Eyes she hath.
She’s a good fellow,
The Wife of Bath!
ALISOUN
Sweethearts, your lungs can blow the buck’s horn.—Robin,
Ye sing like a bittern bumbling in the mire.
MILLER
By Corpus, ’twas a love-toot.
FRIAR
Prithee, sweet dame,
Finish your tale.
ALL
Finish the tale.
[Other pilgrims enter from the inn.]
ALISOUN
Shut up, lads. Sure, my wits are gone blackberrying.
Where was I?
FRIAR
Where King Arthur’s knight came home,
You said, and—
ALISOUN
Will you let me say it then?
FRIAR
Sweet dame, you said—
ALISOUN
A friar and a fly
Will fall in every dish, that’s what I said.
Lads, will ye hear this church-bell ring, or me?
ALL
You—you—
SUMMONER
I’ll muffle his clapper.
ALISOUN
Hark my tale:
This knight rode home a-whistlin’ to himself,
Right up the castle-hall, where all the lords
And ladies sat. “Your majesties,” quoth he,
“Though I be hanged, this is my true reply:
Women desire to do their own sweet wills.”
[The Swains clap.]
“Ho!” cried King Arthur, “that’s the best I’ve heard
Since I was first henpecked by Guinevere.
Depart! Thy neck is free!”
But at that word,
Up sprang an old wife, sitting by the fire,
And says: “Merci, your Majesty, ’twas I
That taught this answer to the knight; and he
Hath sworn to do the next thing I require.
Therefore, sweet knight, before this court I pray
That ye will take me to your wedded wife.
Have I said false?”
“Nay, bury me,” quoth he.
“Then I will be thy love.”
“My love?” quoth he.
“Nay, my damnation!”
“Take your wife to church,”
Cries out the King, “and look ye treat her well,
Or you shall hang.”
MILLER
Ho! What a roast!
PRIORESS
[Aside.]
Poor man!
ALISOUN
The knight he spake no word, but forth he takes
His grizzly bride to church, and after dark
He leads her home. “Alas! sweet husband mine,
What troubleth you?” quoth she. “Nothing,” quoth he.
“Perchance that I am old?” “Nay, nay,” quoth he.
“Ugly and old,” quoth she, “cures jealousy.”
“It doth indeed,” quoth he. “What then?” quoth she.
“Are ye content?” “More than content,” quoth he;
“And will ye let me do my own sweet will
In everything?” “In everything,” quoth he,
“My lady and my love, do as you please.”
“Why, then, so please me, strike a light,” quoth she.
And when the knight had lit the candle, lo!
His grizzly bride—she was the Fairy Queen.
[Loud acclamation.]
PRIORESS
[Aside.]
Praise heaven!
FRIAR
[Into whose arms Alisoun jumps.]
Bravo, Queen Mab, it was thyself.
COOK
I’ll bet
The knight was her fifth husband.
ALISOUN
Welcome the sixth!
God made me the King Solomon of wives.
SHIPMAN
[To the Miller, who begins to play his pipes.]
God save thee, Robin! Bust thy pigskin.
ALISOUN
Aye!
Let’s have an elf dance. Come!
[To the Summoner.]
Thy arm, sweet Puck!
BOTTLEJOHN
[To Herry Bailey, who is looking on.]
Tarry ye all to-night?
HOST
Aye, till to-morrow.
BOTTLEJOHN
’Twill be a pinch for room.
HOST
[Laughs.]
But not for reckonings.
[The Miller, sitting on the wall, plays his bagpipe, while Alisoun dances with her Swains, each of whom is jealous of the rest. Chaucer and the Prioress still remain out of sight in the arbour. As the music grows merrier, the Prioress begins to click the beads of her rosary rhythmically.]
[The Miller, sitting on the wall, plays his bagpipe, while Alisoun dances with her Swains, each of whom is jealous of the rest. Chaucer and the Prioress still remain out of sight in the arbour. As the music grows merrier, the Prioress begins to click the beads of her rosary rhythmically.]
CHAUCER
Why do you tell your beads, Madame?
PRIORESS
To keep
The fairies from my feet.
CHAUCER
The fairies?
PRIORESS
Yes,
The bagpipe sets them free. I feel them twitch me.
CHAUCER
Why drive them away?
PRIORESS
Monsieur!
CHAUCER
See you the birds?
St. Francis taught that we should learn of them.
PRIORESS
What do they?
CHAUCER
Sing, and dance from bough to bough.
The Muses sing; and St. Cecilia danced.
PRIORESS
Think you she danced, sir, of her own sweet will?
CHAUCER
Nay, not in April! In April, ’tis God’s will.
PRIORESS
Monsieur—
[Gives Chaucer her hand shyly.]
’tis April.
[They dance, in stately fashion, within the arbour. Forgetting themselves in the dance, however, they come a little too far forward; Alisoun spies them, and clapping her hands, the music stops.]
[They dance, in stately fashion, within the arbour. Forgetting themselves in the dance, however, they come a little too far forward; Alisoun spies them, and clapping her hands, the music stops.]
