But, Sires, to you it is no curtefie
To fpcke unto an olde man vilanie,
But he trefpafe in word or elles in dede.
In holy writ ye moun yourfelven rede
Ageins an olde man hore upon his hede
Ye fhuld arife: therefore I yeve you rede
Ne doth unto an olde man non harm now,
No more than that ye wold a man did you
In age, if that ye may fo long abide;
And God be with you where you go or ride:
I mofte go thider as I have to go.

Nay, olde cherl, by God thou shalt not fo,
Sayde this other hafardour anon;
Thou partest not fo lightly, by Seint John.
Thou fpake right now of thilke traitour Deth,
That in this contree all our frendes fleth;
Have here my trouth, as thou art his efpie,
Tell wher he is, or thou fhalt it abie
By God and by the holy facrement,
For fothly thou art on of his affent
To flen us yonge folk, thou falfe these.

Now, Sires, quod he, if it be you so lefe To finden Deth, tourne up this croked way, For in that grove I left him by my fay Under a tree, and ther he wol abide, Ne for your boft he wol him nothing hide. Se ye that oke? right ther ye fhuln him find. God fave you that bought agen mankind, And you amende! Thus fayd this olde man. And everich of thife riotoures ran Til they came to the tree, and ther they found Of Floreins fine of gold ycoined round Wel nigh and eighte bushels, as hem thought: No lenger than after Dethe they fought, But eche of hem fo glad was of the fight, For that the Floreins ben fo faire and bright, That doun they fette hem by the precious hord: The werfte of hem he fpake the firfte word.

Brethren, quod he, take kepe what I fhal say;
My wit is gret though that I bourde and play.
This trefour hath Fortune unto us yeven,
In mirth and jolitee our lif to liven,
And lightly as it cometh fo wol we spend.
Ey, Goddes precious dignitee! who wend
To-day that we fhuld han fo faire a grace?
But might this gold be caried fro this place
Home to myn hous, or elles unto youres,
(For wel I wote that all this gold is oures)
Thanne were we in high felicitee;
But trewely by day it may not be,

Men wolden fay that we were theeves strong,
And for our owen trefour don us hong.
This trefour must ycaried be by night
As wifely and as fleighly as it might;
Wherfore I rede that cut among us alle
We drawe, and let fee wher the cut wol falle;
And he that hath the cut, with herte blith,
Shal rennen to the toun, and that ful swith,
And bring us bred and win ful prively;
And two of us fha kepen fubtilly

This trefour wel; and if he wol not tarien,
Whan it is night we wol this trefour carien
By on affent wher as us thinketh beft.

That on of hem the cut brought in his fest,

And bad him drawe, and loke wher it wold falle
And it fell on the yongest of hem alle,
And forth toward the toun he went anon:
And al fo fone as that he was-agon

That on of hem fpake thus unto that other;
Thou woteft wel thou art my fworen brother,
Thy profite wol I tell the right anon.
Thou woft wel that our felaw is agon,
And here is gold, and that ful gret plentee,
That fhal departed ben among us three;
But natheles, if I can fhape it fo
That it departed were among us two,
Had I not don a frendes turn to thee?

That other anfwerd, I n'ot how that may be:
He wote wel that the gold is with us tweye.
What fhuln we don, what fhuln we to him feye
Shal it be confeil? fayde the firste shrewe,
And I fhal tellen thee in wordes fewe
What we fhul don, and bring it wel aboute.
I grante, quod that other, out of doute,
That by my trouth I wol thee not bewreie.

Now, quod the first, thou woft wel we ber And tweie of us fhal ftrenger be than on. [tweie Loke, whan that he is fet thou right anon Arife, as though thou woldest with him play, And I fhal rive him thurgh the fides tway While that thou ftrogleft with him as in game, And with thy dagger loke thou do the fame; And than fhal this gold departed be, My dere frend! betwixen thee and me; Than moun we bothe our luftes al fulfille, And play at dis right at our owen wille. And thus accorded ben thise fhrewestweye To flen the thridde, as ye han herde me feye.

