that covent
half a quarter otes!
300 A! yif that covent foure
and twenty grotes!
A! yif that frere
a peny, and lat hym go!
Nay, nay, Thomas,
it may no thyng be so!
What is a ferthyng
worth parted in twelve?
Lo, ech thyng that
is oned in himselve
305 Is moore strong than
whan it is toscatered.
Thomas, of me thou
shalt nat been yflatered;
Thou woldest han oure
labour al for noght.
The hye god, that
al this world hath wroght,
Seith that the werkman
worthy is his hyre.
310 Thomas, noght of youre
tresor I desire
As for myself, but
that al oure covent
To preye for yow is
ay so diligent,
And for to buylden
Cristes owene chirche.
Thomas, if ye wol
lernen for to wirche,
315 Of buyldynge up of chirches
may ye fynde,
If it be good, in
Thomas lyf of Inde.
Ye lye heere ful of
anger and of ire,
With which the devel
set youre herte afyre,
And chiden heere the
sely innocent,
320 Youre wyf, that is so
meke and pacient.
And therfore, Thomas,
trowe me if thee leste,
Ne stryve nat with
thy wyf, as for thy beste;
And ber this word
awey now, by thy feith,
Touchynge swich thyng,
lo, what the wise seith:
325 Withinne thyn hous ne
be thou no leon;
To thy subgitz do
noon oppression,
Ne make thyne aqueyntances
nat to flee. -
And, Thomas, yet eft-soones
I charge thee,
Be war from hire that
in thy bosom slepeth;
330 War fro the serpent
that so slily crepeth
Under the gras, and
styngeth subtilly.
Be war, my sone, and
herkne paciently,
That twenty thousand
men han lost hir lyves
For stryvyng with
hir lemmans and hir wyves.
335 Now sith ye han so hooly
and meke a wyf,
What nedeth yow, Thomas,
to maken stryf?
Ther nys, ywys, no
serpent so cruel,
Whan man tret on his
tayl, ne half so fel,
As womman is, whan
she hath caught an ire;
340 Vengeance is thanne
al that they desire.
Ire is a synne, oon
of the grete of sevene,
Abhomynable unto the
God of hevene;
And to hymself it
is destruccion.
This every lewed viker
or person
345 Kan seye, how ire engendreth
homycide.
Ire is, in sooth,
executour of pryde.
I koude of ire seye
so muche sorwe,
My tale sholde laste
til to-morwe.
And therfore preye
I God, bothe day and nyght,
350 An irous man, God sende
hym litel myght!
It is greet harm and
certes greet pitee
To sette an irous
man in heigh degree.
Whilom ther was an irous potestat,
As seith Senek, that,
durynge his estaat,
355 Upon a day out ryden
knyghtes two,
And as Fortune wolde
that it were so,
That oon of hem cam
hoom, that oother noght.
Anon the knyght bifore
the juge is broght,
That seyde thus, 'Thou
hast thy felawe slayn,
360 For which I deme thee
to the deeth, certayn.'
And to another knyght
comanded he,
'Go lede hym to the
deeth, I charge thee.'
And happed, as they
wente by the weye
Toward the place ther
he sholde deye,
365 The knyght cam which
men wenden had be deed.
Thanne thoughte they
it were the beste reed
To lede hem bothe
to the juge agayn.
They seiden, 'Lord,
the knyght ne hath nat slayn
His felawe; heere
he standeth hool alyve.'
370 'Ye shul be deed,' quod
he, 'so moot I thryve!
That is to seyn, bothe
oon, and two, and thre!'
And to the firste
knyght right thus spak he,
'I dampned thee; thou
most algate be deed.
And thou also most
nedes lese thyn heed,
375 For thou art cause why
thy felawe deyth.'
And to the thridde
knyght right thus he seith,
'Thou hast nat doon
that I comanded thee.'
And thus he dide doon
sleen hem alle thre.
Irous cambises was eek dronkelewe,
380 And ay delited hym to
been a shrewe.
And so bifel, a lord
of his meynee,
That loved vertuous
moralitee,
Seyde on a day bitwix
hem two right thus:
'A lord is lost, if he be vicius;
385 And dronkenesse is eek
a foul record
Of any man, and namely
in a lord.
Ther is ful many an
eye and many an ere
Awaityng on a lord,
and he noot where.
For goddes love, drynk
moore attemprely!
390 Wyn maketh man to lesen
wrecchedly
His mynde and eek
his lymes everichon.'
'The revers shaltou se,' quod he, 'anon,
And preve it by thyn
owene experience,
That wyn ne dooth
to folk no swich offence.
395 Ther is no wyn bireveth
me my myght
Of hand ne foot, ne
of myne eyen sight.'
And for despit he
drank ful muchel moore,
An hondred part, than
he hadde don bifoore;
And right anon this
irous, cursed wrecche
400 Leet this knyghtes sone
bifore hym fecche,
Comandynge hym he
sholde bifore hym stonde.
And sodeynly he took
his bowe in honde,
And up the streng
he pulled to his ere,
And with an arwe he
slow the child right there.