ALISOUN
Caught! Ho, turtle-doves
Come forth, Sir Elvish Knight, Sir Oberon!
Fetch forth thy veilèd nymph, that trips so fair.
[Chaucer steps forth from the arbour. The Prioress, within, seizes up her little hound from a settle and hides her face.]
[Chaucer steps forth from the arbour. The Prioress, within, seizes up her little hound from a settle and hides her face.]
ALL
Hail!
CHAUCER
Silence, loons! And thou, wife, hold thy tongue
And know thy betters. As for you, ye lummocks,
You need be proud as water in a ditch
To glass this lady’s image even in your eyes,
So, look ye muddy not her sandal-tips.
Begone! And mind when next you laugh the same,
That all the saints, to whom you bumpkins pray,
Dance with the Virgin round the throne of God.
Begone, and do your reverences.
[Some of the pilgrims retire; others remain staring and bow as the Prioress, veiled, crosses over to the inn door with her little hound.]
[Some of the pilgrims retire; others remain staring and bow as the Prioress, veiled, crosses over to the inn door with her little hound.]
ALISOUN
[To the Cook.]
Hist, Roger!
What is the man?
COOK
No cheap dough.
PRIORESS
O Jacquette!
[Exit.]
ALISOUN
[Approaches Chaucer tentatively.]
God save thee, man! I ken not who thou art,
But him’s can curry down a ticklish mare
Like me, he hath a backbone in his bolster;
I love thee better for’t.—Ay, gang thy gait;
But, bully Geoffrey, mind, we have a bet:
Yea, if I fry thee not in thine own grease
And cry thee tit for tat, call me a man.
Man livesforwit, but woman livesbyit.—
These dancing virgins!
[Exit, followed by Friar.]
CHAUCER
Clods and bumpkins all!
MILLER
[Gets in Chaucer’s way defiantly.]
Sir Oberon—
CHAUCER
Stand by!
MILLER
Lord Rim-Ram-Ruff!
He plays the courtier.
[Bitterly.]
Harkee, Monsieur Courtier,
“When Adam delved and Eve span,
Who was then the gentleman?”
CHAUCER
Why, Monsieur Snake; he cherished the family tree
As the apple of his eye. In view of which,
Go drink a pot of cider.
[Throws the Miller a coin.]
MILLER
[Ducking.]
’Save your Worship!
[Exit with Swains.]
CHAUCER
[Solus.]
“When Adam delved”—who was court-poet then?
Adam. Who was Bob Clodhopper? Why, Adam.
Which, then, in that close body politic
Perked high his chin? Which doffed and ducked the knee?
Which tanned and sweat in the lean furrow? Which
Spat on the spade—and wore it in his crest?
Which was the real Adam? Sly Dame Clay,
If paradox died not in Genesis,
Let me not fancy Richard’s laureate
Alone’s incognito. Incognito
Are all that pass in nature’s pilgrimage,
For thou, with loamy masks and flesh-tint veils,
Dost make us, in this timeless carnival,
Thy dupes and dancers, ushering the courtier
To kiss beneath thy glove the goose-girl’s hand,
Or snub, behind the poor familiar rogue
And clown, some god that hides in Momus’ mask.
Nay, but not she—my gentle Prioress!
Though all the rest, in born disguisements, be
Basted and togg’d with huge discrepancy,
Shewears the proper habit of her soul.
Dear God! how harmony like hers unchains
Delight from the lugg’d body of Desire
To sing toward heaven like the meadow-lark,
Till, with her parting, it drops dumb again
In the old quag of flesh.
Flesh, Geoffrey! Fie!
What need to guard from sight the poet in thee
When nature thus hath hoop’d and wadded him
With barracoons of paunch? What say, thou tun?
Will Eglantine mistake thee for Apollo,
Thou jewel in the bloated toad; thou bagpipe
Puff’d by the Muse; thou demijohn of nectar;
Thou grape of Hebe, over-ripe with rhyme;
Thou lump of Clio, mountain of Terpsichore;
Diogenes, that talkest in thy tub!
Fie, Mother Earth!—Cling not about my waist
As if I were a weanling sphere. Fall off!
Ye gods! that kneaded this incongruous dough
With lyric leaven, sweat me to a rake-handle
Or let the Muse grow fat!
[Exit.]
FRIAR
[Outside, sings.]
Ye pouting wenches, pretty wives,
That itch at weddings, fairs, and wakes,
For trothal-rings and kissing-cakes,
For wristlets, pins, and pearlèd knives,
Hither trip it!
To peep i’ the friar’s farsèd tippet,
Who gently for sweet sinners’ sakes—
[Enter the Friar and Alisoun.]
ALISOUN
Hush!
[Going to the cellar door, she opens it and ponders.]
FRIAR
Ben’cite!(Thus singeth he.)Bene—benedicite!
ALISOUN
Hold thy cock-crow! My wit’s working.
FRIAR
Nay,
Thy jealousy, sweet dame.
[Sings.]
Ye lasses jilted, lovers droopèd,
Rose-lip—
ALISOUN
Shut up!
FRIAR
[Sings on.]
Rose-lip, White-brow, Blue-eye, Brown-tress,