Mirry Margaret,As mydsomer flowre;Jentill as fawcounOr hawke of the towre:With solace and gladnes,Moche mirthe and no madness,All good and no badness,So joyously,So maydenly,So womanly,Her demenyngIn every thynge,Far, far passyngeThat I can endyght,Or suffyce to wryghte,Of mirry Margaret,As mydsomer flowre,Jentyll as fawcounOr hawke of the towre:As pacient and as styll,And as full of good wyllAs faire Isaphill;Colyaunder,Swete pomaunder,Goode Cassaunder;Stedfast of thought,Wele made, wele wrought;Far may be sought,Erst that ye can fyndeSo corteise, so kynde,As mirry Margaret,This mydsomer floure,Jentyll as fawcounOr hawke of the towre.
Mirry Margaret,As mydsomer flowre;Jentill as fawcounOr hawke of the towre:With solace and gladnes,Moche mirthe and no madness,All good and no badness,So joyously,So maydenly,So womanly,Her demenyngIn every thynge,Far, far passyngeThat I can endyght,Or suffyce to wryghte,Of mirry Margaret,As mydsomer flowre,Jentyll as fawcounOr hawke of the towre:As pacient and as styll,And as full of good wyllAs faire Isaphill;Colyaunder,Swete pomaunder,Goode Cassaunder;Stedfast of thought,Wele made, wele wrought;Far may be sought,Erst that ye can fyndeSo corteise, so kynde,As mirry Margaret,This mydsomer floure,Jentyll as fawcounOr hawke of the towre.
He is set so hyeIn his ierarchyeOf frantike frenesy,And folish fantasy,That in chambre of stars1Al maters ther he mars,Clapping his rod on the borde,No man dare speake a worde:For he hath al the sayingWithout any renaying.He rolleth in his Recordes;He saith, "How say ye, my lordes?Is not my reason good?"Good!—even good—Robin Hood!—Borne up on every sydeWith pompe and with pryde,With trump up alleluya,2For dame Philargyria3Hath so his hart in hold.Adew, Philosophia!Adew, Theologia!Welcome, dame Simonia,4With dame Castamergia,5To drink and for to eate,Sweete ipocras6and sweete meate.To keep his fleshe chasteIn Lente, for his repasteHe eateth capons stewed,Fesaunt and partriche mewed—Spareth neither mayd ne wife—This is a postel's7life!
He is set so hyeIn his ierarchyeOf frantike frenesy,And folish fantasy,That in chambre of stars1Al maters ther he mars,Clapping his rod on the borde,No man dare speake a worde:For he hath al the sayingWithout any renaying.He rolleth in his Recordes;He saith, "How say ye, my lordes?Is not my reason good?"Good!—even good—Robin Hood!—Borne up on every sydeWith pompe and with pryde,With trump up alleluya,2For dame Philargyria3Hath so his hart in hold.Adew, Philosophia!Adew, Theologia!Welcome, dame Simonia,4With dame Castamergia,5To drink and for to eate,Sweete ipocras6and sweete meate.To keep his fleshe chasteIn Lente, for his repasteHe eateth capons stewed,Fesaunt and partriche mewed—Spareth neither mayd ne wife—This is a postel's7life!
1.chambre of stars.The Star Chamber, a court of civil and criminal jurisdiction for the punishment of offences for which the law made no provision. It was so called because the ceiling of the room in which it was held was decorated with gilt stars.
2.alleluya.In allusion to the pomp with which Wolsey celebrated divine service.
3.Philargyria.Love of money; covetousness.
4.Simonia.Simony; buying and selling church livings.
5.Castamergia.Gluttony. Greekkastrimargia. A not uncommon word among the monks of the Middle Ages, one of whose prayers was, "From the spirit of castrimargia, O Lord, deliver us!"
6.ipocras.Hippocras, or spiced wine, a drink formerly very popular in England. It was made by mixing Canary and Lisbon wines, in equal parts, with various kinds of sweet spices, and allowing the whole to stand for a few days, after which the wine was poured off and sweetened with sugar.
7.postel.Apostle—here ironically applied to Wolsey.
John Skeltonwas born about the year 1460. In his earlier life he was the friend of Caxton, the first English printer, and of Percy, Earl of Northumberland. He was poet-laureate under Henry VII., and tutor of the young prince (afterwards Henry VIII.), and was described by Erasmus aslitterarum Anglicarum lumen et decus. Later in life he was promoted to the rectory of Diss in Norfolk, but was severely censured by his bishop for his buffooneries in the pulpit and his satirical ballads against the mendicants. He finally became a hanger-on about the court of Henry VIII.; and, daring to write a rhyming libel on Cardinal Wolsey, was driven to take refuge in the sanctuary of Westminster Abbey. There he was kindly entertained and protected by Abbot Islip until his death in 1529. Some of his poems were printed in 1512, and others in 1568.
Taine calls Skelton "a virulent pamphleteer, who jumbles together French, English, Latin phrases, with slang and fashionable words, invented words, intermingled with short rhymes. Style, metre, rhyme, language, art of every kind, at an end; beneath the vain parade of official style there is only a heap of rubbish. Yet, as he says,
'Though my rhyme be ragged,Tatter'd and jagged,Rudely rain-beaten,Rusty, moth-eaten,Yf ye take welle therewithe,It hath in it some pithe.'"
'Though my rhyme be ragged,Tatter'd and jagged,Rudely rain-beaten,Rusty, moth-eaten,Yf ye take welle therewithe,It hath in it some pithe.'"
As to the coarseness which characterizes his verses, it cannot be explained by saying that it is a reflection of the manners of the times in which he lived. For, as Warton says, Skelton "would have been a writer without decorum at any period." Yet, notwithstanding his faults, he is deserving of our notice, if for nothing else, on account of the complete originality of his style—a style unknown and unattempted by any former writer. His bold departure from the accepted rules of versification showed to those who followed him some of the possibilities in English poetical composition, and helped to open the way to the great outburst of song which followed.