405 'Now wheither have I
a siker hand or noon?'
Quod he; 'Is al my
myght and mynde agon?
Hath wyn bireved me
myn eyen sight?'
What sholde I telle
th'answere of the knyght?
His sone was slayn,
ther is namoore to seye.
410 Beth war, therfore,
with lordes how ye pleye.
Syngeth Placebo, and
'I shal, if I kan,'
But if it be unto
a povre man.
To a povre man men
sholde his vices telle,
But nat to a lord,
thogh he sholde go to helle.
415
Lo irous Cirus, thilke Percien,
How he destroyed the
ryver of Gysen,
For that an hors of
his was dreynt therinne,
Whan that he wente
Babiloigne to wynne.
He made that the ryver
was so smal
420 That wommen myghte wade
it over al.
Lo, what seyde he
that so wel teche kan?
'Ne be no felawe to
an irous man,
Ne with no wood man
walke by the weye,
Lest thee repente;'
I wol no ferther seye.
425
"Now, Thomas, leeve brother, lef thyn ire;
Thou shalt me fynde
as just as is a squyre.
Hoold nat the develes
knyf ay at thyn herte -
Thyn angre dooth thee
al to soore smerte -
But shewe to me al
thy confessioun."
430
"Nay," quod the sike man, "by Seint Symoun!
I have be shryven
this day at my curat.
I have hym toold hoolly
al myn estat;
Nedeth namoore to
speken of it," seith he,
"But if me list, of
myn humylitee."
435
"Yif me thanne of thy gold, to make oure cloystre,"
Quod he, "for many
a muscle and many an oystre,
Whan othere men han
ben ful wel at eyse,
Hath been oure foode,
our cloystre for to reyse.
And yet, God woot,
unnethe the fundement
440 Parfourned is, ne of
our pavement
Nys nat a tyle yet
withinne oure wones.
By God! we owen fourty
pound for stones.
"Now help, Thomas, for hym that harwed helle!
For elles moste we
oure bookes selle.
445 And if yow lakke oure
predicacioun,
Thanne goth the world
al to destruccioun.
For whoso wolde us
fro this world bireve,
So God me save, Thomas,
by youre leve,
He wolde bireve out
of this world the sonne.
450 For who kan teche and
werchen as we konne?
And that is nat of
litel tyme," quod he,
"But syn Elye was,
or Elise,
Han freres been -
that fynde I of record -
In charitee, ythanked
be oure Lord!
455 Now Thomas, help, for
seinte charitee!"
And doun anon he sette
hym on his knee.
This sike man wax wel ny wood for ire;
He wolde that the
frere had been on-fire,
With his false dissymulacioun.
460 "Swich thyng as is in
my possessioun,"
Quod he, "that may
I yeve yow, and noon oother.
Ye sey me thus, how
that I am youre brother?"
"Ye, certes," quod the frere, "trusteth weel.
I took oure dame oure
lettre with oure seel."
465
"Now wel," quod he, "and somwhat shal I yive
Unto youre hooly covent
whil I lyve;
And in thyn hand thou
shalt it have anon,
On this condicion,
and oother noon,
That thou departe
it so, my deere brother,
470 That every frere have
also muche as oother.
This shaltou swere
on thy professioun,
Withouten fraude or
cavillacioun."
"I swere it," quod this frere, "by my feith!"
And therwithal his
hand in his he leith,
475 "Lo, heer my feith;
in me shal be no lak."
"Now thanne, put in thyn hand doun by my bak,"
Seyde this man, "and
grope wel bihynde.
Bynethe my buttok
there shaltow fynde
A thyng that I have
hyd in pryvetee."
480
"A!" thoghte this frere, "That shal go with me!"
And doun his hand
he launcheth to the clifte,
In hope for to fynde
there a yifte.
And whan this sike
man felte this frere
Aboute his tuwel grope
there and heere,
485 Amydde his hand he leet
the frere a fart,
Ther nys no capul,
drawynge in a cart,
That myghte have lete
a fart of swich a soun.
The frere up stirte
as dooth a wood leoun, -
"A! false cherl,"
quod he, "for Goddes bones!
490 This hastow for despit
doon for the nones.
Thou shalt abye this
fart, if that I may!"
His meynee, whiche that herden this affray,
Cam lepynge in and
chaced out the frere;
And forth he gooth,
with a ful angry cheere,
495 And fette his felawe,
ther as lay his stoor.
He looked as it were
a wilde boor;
He grynte with his
teeth, so was he wrooth.
A sturdy paas doun
to the court he gooth,
Wher as ther woned
a man of greet honour,
500 To whom that he was
alwey confessour.
This worthy man was
lord of that village.
This frere cam as
he were in a rage,
Where as this lord
sat etyng at his bord;
Unnethes myghte the
frere speke a word,
505 Til atte laste he seyde,
"God yow see!"
This lord gan looke, and seide, "Benedicitee!
What, frere John,
what maner world is this?
I se wel that som
thyng ther is amys;
Ye looken as the wode
were ful of thevys.
510 Sit doun anon, and tel
me what youre grief is,
And it shal been amended,
if I may."