This yongeft, which that wente to the tour, Ful oft in herte he rolleth up and doun The beautee of thife Floreins new and bright. O Lord! quod he, if fo were that I might Have all this trefour to myself alone, Ther n'is no man that liveth under the trone Of God that fhulde live fo mery as I. And at the laft the fend our enemy Putte in his thought that he fhuld poifon beye, With which he mighte flen his felaws tweye: For why? the fend fond him in swiche living That he had leve to forwe him to bring; For this was outrely his ful entente, To flen hem both and never to repente. And forth he goth, no lenger wold he tary, Into the toun unto a potecary, And praied him that he wolde fell Some poifon, that he might his ratouns queli; And eke ther was a polkat in his hawe That, as he fayd, his capons had yflawe; And fayn he wolde him wreken, if he might, Of vermine that deftroied hem by night. The potecary anfwerd, Thou fhalt have A thing, as willy God my foule fave, In all this world ther n'is no creature That ete or dronke hath of this confecture, Not but the mountance of a corne of whete, That he ne fhal his lif anon forlete, Ye, fterve he fhal, and that in leffe while Than thou wolt gon a pas not but a mile ;

This poifon is fo ftrong and violent.

This curfed man hath in his hond yhent
This poifon in a box, and swithe he ran
lato the nexte ftrete unto a man,
And borwed of him large botelles three,
And in the two the poifen poured he;
The thridde he kepte clene for his drinke,
For all the night he fhope him for to fwinke
In carying of the gold out of that place.

And whan this riotour with fory grace
Hath filled with win his grete bottelles three
To his felawes agen repaireth he.

What nedeth it thereof to fermon more?
For right as they had caft his deth before;
Right fo they han him flain, and that anon.
And whan that this was don, thus fpake that on;
Now let us fit and drinke, and make us mery.
And afterward we wiln his body bery.
And with that word it happed him par cas
To take the botelle ther the poifon was,
And dronke, and yave his felaw drinke alfo,
For which anon they ftorven bothe two.
But certes I fuppose that Avicenne
Wrote never in no canon ne in no fenne
Mo wonder fignes of empoifoning

Than had thife wretches two or hir ending.
Thus ended ben thife homicides two,
And eke the falfe empoifoner also.
O curfedneffe of all curfedneffe;
O traitours homicide! o wickednesse!
0 glotonie, luxurie, and hafardrie !
Thou blafphemour of Crift with vilanie
And othes grete of ufage and of pride!
Alas! mankinde, how may it betide

That to thy Creatour, which that thee wrought,
And with his precious herte-blood thee bought,
Thou art fo falfe and fo unkind? alas!

Now, good men, God foryeve you your trespas, And ware you fro the finne of avarice, Ma holy pardon may you all warice, S that ye offre nobles or starlinges, Or elles filver broches, fpones, ringes. Boweth your hed under this holy bulle. Cometh up, ye wives, and offreth of your wolle; Your names I entre here in my roll anon; Into the bliffe of heven fhul ye gon:

I you affoile by min high powere,

You that wiln offre, as clene and cke as clere
As ye were borne. Lo, Sires, thus I preche;
And Jefu Crift, that is our foules leche,
graunte you his pardon to receive.
For that is beft, I wol you not deceive.

But, Sires, o word forgate I in my Tale;
I have relikes and pardon in my male
As faire as any man in Engelond,
Which were me yeven by the Popes hond.
If any of you wol of devotion
Offren, and han my abfolution,

Cometh forth anon, and kneleth here adoun,
And mekely receiveth my pardoun;
Or elles taketh pardon as ye wende,
Al new and freshe at every tounes ende,
So that ye offren alway newe and newe
Nobles or pens which that ben good and trewe,
It is an honour to everich that is here
That ye moun have a fuffifant Pardonere
To affoilen you in contree as ye ride
For aventures which that moun betide.
Paraventure ther may falle on or two
Doun of his hors, and breke his necke atwo,
Loke, which a feurtee is it to you alle
That I am in your felawfhip yfallé,
That may affoile you both more and leffe,
Whan that the foule fhal fro the body passe.
I rede that our Hofte fhal beginne,
For he is most envoluped in finne.
Come forth, Sire Hofte, and offre first anon,
And thou shalt kiffe the relikes everich on,
Ye for a grote: unbokel anon thy purse.

Nay, nay, quod he; than have I Criftes curfer Let be, quod he; it fhal not be, fo the ich. Thou woldeft make me kiffe thin olde brech, And fwere it were a relike of a feint, Though it were with thy foundement depeint : But by the crois which that Seint Heleine fond I wolde I had thin coilons in min hond Inftede of relikes or of feintuarie. Let cut hem of, I wol thee help hem carie: They fhul be shrined in an hogges tord.

