CHAUCER’S Reve’s Tale.

When all had laughed at this right foolish case Of Absalom and credulous Nicholas, [49] Diverse folk diversely their comments made. But, for the most part, they all laughed and played, Nor at this tale did any man much grieve, Unless indeed ’twas Oswald, our good Reve. Because that he was of the carpenter craft, In his heart still a little ire is left. He gan to grudge it somewhat, as scarce right; “So aid me!” quoth he; “I could such requite By throwing dust in a proud millers eye, If that I chose to speak of ribaldry. But I am old; I cannot play for age; Grass-time is done—my fodder is now forage; This white top sadly writeth mine old years; Mine heart is also mouldy’d as mine hairs: And since I fare as doth the medlar tree, That fruit which time grows ever the worse to be Till it be rotten in rubbish and in straw.

“We old men, as I fear, the same lot draw; Till we be rotten can we not be ripe. We ever hop while that the world will pipe; For in our will there sticketh ever a nail, To have a hoary head and a green tail, As hath a leek; for though our strength be lame, Our will desireth folly ever the same; For when our climbing’s done, our words aspire; Still in our ashes old is reeking fire. [50]

“Four hot coals have we, which I will express: Boasting, lying, anger, and covetousness. These burning coals are common unto age, Our old limbs well may stumble o’er the stage, But will shall never fail us, that is sooth. Still in my head was always a colt’s tooth, As many a year as now is passed and done, Since that my tap of life began to run. For certainly when I was born, I trow, Death drew the tap of life, and let it flow; And ever since the tap so fast hath run, That well-nigh empty now is all the tun. The stream of life but drips from time to time; The silly tongue may well ring out and chime Of wretchedness, that passéd is of yore: With aged folk, save dotage, there’s nought more.”

When that our Host had heard this sermoning, He gan to speak as lordly as a king; And said, “Why, what amounteth all this wit? What! shall we speak all day of Holy Writ? The devil can make a steward fit to preach, Or of a cobbler a sailor, or a leech. Say forth thy tale; and tarry not the time. Lo Deptford! and the hour is half-way prime: Lo Greenwich! there where many a shrew loves sin— It were high time thy story to begin.”

“Now, fair sirs,” quoth this Oswald, the old Reve, “I pray you all that you yourselves ne’er grieve, Though my reply should somewhat fret his nose; For lawful ’tis with force, force to oppose. This drunken Miller hath informed us here How that some folks beguiled a carpenter— Perhaps in scorn that I of yore was one. So, by your leave, him I’ll requite anon. In his own churlish language will I speak, And pray to Heaven besides his neck may break. A small stalk in mine eye he sees, I deem, But in his own he cannot see a beam.”

At Trumpington, near Cambridge, if you look, There goeth a bridge, and under that a brook, Upon which brook there stood a flour-mill; And this is a known fact that now I tell. A Miller there had dwelt for many a day; As any peacock he was proud and gay. He could pipe well, and fish, mend nets, to boot, Turn cups with a lathe, and wrestle well, and shoot. A Norman dirk, as brown as is a spade, Hung by his belt, and eke a trenchant blade. A jolly dagger bare he in his pouch: There was no man, for peril, durst him touch. A Sheffield clasp-knife lay within his hose. Round was his face, and broad and flat his nose. High and retreating was his bald ape’s skull: He swaggered when the market-place was full. There durst no wight a hand lift to resent it, But soon, this Miller swore, he should repent it.

A thief he was, forsooth, of corn and meal, A sly one, too, and used long since to steal. Disdainful Simkin was he called by name. A wife he had; of noble kin she came: The rector of the town her father was. With her he gave full many a pan of brass, That Simkin with his blood should thus ally. She had been brought up in a nunnery; For Simkin ne’er would take a wife, he said, Unless she were well tutored and a maid, To carry on his line of yeomanry: And she was proud and pert as is a pie. It was a pleasant thing to see these two: On holidays before her he would go, With his large tippet bound about his head; While she came after in a gown of red, And Simkin wore his long hose of the same. There durst no wight address her but as dame: None was so bold that passed along the way Who with her durst once toy or jesting play, Unless he wished the sudden loss of life Before Disdainful Simkin’s sword or knife. (For jealous folk most fierce and perilous grow; And this they always wish their wives to know.) But since that to broad jokes she’d no dislike She was as pure as water in a dyke, And with abuse all filled and froward air. She thought that ladies should her temper bear, Both for her kindred and the lessons high That had been taught her in the nunnery.