"I have," quod he, "had a despit this day,
God yelde yow, adoun
in youre village,
That in this world
is noon so povre a page
515 That he nolde have abhomynacioun
Of that I have receyved
in youre toun.
And yet ne greveth
me nothyng so soore,
As that this olde
cherl with lokkes hoore
Blasphemed hath oure
hooly covent eke."
520
"Now, maister," quod this lord, "I yow biseke, - "
"No maister, sire," quod he, "but servitour,
Thogh I have had in
scole that honour.
God liketh nat that
'Raby' men us calle,
Neither in market
ne in youre large halle."
525
"No fors," quod he, "but tel me al youre grief."
"Sire," quod this frere, "and odious meschief
This day bityd is
to myn ordre and me,
And so, per consequens,
to ech degree
Of hooly chirche -
God amende it soone!
530
"Sire," quod the lord, "ye woot what is to doone.
Distempre yow noght,
ye be my confessour;
Ye been the salt of
the erthe and the savour.
For Goddes love, youre
pacience ye holde!
Tel me youre grief."
And he anon hym tolde,
535 As ye han herd biforn
- ye woot wel what.
The lady of the hous ay stille sat
Til she had herd what
the frere sayde.
"Ey, Goddes mooder,"
quod she, "Blisful mayde!
Is ther oght elles?
telle me feithfully."
540
"Madame," quod he, "how thynke ye herby?"
"How that me thynketh?"
quod she, "So God me speede,
I seye, a cherl hath
doon a cherles dede.
What shold I seye?
God lat hym nevere thee!
His sike heed is ful
of vanytee;
545 I holde hym in a manere
frenesye."
"Madame," quod he, "by God, I shal nat lye
But in on oother wyse
may be wreke,
I shal disclaundre
hym over al ther I speke,
This false blasphemour,
that charged me
550 To parte that wol nat
departed be,
To every man yliche,
with meschaunce!"
The lord sat stille as he were in a traunce,
And in his herte he
rolled up and doun,
"How hadde this cherl
ymaginacioun
555 To shewe swich a probleme
to the frere?
Nevere erst er now
herde I of swich mateere.
I trowe the devel
putte it in his mynde.
In ars-metrike shal
ther no man fynde,
Biforn this day, of
swich a question.
560 Who sholde make a demonstracion
That every man sholde
have yliche his part
As of the soun or
savour of a fart?
O nyce, proude cherl,
I shrewe his face!
Lo, sires," quod the
lord, "with harde grace!
565 Who evere herde of swich
a thyng er now?
To every man ylike,
tel me how?
It is an inpossible,
it may nat be.
Ey, nyce cherl, God
lete him nevere thee!
The rumblynge of a
fart, and every soun,
570 Nis but of eir reverberacioun,
And evere it wasteth
litel and litel awey.
Ther is no man kan
deemen, by my fey,
If that it were departed
equally.
What, lo, my cherl,
lo, yet how shrewedly
575 Unto my confessour to-day
he spak!
I holde hym certeyn
a demonyak!
Now ete youre mete,
and lat the cherl go pleye;
Lat hym go honge hymself
a devel weye!"
The wordes of the lordes
squier and his kervere
for departynge of the
fart on twelve
Now stood the lordes squier at the bord,
580 That karf his mete,
and herde word by word
Of alle thynges whiche
I have yow sayd.
"My lord," quod he,
"be ye nat yvele apayd,
I koude telle, for
a gowne-clooth,
To yow, sire frere,
so ye be nat wrooth,
585 How that this fart sholde
evene deled be
Among youre covent,
if it lyked me."
"Tel," quod the lord, "and thou shalt have anon
A gowne-clooth, by
God and by Seint John!"
"My lord," quod he, "whan that the weder is fair,
590 Withouten wynd or perturbynge
of air,
Lat brynge a cartwheel
heere into this halle;
But looke that it
have his spokes alle, -
Twelve spokes hath
a cartwheel comunly.
And bryng me thanne
twelve freres. Woot ye why?
595 For thrittene is a covent,
as I gesse.
Youre confessour heere,
for his worthynesse,
Shal parfoune up the
nombre of his covent,
Thanne shal they knele
doun, by oon assent,
And to every spokes
ende, in this manere,
600 Ful sadly leye his nose
shal a frere.
Youre noble confessour
- there God hym save! -
Shal holde his nose
upright under the nave.
Thanne shal this cherl,
with bely stif and toght
As any tabour, hyder
been ybroght;
605 And sette hym on the
wheel right of this cart.
Upon the nave, and
make hym lete a fart.
And ye shul seen,
up peril of my lyf,
By preeve which that
is demonstratif,
That equally the soun
of it wol wende,
610 And eke the stynk, unto
the spokes ende.
Save that this worthy
man, youre confessour,
By cause he is a man
of greet honour,
Shal have the firste
fruyt, as resoun is.
The noble usage of
freres yet is this,
615 The worthy men of hem
shul first be served;
And certeinly he hath
it well disserved.