This Pardoner answered not a word;
So wroth he was no worde ne wolde he say.
Now, quod our Hofte, I wol no lenger play
With thee, ne with non other angry man.

But right anon the worthy knight began,
(Whan that he saw that all the peple lough)
No more of this, for it is right ynough.
Sire Pardoner, be mery and glad of chere
And ye, Sire Hofte, that ben to me fo dere,
I pray you that ye kiffe the Pardoner;
And, Pardoner, I pray thee draw thee ner,
And as we diden let us laugh and play.
Anon they kissed, and riden forth hir way,

Hij

OUR
Hofte his stirrops ftode anon,
upon
And faide, Good men, herkeneth everich on,
This was a thrifty Tale for the nones.

Sire Parish Preeft, quod he, for Goddes bones
Tell us a Tale, as was thy forward yore;

I fee wel that ye lerned men in lore
Can mochel good, by Goddes dignitée.

The Perfon him anfwerd, Benedicite!

What eileth the man fo finfully to fwere?

Our Hofte answerd, O Jankin! be ye there? Now good men, quod our Hofte, herkneth to me? I fmell a Loller in the wind, quod he: Abideth for Goddes digne paflion, For we fhul han a predication:

This Loller here wol prechen us fomwhat.

Nay, by my fathers foule, that shal he nat, Sayde the Shipman; here fhal he nat preche; He fhal no gofpel glofen here ne teche. We leven all in the gret God, quod he: He wolde fowen fom difficultee, Or fpringen cockle in our clene corne; And therefore Hofte, I warne thee beforne My joly body fhal a Tale telle, And I fhal clinken you so mery a belle That I fhal waken all this compagnie; But it fhal not ben of philofophie, Ne of phyfike, ne termes queinte of lawe? Ther is but litel Latin in my mawe.

A Marchant whilom dwelled at Seint Denise
That riche was, for which men held him wife:
A wif he had of excellent beautee,
And compaignable and revelous was fhe,
Which is a thing that caufeth more difpence
Than worth is all the chere and reverence
That men hem don at feftes and at dances:
Swiche falutations and contenances
Paffen as doth a fhadwe upon the wal;
But wo is him that payen mote for all.
The fely hufbond algate he mote pay,
He mote us clothe and he mote us array
All for his owen worship richely,
In which array we dancen jolily:
And if that he may not paraventure,
Ór elles luft not fwiche difpence endure,
But thinketh it is wafted and yloft,
'Than mote another payen for our cok,

Or lene us gold, and that is perilous.

This noble marchant held a worthy hous, For which he had all day fo gret repaire For his largeffe, and for his wif was faire, That wonder is. But herkeneth to my Tale.

Amonges all thife geftes gret and imale Ther was a monk, a faire man and a bold, I trow a thritty winter he was old, That ever in on was drawing to that place. This yonge monk, that was fo faire of face, Acquainted was fo with this goode man, Sithen that hire firfte knowlege began, That in his hous as familier was he As it poffibie is any frend to be. And for as mochel us this goode man And eke this monk of which that I began Were bothe two yborne in o village, The monk him claimeth as for colinage,

And he again him fayd not ones nay, But was as glad therof as foule of day, For to his herte it was a gret plefance. Thus ben they knit with eterne alliance, And eche of hem gan other for to enfure Of brotherhed while that hir lif may dure. Free was Dan John, and namely of difpence, As in that hous, and ful of diligence To don plefance, and also gret coftage: He not forgate to yave the lefte page In all that hous, but after hir degree He gave the lord aud fithen his meinee, Whan that he came, fom maner honeft thing, For which they were as glad of his coming As foule is fayn whan that the fonne up riseth, No more of this as now, for it sufficeth. But fo befell this marchant on a day Shope him to maken redy his array Toward the toun of Brugges for to fare, To byen ther a portion of ware, For which he hath to Paris fent anon A meffager, and praied hath Dan John That he fhuld come to Seint Denis, and pleie With him and with his wif a day or tweie, Or he to Brugges went, in all wife.

This noble monk, of which I you devise,
Hath of his abbot as him lift licence,
(Because he was a man of high prudence,
And eke an officer out for to ride
To feen hir granges and hir bernes wide)
And unto Seint Denis he cometh anon.
Who was fo welcome as my Lord Dan John,
Our dere coufin, ful of curtefie?

With him he brought a jubbe of Malvefie,
And eke another ful of fine Vernage,
And volatile, as ay was his usage.