These two a fair and buxom daughter had, Of twenty years; no more since they were wed, Saving a child, that was but six months old; A little boy in cradle rocked and rolled. This daughter was a stout and well-grown lass, With broad flat nose, and eyes as grey as glass. Broad were her hips; her bosom round and high; But right fair was she here—I will not lie.

The rector of the town, as she was fair, A purpose had to make her his sole heir, Both of his cattle and his tenement; But only if she married as he meant. It was his purpose to bestow her high, Into some worthy blood of ancestry: For holy Church’s good must be expended On holy Church’s blood that is descended; Therefore he would his holy Church honour, Although that holy Church he should devour.

Great toll and fee had Simkin, out of doubt, With wheat and malt, of all the land about, And in especial was the Soler Hall— A college great at Cambridge thus they call— Which at this mill both wheat and malt had ground. And on a day it suddenly was found, Sick lay the Manciple of a malady; And men for certain thought that he must die. Whereon this Miller both of corn and meal An hundred times more than before did steal; For, ere this chance, he stole but courteously, But now he was a thief outrageously. The Warden scolded with an angry air; But this the Miller rated not a tare: He sang high bass, and swore it was not so!

There were two scholars young, and poor, I trow, That dwelt within the Hall of which I say. Headstrong they were and lusty for to play; And merely for their mirth and revelry, Out to the Warden eagerly they cry, That be should let them, for a merry round, Go to the mill and see their own corn ground, And each would fair and boldly lay his neck The Miller should not steal them half a peck Of corn by sleight, nor by main force bereave.

And at the last the Warden gave them leave: One was called John, and Allen named the other; From the same town they came, which was called Strauther, Far in the North—I cannot tell you where.

This Allen maketh ready all his gear, And on a horse the sack he cast anon: Forth go these merry clerks, Allen and John, With good sword and with buckler by their side. John knew the way, and needed not a guide; And at the mill the sack adown he layeth.

Allen spake first:—“Simon, all hail! in faith, How fares thy daughter, and thy worthy wife?” “Allen,” quoth Simkin, “welcome, by my life; And also John:—how now! what do ye here?” “Simon,” quoth John, “compulsion has no peer. They who’ve nae lackeys must themselves bestir, Or else they are but fools, as clerks aver. Our Manciple, I think, will soon be dead, Sae slowly work the grinders in his head; And therefore am I come with Allen thus, To grind our corn, and carry it hame with us: I pray you speed us, that we may be gone.”

Quoth Simkin, “By my faith it shall be done; What will ye do while that it is in hand?” “Gude’s life! right by the hopper will I stand,” (Quoth John), “and see how that the corn goes in. I never yet saw, by my father’s kin, How that the hopper waggles to and fro.”

Allen continued,—“John, and wilt thou so? Then will I be beneath it, by my crown, And see how that the meal comes running down Into the trough—and that shall be my sport. For, John, like you, I’m of the curious sort; And quite as bad a miller—so let’s see!”

This Miller smiled at their ’cute nicety, And thought,—all this is done but for a wile; They fancy that no man can them beguile: But, by my thrift, I’ll dust their searching eye, For all the sleights in their philosophy. The more quaint knacks and guarded plans they make, The more corn will I steal when once I take: Instead of flour, I’ll leave them nought but bran: The greatest clerks are not the wisest men. As whilom to the wolf thus spake the mare: Of all their art I do not count a tare.

Out at the door he goeth full privily, When that he saw his time, and noiselessly: He looketh up and down, till he hath found The clerks’ bay horse, where he was standing bound Under an ivy wall, behind the mill: And to the horse he goeth him fair and well, And strippeth off the bridle in a trice.

And when the horse was loose he ’gan to race Unto the wild mares wandering in the fen, With wehee! whinny! right through thick and thin! This Miller then returned; no word he said, But doth his work, and with these clerks he played, Till that their corn was well and fairly ground. And when the meal is sacked and safely bound John goeth out, and found his horse was gone, And cried aloud with many a stamp and groan, “Our horse is lost! Allen, ’od’s banes! I say, Up on thy feet!—come off, man—up, away! Alas! our Warden’s palfrey, it is gone!”