He hath to-day taught
us so muche good
With prechyng in the
pulpit the he stood,
That I may vouche
sauf, I sey for me,
620 He hadde the firste
smel of fartes thre;
And so wolde al his
covent hardily,
He bereth hym so faire
and hoolily."
The lord, the lady, and ech man, save the frere,
Seyde that Jankyn
spak, in this matere,
625 As wel as Euclide dide
or Ptholomee.
Touchynge the cherl,
they seyde, subtiltee
And heigh wit made
hym speken as he spak;
He nys no fool, ne
no demonyak.
And Jankyn hath ywonne
a newe gowne. -
630 My tale is doon; we
been almost at towne.
Heere endeth the Somonours
Tale. |
Here begins the Tale
of the Summoner
Masters, there is in Yorkshire,
as I guess,
A marshy region that's called
Holderness,
Wherein there went a limiter
about
To preach, and to beg too,
beyond a doubt.
And so befell that on a
day this friar
Had preached in church in
his own manner dire,
And specially, and above
everything,
Incited he the people, by
preaching,
To trentals, and to give,
for God's own sake,
The means wherewith men
might new churches make,
That there the services
of God might flower,
And not to them who waste
and wealth devour,
Nor where there's no necessity
to give,
As to the monks, who easily
may live-
Thanks be to God!- and need
no wealth to gain.
"Trentals," said he, "deliver
from their pain
The souls of friends who're
dead, the old and young,
Yea, even when they have
been hastily sung;
Not that I hold as frivolous
and gay,
A priest who only sings
one mass a day.
"Act quickly now," said
he, "their souls redeem,
For hard it is, with spikes
and hooks, I deem,
To be so torn, aye, or to
burn or bake;
Now speed you all to this,
for Christ's own sake!"
And when this friar had
said all that he meant,
With cui cum patre on his
way he went.
When folk in church had given at his behest,
He went his way, no longer
would he rest,
With scrip and ferruled
staff and skirts tucked high;
In every house he went to
peer and pry,
And beg for flour and cheese,
or else for corn.
His fellow had a staff was
tipped with horn,
A set of tablets all of
ivory,
And stylus that was polished
elegantly,
And wrote the names down
always as he stood,
Of those that gave him anything
of good,
As if for them he later
meant to pray.
"Give us of wheat or malt
or rye," he'd say,
"A bushel; or a God's cake;
or some cheese;
We may not choose, so give
us what you please;
Give us God's halfpenny
or a mass-penny,
Or give us of your brawn,
if you have any;
A small piece of your blanket,
my dear dame,
Our sister dear, lo, here
I write your name;
Bacon or beef, or such thing
as you find."
A sturdy menial went these
two behind-
The servant of their host-
and bore a sack,
And what men gave them,
laid it on his back.
And when they'd left the
house, why, then anon
He planed away the names
of folk, each one,
That he before had written
on his tables;
And thus he served them
mockeries and fables.
("Nay, there you lie, you
summoner!" cried the friar.
"Peace, for Christ's Mother's
sake, call no one liar!"
Our host said. "Tell your
tale, nor spare at all."
"So thrive I," said this
summoner, "that I shall.")
Along he went from house
to house, till he
Came to a house where he
was wont to be
Refreshed more than in hundred
places round.
And sick the goodman of
the place he found;
Bedridden on a couch he
prostrate lay.
"Deus hic," said he. "Thomas,
my friend, good day,"
Said he, this friar, courteously
and soft.
"Thomas," said he, "may
God repay you! Oft
Have I sat on this bench
and fared right well.
Here have I eaten many a
merry meal."
And from the bench he drove
away the cat,
And laid down there his
steel-tipped staff and hat
And his scrip, too, and
sat him softly down.
His fellow had gone walking
into town,
With the said menial, to
a hostelry
Wherein he thought that
very night to lie.
"O my dear master," whispered this sick man,
"How have you fared since
this month March began?
"I've seen you not this
fortnight, aye or more."
"God knows," said he, "that
I have toiled full sore;
And very specially for your
salvation
Have I said precious prayers,
and at each station,
And for our other friends,
whom may God bless!
I have today been to your
church, at Mass,
And preached a sermon after
my poor wit,
Not wholly from the text
of holy writ,
For that is hard and baffling
in the main;
And therefore all its meaning
I'll explain.
Glosing's a glorious thing,
and that's certain,
For letters kill, as scholars
say with pain.
Thus have I taught them
to be charitable,
And spend their money reasonably,
as well.
And there I saw your dame-
ah, where is she?"
"Yonder within the yard I think she'll be,"
Said this sick man, "and
she will come anon."
"Eh, master! Welcome be
you, by Saint John!"
Exclaimed the wife. "How
fare you, heartily?"
The friar arose, and that
full courteously,
And her embraced within
his two arms narrow,
And kissed her sweetly,
chirping like a sparrow
With his two lips. "Ah,
dame," said he, "right well
As one that is your servant,
let me tell,
Thanks be to God Who gave
you soul and life,
For saw I not this day so
fair a wife
In all the congregation,
God save me!"
"Yea, God correct all faults,
sir," answered she,
"But you are always welcome,
by my fay!"