And thus I let hem ete, and drinke, and pleye,
This marchant and this monk, a day or tweye.
The thridde day this marchant up arifeth,
And on his nedes fadly him avifeth,
And up into his countour hous goth he
Token with himfelven, wel may be,
Of thike yere how that it with him stood,
And how that he difpended had his good,
And if that he encrefed were or non.
Hs bookes and his bagges many on
He layeth beforn him on his counting bord.
Fui riche was his trefour and his hord,
For which ful fafte his countour dore he fhet,
And eke he n'olde no man fhuld him let
Of his accountes for the mene time;
And thus he fit til it was paffed prime.
Dan John was rifen in the morwe also,
And in the gardin walked to and fro,
And hath his thinges fayd ful curteifly.
This goode wif came walking prively
to the gardin ther he walketh foft,
And him falueth, as fhe hath don oft:
A maiden child came in hire compagnie,
Which as hire luft fhe may governe and gie,
For yet under the yerde was the maide.

O dere coufin min! Dan John, she saide,
What aileth you fo rathe for to arife?
Nece, quod he, it ought ynough fuffife

Five houres for to flepe upon a night,
But it were for an olde appalled wight,
As ben thise wedded men, that lie and dare,
As in a fourme fitteth a wery hare

Were al forstraught with houndes gret and fmale
But, dere nece! why be ye fo pale?

I trowe certes that our goode man
Hath you laboured fith this night began,
That you were nede to reften haftily.
And with that word he lough ful merily,
And of his owen thought he wexe all red.

This faire wif gan for to shake hire hed,
And faied thus; Ye, God wote all, quod fhe :
Nay, cofin min, it ftant not fo with me;
For by that God that yave me foule and lif
In all the reame of Fraunce is ther no wif
That laffe luft hath to that fery play,
For I may fing alas and wala wa

That I was borne! but to no wight (quod fhe)
Dare I not tell how that it ftant with me;
Wherfore I thinke out of this lond to wende,
Or elles of myfelf to make an ende,

So ful am I of drede and eke of care.

This monk began upon this wif to stare,
And fayd, Alas! my nece, God forbede
That ye for any forwe or any drede
Fordo yourfelf: but telleth me your grefe,
Paraventure I may in your mischefe
Confeile or helpe; and therfore telleth me
All your annoy, for it fhal ben fecree;
For on my portos here I make an oth
That never in my lif, for lefe ne loth,
Ne fhal I of no confeil you bewray.

The fame agen to you, quod fhe, I say.
By God and by this portos I you fwere,
Though men me wolden all in pieces tere,
Ne fhall I never, for to gon to helle,
Bewrey o word of thing that ye me tell;
Nought for no cofinage ne alliance,
But veraily for love and affiance.

Thus ben they fworne, and hereupon they kille
And eche of hem told other what hem lifte.

Cofin, quod fhe, if that I had a space, As I have non, and namely in this place, Than wold I tell a legend of my lif, What I have fuffred fith I was a wif With min husbond, al be he your cofin.

Nay, quod this monk, by God and Scint Martin He n'is no more cofin unto me

Than is the leef that hangeth on the tree;
I clepe him fo, by Seint Denis of France,
To han the more caufe of acquaintance
Of you, which I have loved fpecially
Aboven alle women fikerly;
This fwere I you on my profeffioun.
Telleth your grefe, left that he come adoun,
And hafteth you, and goth away anon.

My dere love! quod fhe, o my Dan John!
Fullefe were me this confeil for to hide,
But out it mote, I may no lenger abide.

Myn husbond is to me the werste man
That ever was fith that the world began:
But fith I am a wif, it fit not me
To tellen no wight of our privetee

Neither in bed ne in non other place;
God fhilde I fhulde it tellen for his grace:
A wif ne fhal not fayn of hire hufbond
But all honour, as I can understond;
Save unto you thus moch I tellen shal:
As helpe me God he is nought worth at all,
In no degree the value of a flie.

But yet me greveth most his nigardie:
And wel ye wot that women naturally
Defren thinges fixe as well as I ;

They wolden that hir hufbondes fhulden be
Hardy, and wife, and riche, and therto free,
And buxome to his wif, and fresh a-bedde.
But by that ilke Lord that for us bledde,
For his honour myfelven for to array,
A Sonday next I mufte nedes pay
An hundred franks, or elles am I lorne;
Yet were me lever that I were unborne
Than were don a felandre or vilanie.
And if min hufbond eke might it efpie
I n'ere but loft; and therfore I you prey
Lene me this fumme, or elles mote I dey;
Dan John, I fay, lene me this hundred frankes;
Parde I wol not faille you my thankes,
If that you lift to do that 1 you pray;
For at a certain day I wol you pay,
And do to you what plufance and fervice
That I may don, right as you lift devife;
And but I do God take on me vengeance
As foul as ever had Genelon of France.