Then unto London I dyd me hye,Of all the land it beareth the pryse:"Hot pescodes," one began to crye,"Strabery rype, and cherryes in the ryse";One bade me come nere and by some spyce,Peper and safforne they gan me bede,But for lack of mony I myght not spede.Then to the Chepe I began me drawne,Where mutch people I saw for to stand;One ofred me velvet, sylke, and lawne,An other he taketh me by the hande,"Here is Parys thred, the fynest in the land";I never was used to such thyngs indede,And wanting mony, I might not spede.Then went I forth by London stone,Th[o]roughout all Canwyke streete;Drapers mutch cloth me offred anone;Then comes me one, cryed, "Hot shepes feete";One cryde "makerell," "ryshes grene," an other gan greete;One bad me by a hood to cover my head,But for want of mony I myght not be sped.Then I hyed me into Est-Chepe;One cryes rybbs of befe, and many a pye:Pewter pottes they clattered on a heape;There was harpe, pype, and mynstralsye."Yea, by cock! nay, by cock!" some began crye;Some songe of Jenken and Julyan for there mede;But for lack of mony I myght not spede.Then into Corn-Hyll anon I yode,Where was mutch stolen gere amonge;I saw where honge myne owne hoode,That I had lost amonge the thronge;To by my own hood I thought it wronge,I knew it well as I dyd my crede,But for lack of mony I could not spede.The taverner tooke me by the sleve,"Sir," sayth he, "wyll you our wyne assay"?I answered, "That can not mutch me greve:A peny can do no more than it may";I drank a pynt, and for it did paye;Yet sone a-hungerd from thence I yede,And wantyng mony, I cold not spede.Then hyed I me to Belyngsgate;And one cryed, "Hoo! go we hence!"I prayd a barge-man, for God's sake,That he wold spare me my expence."Thou scapst not here," quod he, "under two pence;I lyst not yet bestow my almes dede."Thus, lackyng mony, I could not spede.Then I convayd me into Kent;For of the law wold I meddle no more;Because no man to me tooke entent,I dyght me to do as I dyd before.Now Jesus, that in Bethlem was bore,Save London, and send trew lawyers there mede!For who so wantes mony with them shall not spede.
Then unto London I dyd me hye,Of all the land it beareth the pryse:"Hot pescodes," one began to crye,"Strabery rype, and cherryes in the ryse";One bade me come nere and by some spyce,Peper and safforne they gan me bede,But for lack of mony I myght not spede.
Then to the Chepe I began me drawne,Where mutch people I saw for to stand;One ofred me velvet, sylke, and lawne,An other he taketh me by the hande,"Here is Parys thred, the fynest in the land";I never was used to such thyngs indede,And wanting mony, I might not spede.
Then went I forth by London stone,Th[o]roughout all Canwyke streete;Drapers mutch cloth me offred anone;Then comes me one, cryed, "Hot shepes feete";One cryde "makerell," "ryshes grene," an other gan greete;One bad me by a hood to cover my head,But for want of mony I myght not be sped.
Then I hyed me into Est-Chepe;One cryes rybbs of befe, and many a pye:Pewter pottes they clattered on a heape;There was harpe, pype, and mynstralsye."Yea, by cock! nay, by cock!" some began crye;Some songe of Jenken and Julyan for there mede;But for lack of mony I myght not spede.
Then into Corn-Hyll anon I yode,Where was mutch stolen gere amonge;I saw where honge myne owne hoode,That I had lost amonge the thronge;To by my own hood I thought it wronge,I knew it well as I dyd my crede,But for lack of mony I could not spede.
The taverner tooke me by the sleve,"Sir," sayth he, "wyll you our wyne assay"?I answered, "That can not mutch me greve:A peny can do no more than it may";I drank a pynt, and for it did paye;Yet sone a-hungerd from thence I yede,And wantyng mony, I cold not spede.
Then hyed I me to Belyngsgate;And one cryed, "Hoo! go we hence!"I prayd a barge-man, for God's sake,That he wold spare me my expence."Thou scapst not here," quod he, "under two pence;I lyst not yet bestow my almes dede."Thus, lackyng mony, I could not spede.
Then I convayd me into Kent;For of the law wold I meddle no more;Because no man to me tooke entent,I dyght me to do as I dyd before.Now Jesus, that in Bethlem was bore,Save London, and send trew lawyers there mede!For who so wantes mony with them shall not spede.
—From "London Lickpenny."
GLOSSARY.anone, at once.hyed, hurried.assay, try.lyst, wish.bede, offer.mede, reward, wages.Chepe, the market. Cheapside, still apescodes, pease.famous street in London.ryse, bough or twig.dyght, disposed.ryshes, rushes.gere, apparel.spede, proceed, do.greete, cry out.yede, went.
Rightwisenes chastised al robbours,By egall balaunce of execucion,Fraud, falsë mede, put backward fro jurours,True promes holde, made no delacioun;Forswearing shamed durst enter in no toun,Nor lesingmongers, because AttemperaunceHad in that world wholy the governaunce.That golden world could lovë God and drede,All the seven dedes of mercy for to use,The rich was ready to do almës dede,Who asked harbour, men did him not refuse;No man of malice would other tho accuse,Defame his neighbour, because AttemperaunceHad in that world wholy the governaunce.The true marchant by measure bought and sold,Deceipt was none in the artificer,Making no balkes, the plough was truely hold,Abacke stode Idlenes, farre from labourer,Discrecion marcial at diner and supper,Content with measure, because AttemperaunceHad in that world wholy the governaunce.Of wast in clothing was that time none excesse;Men might the lord from his subjectës know;A difference made twene povertie and richesse,Twene a princesse and other statës lowe;Of horned boastës no boast was tho blowe,Nor counterfeit feining, because AttemperaunceHad in that world wholy the governaunce.This golden world long whylë dyd endure,Was none allay in that metall sene,Tyll Saturne ceased, by record of scripture,Jupiter reygned, put out his father clene,Chaunged obrison into silver shene,Al up so downe, because AttemperaunceWas set asyde, and loste her governaunce.
Rightwisenes chastised al robbours,By egall balaunce of execucion,Fraud, falsë mede, put backward fro jurours,True promes holde, made no delacioun;Forswearing shamed durst enter in no toun,Nor lesingmongers, because AttemperaunceHad in that world wholy the governaunce.
That golden world could lovë God and drede,All the seven dedes of mercy for to use,The rich was ready to do almës dede,Who asked harbour, men did him not refuse;No man of malice would other tho accuse,Defame his neighbour, because AttemperaunceHad in that world wholy the governaunce.
The true marchant by measure bought and sold,Deceipt was none in the artificer,Making no balkes, the plough was truely hold,Abacke stode Idlenes, farre from labourer,Discrecion marcial at diner and supper,Content with measure, because AttemperaunceHad in that world wholy the governaunce.
Of wast in clothing was that time none excesse;Men might the lord from his subjectës know;A difference made twene povertie and richesse,Twene a princesse and other statës lowe;Of horned boastës no boast was tho blowe,Nor counterfeit feining, because AttemperaunceHad in that world wholy the governaunce.
This golden world long whylë dyd endure,Was none allay in that metall sene,Tyll Saturne ceased, by record of scripture,Jupiter reygned, put out his father clene,Chaunged obrison into silver shene,Al up so downe, because AttemperaunceWas set asyde, and loste her governaunce.
"The Falls of Princes," from which this is an extract, was printed in folio in 1558. Its complete title is, "The Tragedies gathered by Jhon Bochas of all such Princes as fell from theyr Estates throughe the Mutability of Fortune since the creation of Adam until his time; wherin may be seen what vices bring menne to destruccion, wyth notable warninges howe the like may be avoyded. Translated into English by John Lidgate, Monke of Burye."