Allen at once forgot both meal and corn— Out of his mind went all his husbandry— “What! whilk way is he gone?” he ’gan to cry.

The Miller’s wife came laughing inwardly, “Alas!” said she, “your horse i’ the fens doth fly After wild mares as fast as he can go! Ill-luck betide the man that bound him so, And his that better should have knit the rein.”

“Alas!” quoth John, “good Allen, haste amain; Lay down thy sword, as I will mine also; Heaven knoweth I am as nimble as a roe; He shall not ’scape us baith, or my saul’s dead! Why didst not put the horse within the shed? By the mass, Allen, thou’rt a fool, I say!”

Those silly clerks have scampered fast away Unto the fen; Allen and nimble John: And when the Miller saw that they were gone, He half a bushel of their flour doth take, And bade his wife go knead it in a cake. He said, “I trow these clerks feared what they’ve found; Yet can a miller turn a scholar round For all his art. Yea, let them go their way! See where they run! yea, let the children play: They get him not so lightly, by my crown.”

The simple clerks go running up and down, With “Soft, soft!—stand, stand!—hither!—back! take care! Now whistle thou, and I shall keep him here!” But, to be brief, until the very night They could not, though they tried with all their might, The palfrey catch; he always ran so fast: Till in a ditch they caught him at the last.

Weary and wet as beasts amid the rain, Allen and John come slowly back again. “Alas,” quoth John, “that ever I was born! Now are we turned into contempt and scorn. Our corn is stolen; fools they will us call; The Warden, and our college fellows all, And ’specially the Miller—’las the day!”

Thus plaineth John while going by the way Toward the mill, the bay nag in his hand. The Miller sitting by the fire they found, For it was night: no further could they move; But they besought him, for Heaven’s holy love, Lodgment and food to give them for their penny.

And Simkin answered, “If that there be any, Such as it is, yet shall ye have your part. My house is small, but ye have learnéd art; Ye can, by arguments, well make a place A mile broad, out of twenty foot of space! Let’s see now if this place, as ’tis, suffice; Or make more room with speech, as is your guise.” “Now, Simon, by Saint Cuthbert,” said this John, “Thou’rt ever merry, and that’s answered soon. I’ve heard that man must needs choose o’ twa things; Such as he finds, or else such as he brings. But specially I pray thee, mine host dear, Let us have meat and drink, and make us cheer, And we shall pay you to the full, be sure: With empty hand men may na’ hawks allure. Lo! here’s our siller ready to be spent!”

The Miller to the town his daughter sent For ale and bread, and roasted them a goose; And bound their horse; he should no more get loose; And in his own room made for them a bed, With blankets, sheets, and coverlet well spread: Not twelve feet from his own bed did it stand. His daughter, by herself, as it was planned, In a small passage closet, slept close by: It might no better be, for reasons why,— There was no wider chamber in the place. They sup, and jest, and show a merry face, And drink of ale, the strongest and the best. It was just midnight when they went to rest.

Well hath this Simkin varnished his hot head; Full pale he was with drinking, and nought red. He hiccougheth, and speaketh through the nose, As with the worst of colds, or quinsy’s throes. To bed he goeth, and with him trips his wife; Light as a jay, and jolly seemed her life, So was her jolly whistle well ywet. The cradle at her bed’s foot close she set To rock, or nurse the infant in the night. And when the jug of ale was emptied quite, To bed, likewise, the daughter went anon: To bed goes Allen; with him also John. All’s said: they need no drugs from poppies pale, This Miller hath so wisely bibbed of ale; But as an horse he snorteth in his sleep, And blurteth secrets which awake he’d keep. His wife a burden bare him, and full strong: Men might their routing hear a good furlóng. The daughter routeth else, par compagnie.

Allen, the clerk, that heard this melody, Now poketh John, and said, “Why sleepest thou? Heardest thou ever sic a song ere now? Lo, what a serenade’s among them all! A wild-fire red upon their bodies fall! Wha ever listened to sae strange a thing? The flower of evil shall their ending bring. This whole night there to me betides no rest. But, courage yet, all shall be for the best; For, John,” said he, “as I may ever thrive, To pipe a merrier serenade I’ll strive In the dark passage somewhere near to us; For, John, there is a law which sayeth thus,— That if a man in one point be aggrieved, Right in another he shall be relieved: Our corn is stolen—sad yet sooth to say— And we have had an evil bout to-day; But since the Miller no amends will make, Against our loss we should some payment take. His sonsie daughter will I seek to win, And get our meal back—de’il reward his sin! By hallow-mass it shall no otherwise be!”

