Saide this yeman, and in wordes fewe,
Hoste, of his craft somwhat I wol you shewe.,
I say, my lord can swiche a subtiltee,
(But all his craft ye moun not wete of me,
And somwhat help I yet to his werking)
That all the ground on which we ben riding
Til that we come to Canterbury toun,
He coud al clene turnen up so doun,
And pave it all of silver and of gold.

And whan this yeman had this tale ytolde
Unto our hoste, he said; benedicite,
This thing is wonder mervaillous to me,
Sin that thy lord is of so high prudence,
Because of which men shulde him reverence,
That of his worship rekketh he so lite;
His overest sloppe it is not worth a mite
As in effect to him, so mote I go;
It is all baudy and to-tore also.
Why is thy lord so sluttish I thee preye,
And is of power better cloth to beye,
If that his dede acorded with thy speche?
Telle me that, and that I thee beseche.

Why? quod this yeman, wherto axe ye me?
God helpe me so, for he shal never the:
(But I wol not avowen that I say,
And therfore kepe it secree I you pray)
He is to wise in faith, as I beleve.
Thing that is overdon, it wol not preve
Aright, as clerkes sain, it is a vice;
Wherfore in that I hold him lewed and nice.
For whan a man hath overgret a wit,
Ful oft him happeth to misusen it:

So doth my lord, and that me greveth sore.
God it amende, I can say now no more.

Therof no force, good yeman, quod our host, Sin of the conning of thy lord thou wost, Telle how he doth, I pray thee hertily, Sin that he is so crafty and so sly. Wher dwellen ye, if it to tellen be?

In the subarbes of a toun, quod he,
Lurking in hernes and in lanes blinde,
Wheras thise robbours and thise theves by kinde
Holden hir privee fereful residence,
As they that dare not shewen hir presence,
So faren we, if I shal say the sothe.

Yet, quod our hoste, let me talken to the;
Why art thou so discoloured of thy face?
Peter, quod he, God yeve it harde grace,
I am so used the hote fire to blow,
That it hath changed my colour I trow;
I n'am not wont in no mirrour to prie,
But swinke sore, and lerne to multiplie.
We blundren ever, and poren in the fire,
And for all that we faille of our desire,
For ever we lacken our conclusion.
To mochel folk we don illusion,

And borwe gold, be it a pound or two,
Or ten or twelve, or many sommes mo,
And make hem wenen at the leste wey,
That of a pound we connen maken twey,
Yet is it false; and ay we han good hope
It for to don, and after it we grope:
But that science is so fer us beforne,
We mowen not, although we had it sworne,
It overtake, it slit away so fast;

It wol us maken beggers at the last.

While this yeman was thus in his talking. This Chanon drow him nere, and herd all thing

Which this yeman spake, for suspecion
Of mennes speche ever had this Chanon:
For Caton sayth, that he that gilty is,
Demeth all thing be spoken of him ywis:
That was the cause, he gan so nigh him drawe
To his yeman, to herken all his sawe,
And thus he saide unto his yeman tho;
Hold thou thy pees, and speke no wordes mo:
For if thou do, thou shalt it dere abie.
Thou sclaundrest me here in this compagnie,
And eke discoverest that thou shuldest hide.
Ye, quod our hoste, tell on, what so betide;
Of all his thretening recke not a mite.

In faith, quod he, no more I do but lite.
And whan this Chanon saw it wold not be,
But his yeman wold tell his privetee,
He fled away for veray sorwe and shame.

A, quod the yeman, here shal rise a game:
All that I can anon I wol you telle,
Sin he is gon; the foule fend him quelle;
For never hereafter wol I with him mete
For peny ne for pound, I you behete.
He that me broughte first unto that game,
Er that he die, sorwe have he and shame.
For it is ernest to me by my faith.
That fele I wel, what that any man saith;
And yet for all my smert, and all my grief,
For all my sorwe, labour, and meschief,
I coude never leve it in no wise.
Now wolde God my wit mighte suffice
To tellen all that longeth to that art;
But natheles, yet wol I tellen part;
Sin that my lord is gon, I wol not spare,
Swiche thing as that I know, I wol declare.

223

THE

CHANONES YEMANNES TALE.

WITH this Chanon I dwelt have seven yere,
And of his science am I never the nere:
All that I had, I have ylost therby,
And God wot, so han many mo than I.
Ther I was wont to be right fresh and gay
Of clothing, and of other good array,
Now I were an hose
may

upon

min hed;

And wher my colour was both fresh and red,
Now is it wan, and of a leden hewe;

(Who so it useth, so shal he it rewe)
And of my swinke yet blered is min eye;
Lo which avantage is to multiplie!

That sliding science hath me made so bare,
That I have no good, wher that ever I fare;
And yet I am endetted so therby
Of gold, that I have borwed trewely,
That while I live, I shal it quiten never;
Let every man be ware by me for ever.
What maner man that casteth him therto,
If he continue, I hold his thrift ydo;
So help me God, therby shal he nat winne,
But empte his purse, and make his wittes thinne.
And whan he, thurgh his madnesse and folie,
Hath lost his owen good thurgh jupartie,
Than he exciteth other folk therto,
To lese hir good as he himself hath do.
For unto shrewes joye it is and ese

To have hir felawes in peine and disese.

Thus was I ones lerned of a clerk;

Of that no charge; I wol speke of our werk,

Whan we be ther as we shuln exercise
Our elvish craft, we semen wonder wise,
Our termes ben so clergial and queinte.
I blow the fire til that myn herte feinte.
What shuld I tellen eche proportion
Of thinges, whiche that we werchen upon,
As on five or six unces, may wel be,
Of silver, or som other quantitee?
And besie me to tellen you
the names,
As orpiment, brent bones, yren squames,
That into poudre grounden ben ful smal?
And in an erthen pot how put is al,
And salt yput in, and also pepere,
Beforn thise poudres that I speke of here,
And wel ycovered with a lampe of glas?
And of moche other thing which that ther was?
And of the pottes and glasses engluting,
That of the aire might passen out no thing?
And of the esy fire, and smert also,

Which that was made? and of the care and wo,
That we had in our materes subliming,
And in amalgaming, and calcening
Of quiksilver, ycleped mercurie crude?
For all our sleightes we can not conclude,
Our orpiment, and sublimed mercurie,
Our grounden litarge eke on the porphurie,
Of eche of thise of unces a certain
Not helpeth us, our labour is in vain,
Ne, neyther our spirites ascentioun,
Ne our materes that lien al fix adoun,
Mown in our werking nothing us availle;
For lost is all our labour and travaille,
And all the cost a twenty devil way
Is lost also, which we upon it lay.