"Many thanks, dame, this
have I found alway.
But of your innate goodness,
by your leave,
I'd beg of you, be cross
or grieve
If I with Thomas speak a
little now.
These curates are right
negligent and slow
In searching tenderly into
conscience.
To preach confession is
my diligence,
And I do study Peter's words
and Paul's.
I walk and fish for Christian
persons' souls
To yield to Jesus Christ
His increment;
To spread His gospel is
my whole intent."
"Now, by your leave, O my
dear sir," said she,
"Berate him well, for Holy
Trinity.
He is as crabbed as an old
pismire,
Though he has everything
he can desire.
Though him I cover at night,
and make him warm,
And lay my leg across him,
or my arm,
He grunts and groans like
our old boar in sty
And other sport- just none
from him have I.
I cannot please him, no,
in any case."
"O Thomas, je vous dis,
Thomas, Thomas!
This is the Fiend's work,
this must be amended,
Anger's a thing that makes
High God offended,
And thereof will I speak
a word or two."
"Now, master," said the
wife, "before I go,
What will you eat? I will
about it scoot."
"Now, dame," said he then,
"je vous dis, sans doute,
Had I of a fat capon but
the liver,
And of your soft white bread
naught but a sliver,
And after that a pig's head
well roasted
(Save that I would no beast
for me were dead),
Then had I with you plain
sufficiency.
I am a man of little gluttony.
My spirit has its nourishment
in the Bible.
My body is so inured and
so pliable
To watching, that my appetite's
destroyed.
I pray you, lady, be you
not annoyed
Though I so intimately my
secret show;
By God, I would reveal it
to but few."
"Now, sir," said she, "but
one word ere I go;
My child has died within
this fortnight- oh,
Soon after you left town
last, it did die."
"His death saw I by revelation,
aye,"
Replied this friar, "at
home in dormitory
Less than an hour, I dare
say, ere to glory,
After his death, I saw him
borne in bliss
In vision mine, may God
me guide in this!
So did our sexton and infirmarian,
Who have been true friars
fifty years, each man;
And may now, God be thanked
for mercy shown,
Observe their jubilee and
walk alone.
And I rose up and did my
brothers seek,
With many a tear down trickling
on my cheek,
And without noise or clashing
of the bells;
Te deum was our song and
nothing else,
Save that to Christ I said
an orison,
And thanked Him for the
vision he had shown
For, sir and dame, trust
me full well in all,
Our orisons are more effectual,
And more we see of Christ's
own secret things
Than folk of the laity,
though they were kings.
We live in poverty and abstinence
And laymen live in riches
and expense
Of meat and drink, and in
their gross delight.
This world's desires we
hold in great despite.
Dives and Lazarus lived
differently,
And different recompense
they had thereby.
Whoso would pray, he must
fast and be clean,
Fatten his soul and keep
his body lean.
We fare as says the apostle;
clothes and food
Suffice us, though they
be not over-good.
The cleanness and the fasting
of us friars
Result in Christ's accepting
all our prayers.
"Lo, Moses forty days and forty nights
Fasted before the mightiest
God of mights
Spoke with him on the Mountain
of Sinai.
With empty belly, fasting
long, say I,
Received he there the law
that had been writ
By God's hand; and Elias
(you know of it)
On Mount Horeb, ere he had
any speech
With the High God, Who is
our spirits' leech,
He fasted long and deep
his contemplation.
"Aaron, who ruled the temple of his nation,
And all the other great
priests, every one,
When they into the temple
would be gone
To pray there for the folk
and do their rites.
They would not drink of
that which man excites
And makes him drunk or stirs
in any way,
But there in abstinence
they'd watch and pray
Lest they should die- to
what I say take heed!-
Were they not sober when
they prayed, indeed.
Beware my words. No more!
for it suffices.
Our Lord Christ, as the
holy writ apprises,
Gave us example of fasting
and of prayers.
Therefore we mendicants,
we simple friars,
Are sworn to poverty and
continence,
To charity, meekness, and
abstinence,
To persecution for our righteousness,
To weeping, pity, and to
cleanliness.
And therefore may you see
that all our prayers-
I speak of us, we mendicants,
we friars-
Are to the High God far
more acceptable
Than yours, with all the
feasts you make at table.
From Paradise, if I am not
to lie,
Was man chased out because
of gluttony;
And chaste was man in Paradise,
that's plain.
"But hear now, Thomas, lest
I speak in vain.
I have no text for it, I
must admit,
But by analogy the words
will fit,
That specially our sweet
Lord Christ Jesus
Spoke of the begging friars
when He said thus:
'Blest are the poor in spirit.'
So said He,
And so through all the gospel
may you see
Whether the Word fit better
our profession
Or theirs, the monks', who
swim in rich possession,
Fie on their pomp and on
their gluttony!
And for their lewdness do
I them defy.
"It seems to me they're
like Jovinian,
Fat as a whale and waddling
as a swan;
As full of wine as bottle
in the spence.
Their prayers are always
of great reverence,
When they for souls that
psalm of David say:
'Cor meum eructavit- bouf!'-
that way!