But John replied, “Allen, well counsel thee: The Miller is a perilous man,” he said, “And if he wake and start up from his bed, He may do both of us a villainy.” “Nay,” Allen said, “I count him not a flie!” And up he rose, and crept along the floor Into the passage humming with their snore: As narrow was it as a drum or tub. And like a beetle doth he grope and grub, Feeling his way with darkness in his hands, Till at the passage-end he stooping stands.

John lieth still, and not far off, I trow, And to himself he maketh ruth and woe. “Alas,” quoth he, “this is a wicked jape! Now may I say that I am but an ape. Allen may somewhat quit him for his wrong: Already can I hear his plaint and song; So shall his ’venture happily be sped, While like a rubbish-sack I lie in bed; And when this jape is told another day, I shall be called a fool, or a cokenáy! I will adventure somewhat, too, in faith: ‘Weak heart, worse fortune,’ as the proverb saith.”

And up he rose at once, and softly went Unto the cradle, as ’twas his intent, And to his bed’s foot bare it, with the brat. The wife her routing ceased soon after that, And woke, and left her bed; for she was pained With nightmare dreams of skies that madly rained. Eastern astrologers and clerks, I wis, In time of Apis tell of storms like this. Awhile she stayed, and waxeth calm in mind; Returning then, no cradle doth she find, And gropeth here and there—but she found none. “Alas,” quoth she, “I had almost misgone! I well-nigh stumbled on the clerks a-bed: Eh benedicite! but I am safely sped.” And on she went, till she the cradle found, While through the dark still groping with her hand.

Meantime was heard the beating of a wing, And then the third cock of the morn ’gan sing. Allen stole back, and thought, “Ere that it dawn I will creep in by John that lieth forlorn.” He found the cradle in his hand, anon. “Gude Lord!” thought Allen, “all wrong have I gone! My head is dizzy with the ale last night, And eke my piping, that I go not right. Wrong am I, by the cradle well I know: Here lieth Simkin, and his wife alsó.” And, scrambling forthright on, he made his way Unto the bed where Simkin snoring lay! He thought to nestle by his fellow John, And by the Miller in he crept, anon, And caught him by the neck, and ’gan to shake, And said, “Thou John! thou swine’s head dull, awake! Wake, by the mass! and hear a noble game, For, by St. Andrew! to thy ruth and shame, I have been trolling roundelays this night, And won the Miller’s daughter’s heart outright, Who hath me told where hidden is our meal: All this—and more—and how they always steal; While thou hast as a coward lain aghast!”

“Thou slanderous ribald!” quoth the Miller, “hast? A traitor false, false lying clerk!” quoth he, “Thou shalt be slain by heaven’s dignity, Who rudely dar’st disparage with foul lie My daughter that is come of lineage high!” And by the throat he Allen grasped amain; And caught him, yet more furiously, again, And on his nose he smote him with his fist! Down ran the bloody stream upon his breast, And on the floor they tumble, heel and crown, And shake the house—it seemed all coming down. And up they rise, and down again they roll; Till that the Miller, stumbling o’er a coal, Went plunging headlong like a bull at bait, And met his wife, and both fell flat as slate. “Help, holy cross of Bromeholm!” loud she cried, “And all ye martyrs, fight upon my side! In manus tuas—help!—on thee I call! Simon, awake! the fiend on me doth fall: He crusheth me—help!—I am well-nigh dead: He lieth along my heart, and heels, and head. Help, Simkin! for the false clerks rage and fight!”

Now sprang up John as fast as ever he might, And graspeth by the dark walls to and fro To find a staff: the wife starts up alsó. She knew the place far better than this John, And by the wall she caught a staff anon. She saw a little shimmering of a light, For at an hole in shone the moon all bright, And by that gleam she saw the struggling two, But knew not, as for certain, who was who, Save that she saw a white thing in her eye. And when that she this white thing ’gan espy, She thought that Allen did a nightcap wear, And with the staff she drew near, and more near, And, thinking ’twas the clerk, she smote at full Disdainful Simkin on his bald ape’s skull. Down goes the Miller, crying, “Harow, I die!” These clerks they beat him well, and let him lie. They make them ready, and take their horse anon, And eke their meal, and on their way are gone; And from behind the mill-door took their cake, Of half a bushel of flour—a right good bake.