Wald my gud lady lufe me best,And wirk eftir my will,I suld ane Garmond gudliestGar mak hir body till.Off hie honour suld be hir hud,Upoun hir heid to weir,Garneist with governance so gud,Na demyng suld hir deir.Hir sark suld be hir body nixt,Of chestetie so quhyt,With schame and dreid togidder mixt,The same suld be perfyt.Hir kirtill suld be of clene constance,Lasit with lesum lufe,The mailyheis of continuanceFor nevir to remufe.Hir gown suld be of gudlinessWeill ribband with renowne,Purfillit with plesour in ilk place,Furrit with fyne fassoun.Hir belt suld be of benignitie,About hir middill meit;Hir mantill of humilitie,To tholl bayth wind and weit.Hir hat suld be of fair havingAnd her tepat of trewth,Hir patelet of gude pansing,Hir hals-ribbane of rewth.Hir slevis suld be of esperance,To keip hir fra dispair;Hir gluvis of the gud govirnance,To hyd hir fyngearis fair.Hir schone suld be of sickernes,In syne that scho nocht slyd;Hir hoiss of honestie, I ges,I suld for hir provyd.Wald scho put on this Garmond gay,I durst sweir by my seill,That scho woir nevir grene nor grayThat set hir half so weill.
Wald my gud lady lufe me best,And wirk eftir my will,I suld ane Garmond gudliestGar mak hir body till.
Off hie honour suld be hir hud,Upoun hir heid to weir,Garneist with governance so gud,Na demyng suld hir deir.
Hir sark suld be hir body nixt,Of chestetie so quhyt,With schame and dreid togidder mixt,The same suld be perfyt.
Hir kirtill suld be of clene constance,Lasit with lesum lufe,The mailyheis of continuanceFor nevir to remufe.
Hir gown suld be of gudlinessWeill ribband with renowne,Purfillit with plesour in ilk place,Furrit with fyne fassoun.
Hir belt suld be of benignitie,About hir middill meit;Hir mantill of humilitie,To tholl bayth wind and weit.
Hir hat suld be of fair havingAnd her tepat of trewth,Hir patelet of gude pansing,Hir hals-ribbane of rewth.
Hir slevis suld be of esperance,To keip hir fra dispair;Hir gluvis of the gud govirnance,To hyd hir fyngearis fair.
Hir schone suld be of sickernes,In syne that scho nocht slyd;Hir hoiss of honestie, I ges,I suld for hir provyd.
Wald scho put on this Garmond gay,I durst sweir by my seill,That scho woir nevir grene nor grayThat set hir half so weill.
GLOSSARY.esperance, hope.patelet, ruffet.fassoun, manners.quhyt, white.garmond, garment, costume.rewth, pity.governance, discretion.sark, shirt, chemise.hals-ribbane, neck-ribbon.scho, she.hoiss, hose.schone, shoes.hud, hood.seill, knowledge.kirtill, skirt.set, suited.lasit, fastened.sickernes, security.lesum, lawful.suld, should.lufe, love.tepat, tippet.mailyheis, eyelet-holes.tholl, withstand.pansing, thought.weit, rain.
Quhen Merche wes with variand windis pastAnd Appryle had, with her silver schouris,Tane leif at Nature with ane orient blast,And lusty May, that muddir is of flouris,Had maid the birdis to begyn thair hourisAmang the tendir odouris reid and quhyt,Quhois armony to heir it wes delyt:In bed at morrow, sleiping as I lay,Me thocht Aurora, with hir cristall eneIn at the window lukit by the day,And halsit me, with visage paill and grene;On quhois hand a lark sang fro the splene,Awalk, luvaris, out of your slomeringSé hou the lusty morrow dois up spring.Me thocht fresche May befoir my bed up stude,In weid depaynt of mony diverss hew,Sobir, benyng, and full of mansuetudeIn brycht atteir of flouris forgit newHevinly of colour, quhyt, reid, broun and blew,Balmit in dew, and gilt with Phebus bemys;Quhyll all the house illumynit of her lemys.Slugird, scho said, awalk annone for schame,And in my honour sum thing thou go wryt;The lark hes done the mirry day proclame,To raise up luvaris with comfort and delyt;Yit nocht incressis thy curage to indyt,Quhois hairt sum tyme hes glaid and blisfull bene,Sangis to mak undir the levis grene.Then callit scho all flouris that grew on feildDiscirnyng all thair fassionis and effeirisUpone the awfull Thrissil scho beheldAnd saw him kepit with a busche of speiris;Considering him so able for the weirisA radius croun of rubeis scho him gaif,And said, In feild go furth and fend the laif:And sen thou art a King, thou be discreit;Herb without vertew thow hald nocht of sic pryceAs herb of vertew and of odour sueit;And lat no nettill vyle, and full of vyce,Hir fallow to the gudly flour-de-lyce;Nor latt no wyld weid, full of churlicheness,Compair hir to the lilleis nobilness.Nor hald non udir flour in sic dentyAs the fresche Rois, of cullour reid and quhyt:For gife thow dois, hurt is thyne honesty;Considring that no flour is so perfyt,So full of vertew, pleasans, and delyt,So full of blisful angeilik bewty,Imperiall birth, honour and dignité.
Quhen Merche wes with variand windis pastAnd Appryle had, with her silver schouris,Tane leif at Nature with ane orient blast,And lusty May, that muddir is of flouris,Had maid the birdis to begyn thair hourisAmang the tendir odouris reid and quhyt,Quhois armony to heir it wes delyt:
In bed at morrow, sleiping as I lay,Me thocht Aurora, with hir cristall eneIn at the window lukit by the day,And halsit me, with visage paill and grene;On quhois hand a lark sang fro the splene,Awalk, luvaris, out of your slomeringSé hou the lusty morrow dois up spring.
Me thocht fresche May befoir my bed up stude,In weid depaynt of mony diverss hew,Sobir, benyng, and full of mansuetudeIn brycht atteir of flouris forgit newHevinly of colour, quhyt, reid, broun and blew,Balmit in dew, and gilt with Phebus bemys;Quhyll all the house illumynit of her lemys.
Slugird, scho said, awalk annone for schame,And in my honour sum thing thou go wryt;The lark hes done the mirry day proclame,To raise up luvaris with comfort and delyt;Yit nocht incressis thy curage to indyt,Quhois hairt sum tyme hes glaid and blisfull bene,Sangis to mak undir the levis grene.
Then callit scho all flouris that grew on feildDiscirnyng all thair fassionis and effeirisUpone the awfull Thrissil scho beheldAnd saw him kepit with a busche of speiris;Considering him so able for the weirisA radius croun of rubeis scho him gaif,And said, In feild go furth and fend the laif:
And sen thou art a King, thou be discreit;Herb without vertew thow hald nocht of sic pryceAs herb of vertew and of odour sueit;And lat no nettill vyle, and full of vyce,Hir fallow to the gudly flour-de-lyce;Nor latt no wyld weid, full of churlicheness,Compair hir to the lilleis nobilness.