Who follow Christ's Word
going on before
But we who are so humble,
chaste, and poor,
And doers of God's Word,
not hearers, merely?
As falcons rise to heaven,
just so clearly
Spring up into the air the
holy prayers
Of charitable and chaste
and toiling friars
Make their way upward into
God's ears two.
Thomas, O Thomas! As I ride
or go,
And by that lord whom all
we call Saint Yve,
Were you not brother to
us, you'd not thrive!
In our chapter we pray both
day and night
To Christ, that He will
send you health and might
To move about again, and
speedily."
"'God knows," said he, "nothing thereof feel I;
So help me Christ as I,
these last few years,
Have spent on divers friars,
it appears,
Full many a pound; and I'm
no better yet.
Truly my wealth have I almost
upset.
Farewell my gold! for it
has slipped away."
The friar replied: "Ah,
Thomas, so you say!
But why need you to different
friars reach?
Why should he need, who
has a perfect leech,
To call in other leeches
from the town?
Your trouble from your fickleness
has grown.
Think you that I, or at
least our convent,
Could not suffice to pray?
That's what I meant.
Thomas, your feeble joke's
not worth a tittle;
Your illness lasts because
you've given too little.
'"Ah, give that convent
bushels four of oats!'
'Ah, give that convent four
and twenty groats!'
'Ah, give that friar a penny
and let him go!'
"Nay, nay, Thomas, the thing
should not be so!
What is a farthing worth,
when split twelve ways?
A thing in its integrity
displays
Far greater strength than
does a unit scattered.
Thomas, by me you shall
not here be flattered;
You would you had our labour
all for naught.
But the High God, Who all
this world has wrought,
Says that the workman's
worthy of his hire.
Thomas! Naught of your treasure
I desire
As for myself, but that
all our convent
To pray for you is always
diligent,
And also to build up Christ's
holy kirk.
Thomas! If you will learn
the way to work,
Of building up of churches
you may find
(If it be good) in Thomas'
life, of Inde.
You lie here, full of anger
and of ire,
Wherewith the Devil set
your heart afire,
And you chide here this
hapless innocent,
Your wife, who is so meek
and so patient.
And therefore, Thomas, trust
me if you please,
Scold not your wife, who
tries to give you ease;
And bear this word away
now, by your faith,
Touching this thing, lo
what the wise man saith:
'Within thy house do not
the lion play,
Oppress thy subjects in
no kind of way,
Nor cause thine equals and
thy friends to flee.'
And Thomas, yet again I
charge you, be
Wary of her that in your
bosom sleeps;
Beware the serpent that
so slyly creeps
Under the grass and stings
so treacherously.
Beware, my son, and hear
this patiently,
That twenty thousand men
have lost their lives
For quarrelling with their
sweet ones, and their wives.
Now, since you have so holy
and meek a wife,
Why need you, Thomas, so
to stir up strife?
There is, indeed, no serpent
so cruel,
When man treads on his tail,
nor half so fell,
As woman is when she is
filled with ire;
Vengeance is then the whole
of her desire.
Anger's a sin, one of the
deadly seven,
Abominable unto the God
of Heaven;
And it is sure destruction
unto one.
This every vulgar vicar
or parson
Can say, how anger leads
to homicide.
Truth, anger's the executant
of pride.
I could of anger tell you
so much sorrow
My tale should last until
it were tomorrow.
And therefore I pray God
both day and
night,
An ireful man, God send
him little might!
It is great harm and truly
great pity
To set an ireful man in
high degree.
"For once there was an ireful potentate,
(As Seneca says) and while
he ruled the state,
Upon a day out riding went
knights two,
And as Dame Fortune willed
it, it was so
That one of them came home,
and one did not.
Anon that knight before
the judge was brought,
Who said thus: 'Sir, you
have your fellow slain,
For which I doom you to
the death, amain.'
And to another knight commanded
he,
'Go lead him to his death,
so I charge ye.'
It happened, as they went
along their way,
Toward the place where he
must die that day,
They met the knight that
men had thought was dead
Then thought they, it were
best not go ahead,
And so led both unto the
judge again.
They said: 'O lord, this
knight, he has not slain
His fellow; for he stands
here sound, alive.'
'You shall die then,' he
cried, 'so may I thrive!
That is to say, you shall
all die, all three!'
And then to the first knight
'twas thus said he:
'I doomed you, and therefore
you must be dead.
And you, also, must needs
now lose your head,
Since you're the causing
of your fellow's end.'
And then on the third knight
did he descend:
'You have not done what
I ordained should be!'
And thus he did away with
all the three.
"Ireful Cambyses was a drunkard
too,
And much delighted dirty
deeds to do.
And so befell, a lord of
his household,
Who loved all moral virtue,
we are told,
Said on a day, when they
were talking, thus:
'A lord is lost if he be
too vicious;
And drunkenness is foul
thing to record
Of any man, and specially
of a lord.
There is full many an eye
and many an ear
Waiting upon a lord, nor
knows he where.