The God of Love—ah, benedicite! How mighty and how great a Lord is he! For he of low hearts can make high, of high He can make low, and unto death bring nigh; And hard hearts he can make them kind and free.

Within a little time, as hath been found, He can make sick folk whole and fresh and sound; Them who are whole in body and in mind He can make sick,—bind can he and unbind All that he will have bound, or have unbound.

To tell his might my wit may not suffice; Foolish men he can make them out of wise;— For he may do all that he will devise; Loose livers he can make abate their vice, And proud hearts can make tremble in a trice.

In brief, the whole of what he will, he may; Against him dare not any wight say nay; To humble or afflict whome’er he will, To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill; But most his might he sheds on the eve of May.

For every true heart, gentle heart and free, That with him is, or thinketh so to be, Now against May shall have some stirring—whether To joy, or be it to some mourning; never At other time, methinks, in like degree.

For now when they may hear the small birds’ song, And see the budding leaves the branches throng. This unto their remembrance doth bring All kinds of pleasure mixed with sorrowing, And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long.

And of that longing heaviness doth come, Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and home; Sick are they all for lack of their desire; And thus in May their hearts are set on fire, So that they burn forth in great martyrdom.

In sooth, I speak from feeling, what though now Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow; Yet have I felt of sickness through the May, Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every day,— How hard, alas! to bear, I only know.

Such shaking doth the fever in me keep, Through all this May that I have little sleep; And also ’tis not likely unto me, That any living heart should sleepy be In which love’s dart its fiery point doth steep.

But tossing lately on a sleepless bed, I of a token thought which lovers heed; How among them it was a common tale, That it was good to hear the nightingale, Ere the vile cuckoo’s note be utteréd.

And then I thought anon as it was day, I gladly would go somewhere to essay If I perchance a nightingale might hear, For yet had I heard none, of all that year, And it was then the third night of the May.

And soon as I a glimpse of day espied, No longer would I in my bed abide, But straightway to a wood, that was hard by, Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly, And held the pathway down by a brook-side;

Till to a lawn I came all white and green, I in so fair a one had never been. The ground was green, with daisy powdered over; Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover, All green and white; and nothing else was seen.

There sate I down among the fresh fair flowers, And saw the birds come tripping from their bowers, Where they had rested them all night; and they, Who were so joyful at the light of day, Began to honour May with all their powers.

Well did they know that service all by rote, And there was many and many a lovely note; Some singing loud, as if they had complained; Some with their notes another manner feigned; And some did sing all out with the full throat.

They pruned themselves, and made themselves right gay, Dancing and leaping light upon the spray; And ever two and two together were, The same as they had chosen for the year, Upon Saint Valentine’s returning day.

Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sate upon, Was making such a noise as it ran on Accordant to the sweet birds’ harmony; Methought that it was the best melody Which ever to man’s ear a passage won.

And for delight, but how I never wot, I in a slumber and a swoon was caught, Not all asleep, and yet not waking wholly; And as I lay, the Cuckoo bird unholy Broke silence, or I heard him in my thought.

And that was right upon a tree fast by, And who was then ill-satisfied but I? “Now, God,” quoth I, “that died upon the rood, From thee and thy base throat, keep all that’s good, Full little joy have I now of thy cry.”

And, as I with the Cuckoo thus ’gan chide, In the next bush that was me fast beside, I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing, That her clear voice made a loud rioting, Echoing thorough all the green wood wide.

“Ah! good sweet Nightingale! for my heart’s cheer, Hence hast thou stayed a little while too long; For we have heard the sorry Cuckoo here, And she hath been before thee with her song; Evil light on her! she hath done me wrong.”

But hear you now a wondrous thing, I pray; As long as in that swooning fit I lay, Methought I wist right well what these birds meant, And had good knowing both of their intent, And of their speech, and all that they would say.

The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake: “Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake And, prithee, let us that can sing dwell here; For every wight eschews thy song to hear, Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make.”

“What!” quoth she then, “what is’t that ails thee now? It seems to me I sing as well as thou; For mine’s a song that is both true and plain,— Although I cannot quaver so in vain As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not how.

“All men may understanding have of me, But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee; For thou hast many a foolish and quaint cry:— Thou say’st Osee, Osee; then how may I Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may be?”