Nor hald non udir flour in sic dentyAs the fresche Rois, of cullour reid and quhyt:For gife thow dois, hurt is thyne honesty;Considring that no flour is so perfyt,So full of vertew, pleasans, and delyt,So full of blisful angeilik bewty,Imperiall birth, honour and dignité.
This is a selection from the long allegorical poem, "The Thistle and the Rose." The thistle represents Scotland, of which country that plant is the national emblem. The fleur-de-lis, or lily, represents France; and the rose, England. The poem was written in celebration of the marriage of James IV. of Scotland to the Princess Margaret of England, and the friendly relations thus established for a time between those two countries.
GLOSSARY.denty, favor.muddir, mother.effeiris, affairs.orient, eastern.ene, eyes.quhen, when.fallow, betroth.quhois, whose.forgit, made, created.quhyll, while.gife, if.rois, rose.halsit, hailed.sic, such.houris, morning orisons.speiris, spears.laif, rest.splene, heart.lemys, rays.thrissil, thistle.lukit, looked.udir, other.mansuetude, gentleness.weid, garments.morrow, morning.weiris, wars.
O hie honour, sweit heuinlie flour degest,Gem verteous, maist precious, gudliest.For hie renoun thow art guerdoun conding,Of worschip kend the glorious end and rest,But quhome in richt na worthie wicht may lest.Thy greit puissance may maist auance all thing,And pouerall to mekill auaill sone bring.I the require sen thow but peir art best,That efter this in thy hie blis we ring.Of grace thy face in euerie place sa schynis,That sweit all spreit baith heid and feit inclynis,Thy gloir afoir for till imploir remeid.He docht richt nocht, quhilk out of thocht the tynis;Thy name but blame, and royal fame diuine is;Thow port at schort of our comfort and reid,Till bring all thing till glaiding efter deid,All wicht but sicht of thy greit micht ay crynis,O schene I mene, nane may sustene thy feid.Haill rois maist chois till clois thy fois greit micht,Haill stone quhilk schone vpon the throne of licht,Vertew, quhais trew sweit dew ouirthrew al vice,Was ay ilk day gar say the way of licht;Amend, offend, and send our end ay richt.Thow stant, ordant as sanct, of grant maist wise,Till be supplie, and the high gre of price.Delite the tite me quite of site to dicht,For I apply schortlie to thy deuise.
O hie honour, sweit heuinlie flour degest,Gem verteous, maist precious, gudliest.For hie renoun thow art guerdoun conding,Of worschip kend the glorious end and rest,But quhome in richt na worthie wicht may lest.Thy greit puissance may maist auance all thing,And pouerall to mekill auaill sone bring.I the require sen thow but peir art best,That efter this in thy hie blis we ring.
Of grace thy face in euerie place sa schynis,That sweit all spreit baith heid and feit inclynis,Thy gloir afoir for till imploir remeid.He docht richt nocht, quhilk out of thocht the tynis;Thy name but blame, and royal fame diuine is;Thow port at schort of our comfort and reid,Till bring all thing till glaiding efter deid,All wicht but sicht of thy greit micht ay crynis,O schene I mene, nane may sustene thy feid.
Haill rois maist chois till clois thy fois greit micht,Haill stone quhilk schone vpon the throne of licht,Vertew, quhais trew sweit dew ouirthrew al vice,Was ay ilk day gar say the way of licht;Amend, offend, and send our end ay richt.Thow stant, ordant as sanct, of grant maist wise,Till be supplie, and the high gre of price.Delite the tite me quite of site to dicht,For I apply schortlie to thy deuise.
—From "The Palice of Honour."
GLOSSARY.afoir, before.guerdoun, reward.auance, advance.ilk, any.ay, ever, always.mekill, much, mickle.but, without.peir, peer.conding, condign, worthy.poureall, the poor.crynis, diminishes.puissance, power.deid, death.quhilk, who, which.degest, grave.quhome, without whom.dicht, relieve.reid, advice.docht, avails.rois, king.feid, hatred.sanct, saint.fois, time.site, shame.glaiding, happiness.till, to.gloir, glory.tite, quickly.grant, giving.tynis, loses.gre, degree.wicht, person, wight.
John Lydgatewas born at the village of Lydgate, near Newmarket, about 1370. He was a Benedictine monk attached to the monastery of Bury St. Edmunds, and is remembered as the author of three poems, which, in their time, attracted much attention. These are "The Storie of Thebes," written in ten-syllable rhyming couplets, and founded upon the "Teseide" of Boccaccio; the "Troye Book," finished about 1420, and relating the story of the Trojan war as recounted by Guido di Colonna in his Latin prose history of Troy; and "The Falls of Princes," founded on a French version of Boccaccio's "De Casibus Virorum Illustrium." In 1433, Lydgate wrote a wearisome but somewhat amusing poem, "Pur le Roy," describing a visit to London, and the pageants, processions, and other rejoicings, on the occasion of the entrance of Henry VI. into the city after his coronation. The date of the poet's death is not exactly known, but it was probably not later than 1440.
Robert Henryson, "an accomplished man and a good and genuine poet," was born about the year 1425, and died near the close of the century. He was for a time a schoolmaster and notary public at Dunfermline, in Scotland, and was connected, in some capacity, with the University of Glasgow. He was probably, like Lydgate, a Benedictine monk. His principal works are "The Testament of Cresseid," a sequel to Chaucer's "Troilus and Cresseide," and a collection of thirteen fables. He wrote also many shorter poems, of which the ballad of "Robin and Makyne" (published in Percy'sReliques) is the best known.
William Dunbarwas born in East Lothian, Scotland, about the year 1450. He was educated at the University of St. Andrews, and in early life travelled somewhat extensively as a novitiate of the order of St. Francis. He visited England in 1501, upon the occasion of the marriage of James IV. of Scotland to the Princess Margaret, daughter of Henry VII. One of his best poems, "The Thistle and the Rose," was written in commemoration of that event. He accompanied the queen to Aberdeen in 1511, and for some time, both before and after, was in attendance and favor at the Scotch court. Nothing is known of his death, but it has been conjecturedthat he fell in the battle of Flodden, in 1513. Besides the poem just mentioned, he wrote "The Golden Targe," "The Dance of the Deadly Sins," and many shorter poems, most of which are allegories. The "Thistle and the Rose" has been pronounced "the happiest political allegory in our language. Heraldry has never been more skilfully handled, nor compliments more gracefully paid, nor fidelity more persuasively preached to a monarch than in this poem."
Gawain Douglaswas a son of the famous Earl of Angus, and was born in Brechin, Scotland, about 1474. He was educated partly at the University of St. Andrews, and partly in Paris. His first considerable poem, "The Palice of Honour," was published in 1501, and dedicated to King James IV. It is an allegory, such as was at that time the staple of poetical composition, and contains but little that is particularly original. Another allegory, printed after his death, is entitled "King Hart," and has for its subject the heart of man. His greatest work is his translation of Virgil's "Æneid" into Scottish verse. In 1509, Douglas was appointed provost of St. Giles, Edinburgh, and after the battle of Flodden he was made abbot of Aberbrothwick. In 1515 he was consecrated Bishop of Dunkeld, but was unable to gain possession of the cathedral except by force. Becoming involved in the feud between the rival families of Angus and Hamilton, he was obliged to escape into England in 1521, where towards the end of the same year he died.