For God's dear love, sir,
drink more moderately;
Wine causes man to lose,
and wretchedly,
His mind, and his limbs'
usage, every one.'
"'The opposite you'll see,' said he, 'anon;
And you'll prove, by your
own experience,
That wine does not to men
such foul offence.
There is no wine can rob
me of my might
Of hand or foot, nor yet
of my eyesight!'
And for despite he drank
much wine the more,
A hundred times, than he
had drunk before;
And then anon this ireful
wicked wretch
Sent one this knight's young
son to go and fetch,
And ordered that before
him he should stand.
And suddenly he took his
bow in hand,
And drew the string thereof
up to his ear,
And with an arrow slew the
child right there.
'Now tell me whether I've
sure hand, or none!'
He said, 'And are my might
and mind all gone?
Has wine deprived me of
my good eyesight?'
"How shall I tell the answer
of the knight?
His son was slain, there
is no more to say.
Beware, therefore, with
lords look how you play.
But sing placebo, and 'I
shall, if I can,'
Unless it be unto a helpless
man.
To a poor man men should
his vices tell,
But to a lord, no, though
he go to Hell.
"Lo, ireful Cyrus, that
great Persian king,
Destroyed the river Gyndes
at its spring,
Because a horse of his was
drowned therein
When he went forth old Babylon
to win.
He caused the river to become
so small
That women could go wading
through it all.
"Lo, what said he whose
teaching all commend?
'An angry man take never
for a friend,
Nor with a madman walk along
the way,
Lest you repent.' There
is no more to say.
"Now, Thomas, my dear brother,
leave your ire;
You shall find me as just
as is a squire.
Hold not the Devil's knife
against your heart;
Your anger does too sorely
burn and smart;
But show me all, now, in
confession, son."
"Nay," said the sick man,
"by Saint Simeon!
I have been shriven today
by my curate;
I have him told the whole
truth of my state;
There's no more need to
speak of it," said he,
"Save as I please, of my
humility."
"Then give me of your gold
to build our cloister,"
Said he, "for many a mussel
and an oyster,
When other men have been
well at their ease,
Have been our food, that
building should not cease,
And yet, God knows, is finished
nothing more
Than the foundation, while
of all the floor
There's not a tile yet laid
to call our own;
By God, we owe full forty
pounds for stone!
Now help, Thomas, for Him
that harried Hell!
Else must we turn about
and our books sell.
And if you laymen lack our
high instruction,
Then will the world go all
to its destruction.
For whoso shall deny us
right to live,
So may God save me, Thomas,
by your leave,
He'll have deprived the
whole world of the sun.
For who can teach and work
as we have done?
And that's not been for
little time," said he;
"Elias and Elisha used to
be
Friars, you'll find the
scriptures do record,
And beggars too, thanks
be to the good Lord!
Now, Thomas, help for holy
charity!"
And down he went then, kneeling
on one knee.
This sick man, he went well-nigh
mad for ire;
He would have had that friar
set afire
For the hypocrisy that he
had shown.
"Such things as I possess
and are my own,"
Said he, "those may I give
you and no other.
You tell me that I am as
your own brother?"
"Yea, truly," said the friar,
"trust me well;
I gave your wife a letter
with our seal."
"That's well," said he,
"and something will I give
Unto your holy convent while
I live,
And right anon you'll have
it in your hand,
On this condition only,
understand,
That you divide it so, my
own dear brother,
That every friar shall have
as much as other.
This shall you swear upon
the faith you own,
And without fraud or cavil,
be it known."
"I swear it," said this
friar, "on my faith!"
And on the sick man's laid
his hand therewith.
"Lo, hear my oath! In me
shall truth not lack."
"Now
then, come put your hand right down my back,"
Replied this man, "and grope
you well behind;
For underneath my buttocks
shall you find
A thing that I have hid
in privity."
"Ah," thought the friar,
"this shall go with me!"
And down he thrust his hand
right to the cleft,
In hope that he should find
there some good gift.
And when the sick man felt
the friar here
Groping about his hole and
all his rear,
Into his hand he let the
friar a fart.
There is no stallion drawing
loaded cart
That might have let a fart
of such a sound.
The friar leaped up as with
wild lion's bound:
"Ah, treacherous churl,"
he cried, "by God's own bones,
I'll see that he who scorns
me thus atones;
You'll suffer for this fart-
I'll find a way!"
The servants, who had heard all this affray,
Came leaping in and chased
the friar out;
And forth he scowling went,
with angry shout,
And found his fellow, where
he'd left his store.
He glared about as he were
some wild boar;
He ground and gnashed his
teeth, so wroth was he.
He quickly sought the manor,
there to see
The lord thereof, whose
honour was the best,
And always to the friar
he confessed;
This worthy man was lord
of that village.
The friar came, as he were
in a rage,
Where sat the lord at dinner
at his board.
And hardly could the friar
speak a word,
Till at the last he said,
"God be with ye!"
This lord looked up and
said then, "Ben'cite!
What, Friar John! What kind
of world is this?
I see right well that something
is amiss.
You look as if the wood
were full of thieves,
Sit down, and tell me what
it is that grieves,
And it shall be amended,
if I may."