“Ah, fool!” quoth she, “wist thou not what it is? Oft as I say Osee, Osee, I wis, Then mean I, that I should be wondrous fain That shamefully they one and all were slain, Whoever against Love mean aught amiss.

“And also would I that they all were dead Who do not think in love their life to lead; For who is loth the God of Love to obey Is only fit to die, I dare well say, And for that cause Osee I cry; take heed!”

“Ay,” quoth the Cuckoo, “that is a quaint law, That all must love or die; but I withdraw, And take my leave of all such company, For mine intent it neither is to die, Nor ever while I live Love’s yoke to draw.

“For lovers of all folk that be alive, The most disquiet have and least do thrive; Most feeling have of sorrow’s woe and care, And the least welfare cometh to their share; What need is there against the truth to strive?”

“What!” quoth she, “thou art all out of thy mind, That in thy churlishness a cause canst find To speak of Love’s true Servants in this mood; For in this world no service is so good To every wight that gentle is of kind.

“For thereof comes all goodness and all worth; All gentleness and honour thence come forth; Thence worship comes, content and true heart’s pleasure, And full-assuréd trust, joy without measure, And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth:

“And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy, And seemliness, and faithful company, And dread of shame that will not do amiss; For he that faithfully Love’s servant is, Rather than be disgraced, would choose to die.

“And that the very truth it is which I Now say—in such belief I’ll live and die; And Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice.” “Then,” quoth she, “let me never hope for bliss, If with that counsel I do e’er comply.

“Good Nightingale! thou speakest wondrous fair, Yet, for all that, the truth is found elsewhere; For Love in young folk is but rage, I wis; And Love in old folk a great dotage is; Whom most it useth, him ’twill most impair.

“For thereof come all contraries to gladness; Thence sickness comes, and overwhelming sadness, Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate, Dishonour, shame, envy importunate, Pride, anger, mischief, poverty and madness.

“Loving is aye an office of despair, And one thing is therein which is not fair; For whoso gets of love a little bliss, Unless it alway stay with him, I wis He may full soon go with an old man’s hair.

“And, therefore, Nightingale! do thou keep nigh, For trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry, If long time from thy mate thou be, or far, Thou’lt be as others that forsaken are; Then shalt thou raise a clamour as do I.”

“Fie,” quoth she, “on thy name, Bird ill beseen! The God of Love afflict thee with all teen, For thou art worse than mad a thousandfold; For many a one hath virtues manifold Who had been nought, if Love had never been.

“For evermore his servants Love amendeth, And he from every blemish them defendeth; And maketh them to burn, as in a fire, In loyalty and worshipful desire, And when it likes him, joy enough them sendeth.”

“Thou Nightingale!” the Cuckoo said, “be still; For Love no reason hath but his own will;— For to th’ untrue he oft gives ease and joy; True lovers doth so bitterly annoy, He lets them perish through that grievous ill.

“With such a master would I never be, For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see, And knows not when he hurts and when he heals; Within this court full seldom truth avails, So diverse in his wilfulness is he.”

Then of the Nightingale did I take note, How from her inmost heart a sigh she brought, And said, “Alas! that ever I was born, Not one word have I now, I am so forlorn,”— And with that word, she into tears burst out.

“Alas, alas! my very heart will break,” Quoth she, “to hear this churlish bird thus speak Of Love, and of his holy services; Now, God of Love! thou help me in some wise, That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak.”

And so methought I started up anon, And to the brook I ran, and got a stone, Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast, And he for dread did fly away full fast; And glad, in sooth, was I when he was gone.

And as he flew, the Cuckoo ever and aye Kept crying, “Farewell!—farewell, popinjay!” As if in scornful mockery of me; And on I hunted him from tree to tree, Till he was far, all out of sight, away.

Then straightway came the Nightingale to me, And said, “Forsooth, my friend, do I thank thee, That thou wert near to rescue me; and now, Unto the God of Love I make a vow, That all this May I will thy songstress be.”

Well satisfied, I thanked her, and she said, “By this mishap no longer be dismayed, Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou heard’st me; Yet if I live it shall amended be, When next May comes, if I am not afraid.

“And one thing will I counsel thee alsó, The Cuckoo trust not thou, nor his Love’s saw; All that she said is an outrageous lie.” “Nay, nothing shall me bring thereto,” quoth I, “For Love, and it hath done me mighty woe.”