"In the fourteenth century there comes an Englishman nourished on this [the romance] poetry, taught his trade by this poetry, getting words, rhyme, metre from this poetry; for even of that stanza which the Italians used, and which Chaucer derived immediately from the Italians, the basis and suggestion was probably given in France. . . . If we ask ourselves wherein consists the immense superiority of Chaucer's poetry over the [earlier] romance-poetry, why it is that in passing from this to Chaucer we suddenly feel ourselves to be in another world, we shall find that his superiority is both in the substance of his poetry and in the style of his poetry. His superiority in substance is given by his large, free, simple, clear yet kindly view of human life. . . . We have only to call to mind the Prologue to 'The Canterbury Tales.' The right comment upon it is Dryden's: 'It is sufficient to say, according to the proverb, thathere is God's plenty.' And again: 'He is a perpetual fountain of good sense.' It is by a large, free, sound representation of things, that poetry, this high criticism of life, has truth of substance; and Chaucer's poetry has truth of substance. If we think of Chaucer's divine liquidness of diction, his divine fluidity of movement, it is difficult to speak temperately. They are irresistible, and justify all the rapture with which his successors speak of his gold 'dew-drops of speech.' . . . Chaucer is the father of our splendid English poetry, he is our 'well of English undefiled,' because by the lovely charm of his diction, the lovely charm of his movement, he makes an epoch and founds a tradition. In Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, Keats, we can follow the tradition of the liquid diction, the fluid movement, of Chaucer; at one time it is his liquid diction of which in these poets we feel the virtue, and at another it is his fluid movement. And the virtue is irresistible."—Matthew Arnold.
"In the fourteenth century there comes an Englishman nourished on this [the romance] poetry, taught his trade by this poetry, getting words, rhyme, metre from this poetry; for even of that stanza which the Italians used, and which Chaucer derived immediately from the Italians, the basis and suggestion was probably given in France. . . . If we ask ourselves wherein consists the immense superiority of Chaucer's poetry over the [earlier] romance-poetry, why it is that in passing from this to Chaucer we suddenly feel ourselves to be in another world, we shall find that his superiority is both in the substance of his poetry and in the style of his poetry. His superiority in substance is given by his large, free, simple, clear yet kindly view of human life. . . . We have only to call to mind the Prologue to 'The Canterbury Tales.' The right comment upon it is Dryden's: 'It is sufficient to say, according to the proverb, thathere is God's plenty.' And again: 'He is a perpetual fountain of good sense.' It is by a large, free, sound representation of things, that poetry, this high criticism of life, has truth of substance; and Chaucer's poetry has truth of substance. If we think of Chaucer's divine liquidness of diction, his divine fluidity of movement, it is difficult to speak temperately. They are irresistible, and justify all the rapture with which his successors speak of his gold 'dew-drops of speech.' . . . Chaucer is the father of our splendid English poetry, he is our 'well of English undefiled,' because by the lovely charm of his diction, the lovely charm of his movement, he makes an epoch and founds a tradition. In Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, Keats, we can follow the tradition of the liquid diction, the fluid movement, of Chaucer; at one time it is his liquid diction of which in these poets we feel the virtue, and at another it is his fluid movement. And the virtue is irresistible."—Matthew Arnold.
Geoffrey Chaucer(1328-1400). See biographical note, page301.
William Langland(1332- ). "The Vision of William concerning Piers the Ploughman."
John Gower(1330-1408). "Confessio Amantis."
Whan that Aprille with his schowrës swooteThe drought of Marche had perced to the roote,And bathed every veyne in swich licour,Of which vertue engendred is the flour;Whan Zephirus eek with his swetë breetheEnspired hath in every holte and heetheThe tendre croppës, and the yongë sonneHath in the Ram1his halfë cours i-ronne,2And smalë fowlës maken melodie,That slepen al the night with open eye,So priketh hem nature in here corages:—Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages,And palmers for to seeken3straungë strondes,To fernë halwes, kouthe in sondry londes;And specially, from every schirës endeOf Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,The holy blisful martir4for to seeke,That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.5Byfel that, in that sesoun on a day,In Southwerk at the Tabard6as I lay,Redy to wenden on my pilgrimageTo Caunterbury with ful devout corage,At night was come into that hostelryeWel nyne and twenty in a compainye,Of sondry folk, by aventure i-falleIn felaweschipe, and pilgryms were thei alle,That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde;The chambres and the stables7weren wyde,And wel we werën esed attë beste.And schortly, whan the sonnë was to reste,So hadde I spoken with hem everychon,That I was of here felaweschipe anon,And madë forward erly for to ryse,To take our wey ther as I yow devyse.But nathëles, whil I have tyme and space,Or8that I forther in this talë pace,Me thinketh it acordaunt to resoun,To tellë yow al the condicioun9Of eche of hem, so as it semede me,And whiche they weren, and of what degre;And eek in what array that they were inne:And at a knight than wol I first bygynne.AKnightther was, and that a worthy man,That from the tymë that he first biganTo ryden out, he lovede chyvalrye,10Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisye.Ful worthy was he in his lordës werre,And therto hadde he riden, noman ferre,As wel in Cristendom as in hethënesse,11And evere honoured for his worthinesse.At Alisaundre12he was whan it was wonne,Ful oftë tyme he hadde the bord bygonne13Aboven allë naciouns in Pruce.14In Lettowe hadde he reysed and in Ruce,No cristen man so ofte of his degre.In Gernade15attë siegë hadde he beOf Algesir, and riden in Belmarie.At Lieys was he, and at Satalie,Whan they were wonne; and in the Greetë see16At many a noble arive hadde he be.At mortal batailles hadde he ben fiftene,And foughten for our feith at TramasseneIn lystës thriës, and ay slayn his foo.This ilkë worthy knight hadde ben alsoSomtymë with the lord of Palatye,17Ageyn another hethen in Turkye:And evermore he hadde a sovereyn prys.And though that he was worthy, he was wys,And of his port as meke as is a mayde.He nevere yit no vileinye ne saydeIn al his lyf, unto no maner wight.18He was a verray perfight gentil knight.But for to tellen you of his array,His hors was good, but he ne was nought gay.Of fustyan he werede a gepounAl bysmotered with his habergeoun.For he was late ycome from his viage,And wentë for to doon his pilgrimage.With him ther was his sone, a yongSquyer,A lovyere, and a lusty bacheler,19With lokkës crulle as they were leyd in presse.Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse.Of his stature he was of even lengthe,And wonderly delyver, and gret of strengthe.And he hadde ben somtyme in chivachye,In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Picardye,And born him wel, as of so litel space,In hope to stonden in his lady grace.Embrowded was he, as it were a medeAl ful of fresshë floures, white and reede.Syngynge he was, or floytynge,20al the day;He was as fressh as is the moneth of May.Schort was his goune, with sleevës longe and wyde.Wel cowde he sitte on hors, and fairë ryde.He cowdë songës make and wel endite,Juste and eek daunce, and wel purtreye and write.So hote he lovedë, that by nightertaleHe sleep nomore than doth a nightyngale.Curteys he was, lowly, and servysable,And carf byforn his fader at the table.AYemanhadde he,21and servaunts nomooAt that tyme, for him lustë rydë soo;And he was clad in coote and hood of grene.A shef of pocok arwës22brighte and keneUnder his belte he bar ful thriftily.Wel cowde he dresse his takel yemanly;His arwes drowpede nought with fetheres lowe.And in his hond he bar a mighty boweA not-heed hadde he with broun visage.Of woodë-craft wel cowde he al the usage.Upon his arm he bar a gay bracer23And by his side a swerd and a bokeler,And on that other side a gay daggere,Harneysed wel, and scharp as poynt of spere;A Cristofre24on his brest of silver schene.An horn he bar, the bawdrik was of grene;A forster was he sothly, as I gesse.Ther was also a Nonne, aPrioresse,That of hire smylyng was ful symple and coy;Hire grettest ooth ne was but by seynt Loy25;And sche was cleped madame Eglentyne.Ful wel sche sang the servisë divyne,Entuned in hire nose ful semëly;And Frensch sche spak ful faire and fetysly,After the scole of Stratford attë Bowe,For Frensch of Parys was to hire unknowe.At metë wel i-taught was sche withalle;Sche leet no morsel from hire lippës falle,Ne wette hire fyngres in hire saucë deepe.Wel cowde sche carie a morsel, and wel keepe,That no dropë ne fille upon hire breste.In curteisie was set ful moche hire leste.Hire overlippë wypede sche so clene,That in hire cuppë was no ferthing seneOf grecë, whan sche dronken hadde hire draughte.Ful semëly after hir mete sche raughte,And sikerly sche was of gret disport,26And ful plesaunt, and amyable of port,And peynede hir to countrefetë cheereOf court, and ben estatlich of manere,And to ben holden digne of reverence.But for to speken of hir conscience,Sche was so charitable and so pitous,Sche woldë weepe if that sche saw a mousCaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde.Of smalë houndës hadde sche, that sche feddeWith rosted flessh, or mylk and wastel breed.But sore weep sche if oon of hem were deed,Or if men27smot it with a yerdë smerte:And al was conscience and tendre herte.Ful semëly hire wympel i-pynched was;Hir nose tretys; hir eyën greye as glas;Hir mouth ful smal, and therto softe and reedBut sikerly sche hadde a fair forheed.It was almost a spannë brood, I trowe;For hardily sche was not undergrowe.Ful fetys was hir cloke, as I was war.Of smal coral aboute hir arm sche barA peire of bedës gauded al with grene;And theron heng a broch of gold ful schene,On which was first i-write a crownëd A,And after,Amor vincit omnia.28AnotherNonnewith hir haddë sche,That was hir chapeleyne,29andPrestesthre.AMonkther was, a fair for the maistryë,30An out-rydere, that lovedë veneryë;A manly man, to ben an abbot able.Ful many a deynté hors hadde he in stable:And whan he rood, men mighte his bridel heereGynglen in a whistlyng wynd as cleere,And eek as lowde as doth the chapel belle.Ther as this lord was kepere of the celle,The reule of seynt Maure or of seint Beneyt,Bycause that it was old and somdel streyt,This ilkë monk leet oldë thingës pace,And held after the newë world the space.He yaf nat of that text a pullëd hen,31That seith, that hunters been noon holy men;Ne that a monk, whan he is recchëlesIs likned to a fissch that is waterles32;This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloystre.But thilkë text held he not worth an oystre.And I seide his opinioun was good.What33schulde he studie, and make himselven wood,34Upon a book in cloystre alway to powre.Or swynkë with his handës, and laboure,As Austyn bit? How schal the world be servëd?Lat Austyn have his swynk to him reservëd.Therfor he was a pricasour aright;Greyhoundes he hadde as swifte as fowel in flight;Of prikyng and of huntyng for the hareWas al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare.35I saugh his slevës purfiled attë hondeWith grys, and that the fyneste of a londe.And for to festne his hood under his chynneHe hadde of gold y-wrought a curious pynne:A love-knot in the grettere ende ther was.His heed was balled, that schon as eny glas,And eek his face, as he hadde ben anoynt.He was a lord ful fat and in good poynt;His eyën steepe, and rollyng in his heede,That stemëde as a forneys of a leede;36His bootës souple, his hors in gret estat.Now certeinly he was a fair prelat;He was not pale as a for-pyned goost.A fat swan lovede he best of eny roost.His palfrey was as broun as is a berye.AFrerethere was, a wantown and a merye,A lymytour,37a ful solempnë man.In alle the ordres foure38is noon that canSo moche of daliaunce and fair langage.He hadde i-mad ful many a mariageOf yongë wymmen, at his owën cost.Unto his ordre he was a noble post.39Ful wel biloved and famulier was heWith frankeleyns40over-al in his cuntre,And eek with worthy wommen of the toun:For he hadde power of confessioun,As seyde himself, morë than a curat,For of his ordre he was licentiat.41Ful swetëly herde he confessioun,And plesaunt was his absolucioun;He was an esy man to yeve penaunceTher as he wistë han42a good pitaunce;For unto a poure ordre for to yiveIs signë that a man is wel i-schrive.For if he yaf, he dorstë make avaunt,He wistë that a man was repentaunt.For many a man so hard is of his herte,He may not wepe although him sorë smerte.Therfore in stede of wepyng and preyeres,Men43moot yive silver to the pourë freres.His typet was ay farsëd ful of knyfesAnd pynnës, for to yivë fairë wyfes.And certeynly he hadde a mery note;Wel couthe he synge and pleyen on a rote.Of yeddynges he bar utterly the prys.His nekkë whit was as the flour-de-lys.Therto he strong was as a champioun.He knew the tavernes wel in every toun,And everych hostiler and tappestere,Bet then a lazer, or a beggestere,For unto such a worthy man as heAcorded not, as by his faculté,To han with sikë lazars aqueyntaunce.It is not honest, it may not avaunce,For to delen with no such poraille,But al with riche, and sellers of vitaille.44And overal, ther as profyt schulde arise,Curteys he was, and lowly of servyse.Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous.He was the bestë beggere in his hous,For though a widewe haddë noght oo schoo,So plesaunt was hisIn principio,45Yet wolde he have a ferthing or he wente.His purchas46was wel better than his rente.And rage he couthe as it were right a whelpe,In lovë-dayës47couthe he mochel helpe.For ther he was not lik a cloysterer,With a thredbare cope as is a poure scoler,But he was lik a maister or a pope.Of double worsted was his semy-cope,That rounded as a belle out of the presse.Somwhat he lipsede, for his wantownesse,To make his Englissch swete upon his tunge;And in his harpyng, whan that he hadde sungeHis eyën twynkled in his heed aright,As don the sterrës in the frosty night.This worthy lymytour was cleped Huberd.AMarchauntwas ther with a forkëd berd,In mottëleye, and hign on hors he sat,Upon his heed a Flaundrisch bevere hat;His botës clapsed faire and fetysly.His resons he spak ful solempnëly,Sownynge alway the encres of his wynnynge.He wolde the see were kept for48eny thingeBetwixë Middelburgh and Orëwelle.Wel couthe he in eschaungë scheeldës49selle.This worthi man ful wel his wit bisette;Ther wistë no wight that he was in dette,So estatly was he of governaunce,With his bargayns, and with his chevysaunceFor sothe he was a worthy man withalle,But soth to sayn, I not how men him calle.AClerkther was of Oxenford50also,That unto logik haddë longe i-go.As lenë was his hors as is a rake,And he was not right51fat, I undertake;But lokëde holwe, and therto soberly.Ful thredbar was his overest courtepy.For he hadde geten him yit no benefice,Ne was so worldly for to have office.For him was levere have at his beddës heedeTwenty bookës, clad in blak or reede,Of Aristotle and his philosophyë,Then robës riche, or fithel, or gay sawtryë.52But al be that he was a philosophre,Yet haddë he but litel gold in cofre;But al that he mighte of his frendës hente,On bookës and on lernyng he it spente,And busily gan for the soulës preyeOf hem that yaf him wherwith to scoleye;Of studie took he most cure and most heede.Not oo word spak he morë than was neede,And that was seid in forme and reverenceAnd schort and quyk, and ful of high sentence.Sownynge53in moral vertu was his speche,And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.