This gentil monk arfwered in this manere;
Now trewely, min owen lady dere!

I have (qued he) on you fo grete a routhe,
That I you fwere, and plighte you my trouthe,
That whan your hufbond is to Flandres fare
I wol deliver you out of this care,
For I wol bringen you an hundred frankes.
And with that word he caught her by the flankes,
And hire embraced hard, and kifte hire oft.
Goth now your way, quod he, al ftille and foft,
And let us dine as fone as that ye may,
For by my kalender it is prime of day:
Goth now, and beth as trewe as I fhal be.

Now elles God forbede, Sire, quod fhe.
And forth the goth as joly as a pie,
And bad the cokes that they fhuld hem hie,
So that men mighten dine, and that anon.
Up to hire hufbend is this wif ygon,
And knocketh at his countour boldely.
Qui eft la quod he; Peter, it am I,
Quod fhe. What, Sire, how longe wol ye faft?
How longe time wol ye reken and caft
Your fummies, and your bookes, and your thinges?
The devil have part of ali fwiche rekeninges!
Ye han ynough parde of Goddes fonde.
Come doun-to-day, and let your bages ftonde.
Na be ye not afhamed that Dan John
Shal fafting all this day clenge gon?
What! let us here a maffe, and go we dine.
Wif, quod this man, litel canft thou divine
The curious befineffe that we have;
For of us chapmen, all fo God me fave,
And by that lord that cleped is Seint Ive,
Scarfly amonges twenty ten fhal thrive

Continuelly, lafting unto oure age.

We moun wel maken chere and good visage,
And driven forth the world as it may be,
And kepen oure eftat in privetee
Til we be ded, or elles that we play
A pilgrimage, or gon out of the way:
And therfore have I gret neceflitee
Upon this queinte world to avifen me;
For evermore mote we ftond in drede
Of hap and fortune in our chapmanhede.

To Flanders wol I go to-morwe at day,
And come agein as fone as ever I may,
For which, my dere wif! I thee befeke
As be to every wight buxom and meke,
And for to kepe our good be curious,
And honeftly governe wel our hous.
Thou haft ynough in every maner wife
That to a thrifty houfhold may fuffice.
Thee lacketh non array ne no vitaille;
Of filver in thy purfe fhalt thou not faille.
And with that word his countour dore he fhette,
And doun he goth; no lenger wold he lette;
And haftily a maffe was ther faide,
And fpedily the tables were ylaide,
And to the diner fafte they hem fpedde,
And richely this monk the chapman fedde,
And after diner Dan John fobrely
This chapman toke apart, and prively
He faid him thus; Cofin, it ftondeth fo
That wel I fee to Brugges ye wol go;
God and Seint Austin spede you and gide!
I pray you, cofin, wifely that ye ride;
Governeth you alfo of your diete
Attemprely, and namely in this hete.
Betwix us two nedeth no ftrange fare:
Farewel, cofin, God fhilde you fro care!
If any thing ther be by day or night,
If it lie in my power and my might,
That ye me wol command in any wife,
It fhal be don right as ye wol devifc.

But o thing or yc go, if it may be;
I wolde prayen you for to lene me
An hundred frankes for a weke or tweye,
For certain bestes that I mufte beye,

To floren with a place that is oures,

(God help me fo I wold that it were youres)

I fhal not faille furely of my day,
Not for a thousand frankes, a mile way.
But let this thing be fecree, I you preye;
For yet to-night thife beftes mote I beye.
And fare now wel, min owen cofin dere!
Grand mercy
of your
coft and of your chere.
This noble marchant gentilly anon
Antwerd and faid, O cofin min, Dan John!
Now fikerly this is a fmal requeste;
My gold is youres, whan that it you lefte,
And not only my gold but my chaffare:
Take what you left, God fhilde that ye spare,
But o thing is, ye know it wel ynough
Of chapmen that hir money is hir plough:
We moun creancen while we han a name,
But goodles for to ben it is no game.
Pay it agen whan it lith in your efe:
After my might ful fayn wold I you plefe.