“Yea, hath it? Use,” quoth she, “this medicine, This May-time, every day before thou dine, Go look on the fresh daisy; then say I, Although for pain thou may’st be like to die, Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop and pine.

“And mind always that thou be good and true, And I will sing one song, of many new, For love of thee, as loud as I may cry;” And then did she begin this song full high, “Beshrew all them that are in love untrue.”

And soon as she had sung it to the end, “Now farewell,” quoth she, “for I hence must wend; And, God of Love, that can right well and may, Send unto thee as mickle joy this day As ever he to lover yet did send.”

Thus takes the Nightingale her leave of me; I pray to God with her always to be, And joy of love to send her evermore; And shield us from the Cuckoo and her lore, For there is not so false a bird as she.

Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightingale, To all the birds that lodged within that dale, And gathered each and all into one place; And them besought to hear her doleful case, And thus it was that she began her tale:—

“The Cuckoo—’tis not well that I should hide How she and I did each the other chide, And without ceasing, since it was daylight; And now I pray you all to do me right Of that false Bird whom Love can not abide.”

Then spake one Bird, and full assent all gave: “This matter asketh counsel good as grave, For birds we are—all here together brought; And, in good sooth, the Cuckoo here is not; And therefore we a parliament will have.

“And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord, And other Peers whose names are on record; A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent, And judgment there be given; or that intent Failing, we finally shall make accord.

“And all this shall be done, without a nay, The morrow after Saint Valentine’s day, Under a maple that is well beseen, Before the chamber-window of the Queen, At Woodstock, on the meadow green and gay.”

She thankéd them; and then her leave she took, And flew into a hawthorn by that brook; And there she sate and sung—upon that tree,— “For term of life Love shall have hold of me!” So loudly, that I with that song awoke.

Unlearned Book and rude, as well I know, For beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence, Who did on thee the hardiness bestow To appear before my Lady? but a sense Thou surely hast of her benevolence, Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth give; For of all good, she is the best alive.

Alas, poor Book! for thy unworthiness, To show to her some pleasant meanings writ In winning words, since through her gentleness, Thee she accepts as for her service fit; Oh! it repents me I have neither wit Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give; For of all good, she is the best alive.

Beseech her meekly with all lowliness, Though I be far from her I reverence, To think upon my truth and steadfastness, And to abridge my sorrow’s violence, Caused by the wish, as knows your sapience, She of her liking, proof to me would give; For of all good, she is the best alive.

Pleasure’s Aurora, Day of gladsomeness! Lucerne, by night, with heavenly influence Illumined! root of beauty and goodness, Write, and allay, by your beneficence, My sighs breathed forth in silence,—comfort give! Since of all good, you are the best alive.

In ancient Chronicle I read:— About a King, as it must need, There was of Knights and of Squiërs Great rout, and eke of Officers. Some for a long time him had served, And thought that they had well deserved Advancement, but had gone without; And some also were of the Rout That only came the other day And were advanced without delay. Those Older Men upon this thing, So as they durst, against the King Among themselves would murmur oft. But there is nothing said so soft That it shall not come out at last, The King soon knew what Words had passed. A King he was of high Prudénce, He shaped therefore an Evidence Of them that plained them in that case, To know of whose Default it was. And all within his own intent, That not a man knew what it meant, He caused two Coffers to be made Alike in Shape, and Size, and Shade, So like that no man, by their Show, The one may from the other know. They were into his Chamber brought, But no man knew why they were wrought; Yet from the King Command hath come That they be set in private Room, For he was in his Wisdom keen. When he thereto his time had seen, Slily, away from all the rest, With his own hands he filled one Chest, Full of fine Gold and Jewelry The which out of his Treasury Was taken; after that he thrust Into the other Straw and Dust, And filled it up with Stones also; Full Coffers are they, both the two.