"I have," said he, "insulted
been today-
May God reward you!- down
in your village.
And in this world is not
so poor a page
As would not feel the insult,
if 'twere thrown
At him, that I have suffered
in your town.
Yet nothing grieves me in
this matter more
Than that this peasant,
with his long locks hoar,
Has thus blasphemed our
holy convent too."
"Now, master," said his
lordship, "I pray you-"
"No master, sir," said he,
"but servitor,
Though true, I had in school
such honour, sir.
But rabbi- God's not pleased
that men so call
Us, in the public square
or your wide hall."
"No matter," said he, "tell
me all your grief."
"Sir," said this friar, "an odious mischief
Was this day done to my
order and me,
And so, per consequens,
to each degree
Of Holy Church, may God
it soon amend!"
"Sir," said the lord, "the
story I attend.
As my confessor, pray your
wrath control;
Salt of the earth are you-
the savour whole.
For love of God, I beg you
patience hold;
Tell me your grievance."
And anon he told
As you have heard before,
you know well what.
The lady of the house right silent sat
Till she had heard all that
the friar said:
"Eh, by God's Mother," cried
she, "Blessed Maid!
Is there aught else? A point
that we did miss?"
"Madam," asked he, "what
do you think of this?"
"What do I think?" she asked,
"So God me speed,
I say, a churl has done
a churlish deed.
What should I say? May God
desert him! See-
Why his sick head is full
of vanity.
The man, no doubt, is more
or less insane."
"Madam," said he, "I will
not lie or feign:
If otherwise I cannot vengeance
wreak,
I will defame him wheresoe'er
I speak,
This false blasphemer who
has dared charge me
Thus to divide what won't
divided be,
To every man alike, and
with mischance!"
The lord sat still as he were in a trance,
And in his mind he rolled
it up and down:
"How had this churl imagination
grown
To pose so fine a problem
to the friar?
I never heard the like,
or I'm a liar;
I think the devil stuck
it in his mind.
And in arithmetic did no
man find,
Before this day, such puzzling
question shown.
Who could be able, now,
to make it known
How every man should have
an equal part
Of both the sound and savour
of a fart?
O scrupulous proud churl,
beshrew his face!
Lo, sirs," this lord said
then, with hard grimace,
"Who ever heard of such
a thing ere now?
To every man alike? But
tell me how!
Why it's impossible, it
cannot be!
Exacting churl, God give
him never glee!
The rumbling of a fart,
and every sound,
Is but the air's reverberation
round,
And ever it wastes, by little
and little, away.
There is no man can judge,
aye, by my fay,
Whether it were divided
equally.
Behold, my church And yet
how cursedly
To my confessor has he made
this crack!
I hold him surely a demoniac!
Now eat your meat and let
the churl go play,
Let him go hang himself,
the devil's way!"
Now the lord's squire stood
ready near the board
To carve his meat, and he
heard, word for word,
All of the things that I
to you have said.
"My lord," said he, "be
not ill pleased indeed;
For I could tell, for cloth
to make a gown,
To you, sir friar, so you
do not frown,
How this said fart evenly
doled could be
Among your fellows, if the
thing pleased me."
"Tell,"
said the lord, "and you shall have anon
Cloth for a gown, by God
and by Saint John!"
"My lord," said he, "when
next the weather's fair,
And there's no wind to stir
the quiet air,
Let someone bring a cartwheel
to this hall,
But see there are no missing
spokes at all.
Twelve spokes a cartwheel
has, sir, commonly.
And bring me then twelve
friars, and know you why?
Because a convent's thirteen,
as I guess.
The present confessor, for
his worthiness,
He shall complete the tale
of this convent.
Then shall they all kneel
down, by one assent,
And at each spoke's end,
in this manner, sire,
Let the nose be laid firmly
of a friar.
Your noble sir confessor,
whom God save,
Shall hold his nose upright
beneath the nave.
Then shall this churl, with
belly stiff and taut
As any tabour- let him here
be brought;
And set him on the wheel
of this same cart,
Upon the hub, and make him
let a fart.
And you shall see, on peril
of my life,
With proof so clear that
there shall be no strife,
That equally the sound of
it will wend,
And the stink too, to each
spoke's utter end;
Save that this worthy man,
your confessor,
Because he is a man of great
honour,
Shall have first fruits,
as reasonable it is;
The noble custom of all
friars is this,
The worthy men of them shall
be first served;
And certainly this has he
well deserved.
He has today taught us so
much of good,
With preaching in the pulpit
where he stood,
That for my part I gladly
should agree,
He might well have the first
smell of farts three,
And so would all his convent,
generously,
He bears himself so well
and holily."
The lord, the lady, and
each man, save the friar,
Agreed that Jenkin spoke,
as classifier,
As well as Euclid or as
Ptolemy.
Touching the churl, they
said that subtlety
And great wit taught him
how to make his crack.
He was no fool, nor a demoniac.
And Jenkin by this means
has won a gown.
My tale is done, we're almost
into town.
Here ends the Summoner's
Tale |
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