Whan that Aprille with his schowrës swooteThe drought of Marche had perced to the roote,And bathed every veyne in swich licour,Of which vertue engendred is the flour;Whan Zephirus eek with his swetë breetheEnspired hath in every holte and heetheThe tendre croppës, and the yongë sonneHath in the Ram1his halfë cours i-ronne,2And smalë fowlës maken melodie,That slepen al the night with open eye,So priketh hem nature in here corages:—Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages,And palmers for to seeken3straungë strondes,To fernë halwes, kouthe in sondry londes;And specially, from every schirës endeOf Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,The holy blisful martir4for to seeke,That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.5Byfel that, in that sesoun on a day,In Southwerk at the Tabard6as I lay,Redy to wenden on my pilgrimageTo Caunterbury with ful devout corage,At night was come into that hostelryeWel nyne and twenty in a compainye,Of sondry folk, by aventure i-falleIn felaweschipe, and pilgryms were thei alle,That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde;The chambres and the stables7weren wyde,And wel we werën esed attë beste.And schortly, whan the sonnë was to reste,So hadde I spoken with hem everychon,That I was of here felaweschipe anon,And madë forward erly for to ryse,To take our wey ther as I yow devyse.But nathëles, whil I have tyme and space,Or8that I forther in this talë pace,Me thinketh it acordaunt to resoun,To tellë yow al the condicioun9Of eche of hem, so as it semede me,And whiche they weren, and of what degre;And eek in what array that they were inne:And at a knight than wol I first bygynne.AKnightther was, and that a worthy man,That from the tymë that he first biganTo ryden out, he lovede chyvalrye,10Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisye.Ful worthy was he in his lordës werre,And therto hadde he riden, noman ferre,As wel in Cristendom as in hethënesse,11And evere honoured for his worthinesse.At Alisaundre12he was whan it was wonne,Ful oftë tyme he hadde the bord bygonne13Aboven allë naciouns in Pruce.14In Lettowe hadde he reysed and in Ruce,No cristen man so ofte of his degre.In Gernade15attë siegë hadde he beOf Algesir, and riden in Belmarie.At Lieys was he, and at Satalie,Whan they were wonne; and in the Greetë see16At many a noble arive hadde he be.At mortal batailles hadde he ben fiftene,And foughten for our feith at TramasseneIn lystës thriës, and ay slayn his foo.This ilkë worthy knight hadde ben alsoSomtymë with the lord of Palatye,17Ageyn another hethen in Turkye:And evermore he hadde a sovereyn prys.And though that he was worthy, he was wys,And of his port as meke as is a mayde.He nevere yit no vileinye ne saydeIn al his lyf, unto no maner wight.18He was a verray perfight gentil knight.But for to tellen you of his array,His hors was good, but he ne was nought gay.Of fustyan he werede a gepounAl bysmotered with his habergeoun.For he was late ycome from his viage,And wentë for to doon his pilgrimage.With him ther was his sone, a yongSquyer,A lovyere, and a lusty bacheler,19With lokkës crulle as they were leyd in presse.Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse.Of his stature he was of even lengthe,And wonderly delyver, and gret of strengthe.And he hadde ben somtyme in chivachye,In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Picardye,And born him wel, as of so litel space,In hope to stonden in his lady grace.Embrowded was he, as it were a medeAl ful of fresshë floures, white and reede.Syngynge he was, or floytynge,20al the day;He was as fressh as is the moneth of May.Schort was his goune, with sleevës longe and wyde.Wel cowde he sitte on hors, and fairë ryde.He cowdë songës make and wel endite,Juste and eek daunce, and wel purtreye and write.So hote he lovedë, that by nightertaleHe sleep nomore than doth a nightyngale.Curteys he was, lowly, and servysable,And carf byforn his fader at the table.AYemanhadde he,21and servaunts nomooAt that tyme, for him lustë rydë soo;And he was clad in coote and hood of grene.A shef of pocok arwës22brighte and keneUnder his belte he bar ful thriftily.Wel cowde he dresse his takel yemanly;His arwes drowpede nought with fetheres lowe.And in his hond he bar a mighty boweA not-heed hadde he with broun visage.Of woodë-craft wel cowde he al the usage.Upon his arm he bar a gay bracer23And by his side a swerd and a bokeler,And on that other side a gay daggere,Harneysed wel, and scharp as poynt of spere;A Cristofre24on his brest of silver schene.An horn he bar, the bawdrik was of grene;A forster was he sothly, as I gesse.Ther was also a Nonne, aPrioresse,That of hire smylyng was ful symple and coy;Hire grettest ooth ne was but by seynt Loy25;And sche was cleped madame Eglentyne.Ful wel sche sang the servisë divyne,Entuned in hire nose ful semëly;And Frensch sche spak ful faire and fetysly,After the scole of Stratford attë Bowe,For Frensch of Parys was to hire unknowe.At metë wel i-taught was sche withalle;Sche leet no morsel from hire lippës falle,Ne wette hire fyngres in hire saucë deepe.Wel cowde sche carie a morsel, and wel keepe,That no dropë ne fille upon hire breste.In curteisie was set ful moche hire leste.Hire overlippë wypede sche so clene,That in hire cuppë was no ferthing seneOf grecë, whan sche dronken hadde hire draughte.Ful semëly after hir mete sche raughte,And sikerly sche was of gret disport,26And ful plesaunt, and amyable of port,And peynede hir to countrefetë cheereOf court, and ben estatlich of manere,And to ben holden digne of reverence.But for to speken of hir conscience,Sche was so charitable and so pitous,Sche woldë weepe if that sche saw a mousCaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde.Of smalë houndës hadde sche, that sche feddeWith rosted flessh, or mylk and wastel breed.But sore weep sche if oon of hem were deed,Or if men27smot it with a yerdë smerte:And al was conscience and tendre herte.Ful semëly hire wympel i-pynched was;Hir nose tretys; hir eyën greye as glas;Hir mouth ful smal, and therto softe and