And early then upon a day He bade within doors where he lay That there should be before his Bed A Board set up and fairly spread. The Coffers then he let men get, And on the Board he had them set. Full well he knew the Names of those Whose Murmurings against him rose, Both of his Chamber and his Hall, And speedily sent for them all, And said unto them in this wise:

“There shall no man his Hap despise; I know well that ye long have served, And God knows what ye have deserved. Whether it is along of me That ye still unadvancéd be, Or whether it belong of you, The Sooth is to be provéd now, Wherewith to stop your Evil Word. Lo here two Coffers on the Board, Of both the two choose which you will, And know that ye may have your fill Of Treasure heaped and packed in one, That if ye happen thereupon Ye shall be made Rich Men for ever. Now choose and take which you is liever. But be well ware, ere that ye take,— For of the one I undertake There is no manner good therein Whereof ye might a Profit win. Now go together of one assent And take your own Advisément. Whether I you this day advance Stands only on your Choice and Chance. No question here of Royal Grace, It shall be showéd in this place Upon you all, and well and fine, If Fortune fails by Fault of mine.”

They all kneel down, and with one voice They thank the King for this free Choice; And after this they up arise And go aside and them advise, And at the last they all accord; Whereof their Finding to record To what Issue their Voices fall, A Knight shall answer for them all.

He kneeleth down unto the King And saith, that they upon this thing Or for to win or for to lose Are all decided how to choose. Then took this Knight a Rod in hand And goes to where the Coffers stand, And with the Assent of every one He layeth his Rod upon one, And tells the King they only want Him that for their Reward to grant, And pray him that they might it have. The King, who would his Honour save, When he hath heard the common Voice, Hath granted them their own free Choice, And gave them thereupon the Key. But as he would that men might see What Good they got, as they suppose, He bade anon the Coffer unclose,— Which was filled full with Straw and Stone; Thus are they served, the Luck’s their own.

“Lo,” saith the King, “now may ye see That there is no Default in me; Therefore myself I will acquit, Bear ye the Blame now, as is fit, For that which Fortune you refused.” Thus was this wise old King excused, And they left off their evil Speech, And Mercy of their King beseech.

Touching like matter to the quick, I find a Tale how Frederick, At that time Emperor of Rome, Heard, as he went, a Clamour come From two poor Beggars on the way. The one of them began to say, “Ha, Lord, the man is rich indeed To whom a King’s Wealth brings his Speed!” The other said, “It is not so, But he is rich and well-to-do To whom God pleases Wealth to send.” And thus their Words went without end, Whereto this Lord hath given ear And caused both Beggars to appear Straight at his Palace, there to eat; And bade provide them for their Meat Two Pasties which men were to make, And in the one a Capon bake, And in the other, Wealth to win, Of Florins all that may within He bade them put a great Richésse, And just alike, as one may guess, Outward they were, to Sight of Men.

This Beggar was commanded then, He that had held him to the King, That he first choose upon this thing. He saw them, but he felt them not, So that upon his single Thought He chose the Capon, and forsook That other, which his Fellow took.

But when he wist how that it fared, He said aloud, that men it heard: “Now have I certainly conceived That he may lightly be deceived Who puts his trust in Help of Man. He’s rich whom God helps, for he can Stand ever on the safer side That else on Vain Hope had relied. I see my Fellow well supplied, And still a Poor Man I abide.” Thus spake the Beggar his intent, And poor he came, and poor he went; Of all the Riches that he sought His evil Fortune gave him nought.

And right as it with those men stood, Of evil Hap in worldly Good, As thou hast heard me tell above, Right so, full oft, it stands by Love; Though thou desire it evermore Thou shalt not have a whit the more, But only what is meant for thee, Of all the rest not worth a Pea. And yet a long and endless Row There be of Men who covet so That whereas they a Woman see, To ten or twelve though there may be, The Love is now so little wise That where the Beauty takes his Eyes Anon the Man’s whole Heart is there And whispers Tales into her Ear, And says on her his Love is set, And thus he sets him to covet. A hundred though he saw a day, So would he have more than he may; In each of them he finds somewhat That pleaseth him, or this or that. Some one, for she is white of skin, Some one, for she is noble of kin, Some one, for she hath a ruddy cheek, Some one, for that she seemeth meek, Some one, for that her eyes are gray, Some one, for she can laugh and play, Some one, for she is long and small, Some one, for she is lithe and tall, Some one, for she is pale and bleach, Some one, for she is soft of speech, Some one, for that her nose turns down, Some one, for that she hath a frown, Some one, for she can dance and sing; So that of what he likes something He finds, and though no more he feel But that she hath a little heel, It is enough that he therefore Her love; and thus an hundred score While they be new he would he had, Whom he forsakes, she shall be bad. So the Blind Man no Colour sees, All’s one to take as he may please; And his Desire is darkly minded Whom Covetise of Love hath blinded.