reedBut sikerly sche hadde a fair forheed.It was almost a spannë brood, I trowe;For hardily sche was not undergrowe.Ful fetys was hir cloke, as I was war.Of smal coral aboute hir arm sche barA peire of bedës gauded al with grene;And theron heng a broch of gold ful schene,On which was first i-write a crownëd A,And after,Amor vincit omnia.28AnotherNonnewith hir haddë sche,That was hir chapeleyne,29andPrestesthre.AMonkther was, a fair for the maistryë,30An out-rydere, that lovedë veneryë;A manly man, to ben an abbot able.Ful many a deynté hors hadde he in stable:And whan he rood, men mighte his bridel heereGynglen in a whistlyng wynd as cleere,And eek as lowde as doth the chapel belle.Ther as this lord was kepere of the celle,The reule of seynt Maure or of seint Beneyt,Bycause that it was old and somdel streyt,This ilkë monk leet oldë thingës pace,And held after the newë world the space.He yaf nat of that text a pullëd hen,31That seith, that hunters been noon holy men;Ne that a monk, whan he is recchëlesIs likned to a fissch that is waterles32;This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloystre.But thilkë text held he not worth an oystre.And I seide his opinioun was good.What33schulde he studie, and make himselven wood,34Upon a book in cloystre alway to powre.Or swynkë with his handës, and laboure,As Austyn bit? How schal the world be servëd?Lat Austyn have his swynk to him reservëd.Therfor he was a pricasour aright;Greyhoundes he hadde as swifte as fowel in flight;Of prikyng and of huntyng for the hareWas al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare.35I saugh his slevës purfiled attë hondeWith grys, and that the fyneste of a londe.And for to festne his hood under his chynneHe hadde of gold y-wrought a curious pynne:A love-knot in the grettere ende ther was.His heed was balled, that schon as eny glas,And eek his face, as he hadde ben anoynt.He was a lord ful fat and in good poynt;His eyën steepe, and rollyng in his heede,That stemëde as a forneys of a leede;36His bootës souple, his hors in gret estat.Now certeinly he was a fair prelat;He was not pale as a for-pyned goost.A fat swan lovede he best of eny roost.His palfrey was as broun as is a berye.AFrerethere was, a wantown and a merye,A lymytour,37a ful solempnë man.In alle the ordres foure38is noon that canSo moche of daliaunce and fair langage.He hadde i-mad ful many a mariageOf yongë wymmen, at his owën cost.Unto his ordre he was a noble post.39Ful wel biloved and famulier was heWith frankeleyns40over-al in his cuntre,And eek with worthy wommen of the toun:For he hadde power of confessioun,As seyde himself, morë than a curat,For of his ordre he was licentiat.41Ful swetëly herde he confessioun,And plesaunt was his absolucioun;He was an esy man to yeve penaunceTher as he wistë han42a good pitaunce;For unto a poure ordre for to yiveIs signë that a man is wel i-schrive.For if he yaf, he dorstë make avaunt,He wistë that a man was repentaunt.For many a man so hard is of his herte,He may not wepe although him sorë smerte.Therfore in stede of wepyng and preyeres,Men43moot yive silver to the pourë freres.His typet was ay farsëd ful of knyfesAnd pynnës, for to yivë fairë wyfes.And certeynly he hadde a mery note;Wel couthe he synge and pleyen on a rote.Of yeddynges he bar utterly the prys.His nekkë whit was as the flour-de-lys.Therto he strong was as a champioun.He knew the tavernes wel in every toun,And everych hostiler and tappestere,Bet then a lazer, or a beggestere,For unto such a worthy man as heAcorded not, as by his faculté,To han with sikë lazars aqueyntaunce.It is not honest, it may not avaunce,For to delen with no such poraille,But al with riche, and sellers of vitaille.44And overal, ther as profyt schulde arise,Curteys he was, and lowly of servyse.Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous.He was the bestë beggere in his hous,For though a widewe haddë noght oo schoo,So plesaunt was hisIn principio,45Yet wolde he have a ferthing or he wente.His purchas46was wel better than his rente.And rage he couthe as it were right a whelpe,In lovë-dayës47couthe he mochel helpe.For ther he was not lik a cloysterer,With a thredbare cope as is a poure scoler,But he was lik a maister or a pope.Of double worsted was his semy-cope,That rounded as a belle out of the presse.Somwhat he lipsede, for his wantownesse,To make his Englissch swete upon his tunge;And in his harpyng, whan that he hadde sungeHis eyën twynkled in his heed aright,As don the sterrës in the frosty night.This worthy lymytour was cleped Huberd.AMarchauntwas ther with a forkëd berd,In mottëleye, and hign on hors he sat,Upon his heed a Flaundrisch bevere hat;His botës clapsed faire and fetysly.His resons he spak ful solempnëly,Sownynge alway the encres of his wynnynge.He wolde the see were kept for48eny thingeBetwixë Middelburgh and Orëwelle.Wel couthe he in eschaungë scheeldës49selle.This worthi man ful wel his wit bisette;Ther wistë no wight that he was in dette,So estatly was he of governaunce,With his bargayns, and with his chevysaunceFor sothe he was a worthy man withalle,But soth to sayn, I not how men him calle.AClerkther was of Oxenford50also,That unto logik haddë longe i-go.As lenë was his hors as is a rake,And he was not right51fat, I undertake;But lokëde holwe, and therto soberly.Ful thredbar was his overest courtepy.For he hadde geten him yit no benefice,Ne was so worldly for to have office.For him was levere have at his beddës heedeTwenty bookës, clad in blak or reede,Of Aristotle and his philosophyë,Then robës riche, or fithel, or gay sawtryë.52But al be that he was a philosophre,Yet haddë he but litel gold in cofre;But al that he mighte of his frendës hente,On bookës and on lernyng he it spente,And busily gan for the soulës preyeOf hem that yaf him wherwith to scoleye;Of studie took he most cure and most heede.Not oo word spak he morë than was neede,And that was seid in forme and reverenceAnd schort and quyk, and ful of high sentence.Sownynge53in moral vertu was his speche,And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.