The Canterbury Tales, and Other Poems
Right as I was wont for to do’n,
And fell asleepe wonder soon,
As he that *weary was for go*<5> *was weary from going*
On pilgrimage miles two
To the corsaint* Leonard, *relics of <6>
To make lithe that erst was hard.
But, as I slept, me mette I was
Within a temple made of glass;
In which there were more images
Of gold, standing in sundry stages,
And more riche tabernacles,
And with pierrie* more pinnacles, *gems
And more curious portraitures,
And *quainte manner* of figures *strange kinds*
Of golde work, than I saw ever.
But, certainly, I wiste* never *knew
Where that it was, but well wist I
It was of Venus readily,
This temple; for in portraiture
I saw anon right her figure
Naked floating in a sea, <7>
And also on her head, pardie,
Her rose garland white and red,
And her comb to comb her head,
Her doves, and Dan Cupido,
Her blinde son, and Vulcano, <8>
That in his face was full brown.
As he “roamed up and down,” the dreamer saw on the wall a
tablet of brass inscribed with the opening lines of the Aeneid;
while the whole story of Aeneas was told in the “portraitures”
and gold work. About three hundred and fifty lines are devoted
to the description; but they merely embody Virgil’s account of
Aeneas’ adventures from the destruction of Troy to his arrival in
Italy; and the only characteristic passage is the following
reflection, suggested by the death of Dido for her perfidious but
fate-compelled guest:
Lo! how a woman doth amiss,
To love him that unknowen is!
For, by Christ, lo! thus it fareth,
It is not all gold that glareth.* *glitters
For, all so brook I well my head,
There may be under goodlihead* *fair appearance
Cover’d many a shrewed* vice; *cursed
Therefore let no wight be so nice* *foolish
To take a love only for cheer,* *looks
Or speech, or for friendly mannere;
For this shall ev’ry woman find,
That some man, *of his pure kind,* *by force of his nature
Will showen outward the fairest,
Till he have caught that which him lest;* *pleases
And then anon will causes find,
And sweare how she is unkind,
Or false, or privy* double was. *secretly
All this say I by* Aeneas *with reference to
And Dido, and her *nice lest,* *foolish pleasure*
That loved all too soon a guest;
Therefore I will say a proverb,
That he that fully knows the herb
May safely lay it to his eye;
Withoute dread,* this is no lie. *doubt
When the dreamer had seen all the sights in the temple, he
became desirous to know who had worked all those wonders,
and in what country he was; so he resolved to go out at the
wicket, in search of somebody who might tell him.
When I out at the doores came,
I fast aboute me beheld;
Then saw I but a large feld,* *open country
As far as that I mighte see,
WIthoute town, or house, or tree,
Or bush, or grass, or ered* land, *ploughed <9>
For all the field was but of sand,
As small* as men may see it lie *fine
In the desert of Libye;
Nor no manner creature
That is formed by Nature,
There saw I, me to *rede or wiss.* *advise or direct*
“O Christ!” thought I, “that art in bliss,
From *phantom and illusion* *vain fancy and deception*
Me save!” and with devotion
Mine eyen to the heav’n I cast.
Then was I ware at the last
That, faste by the sun on high,
*As kennen might I* with mine eye, *as well as I might discern*
Me thought I saw an eagle soar,
But that it seemed muche more* *larger
Than I had any eagle seen;
This is as sooth as death, certain,
It was of gold, and shone so bright,
That never saw men such a sight,
But if* the heaven had y-won, *unless
All new from God, another sun;
So shone the eagle’s feathers bright:
And somewhat downward gan it light.* *descend, alight
The Second Book opens with a brief invocation of Venus and
of Thought; then it proceeds:
This eagle, of which I have you told,
That shone with feathers as of gold,
Which that so high began to soar,
I gan beholde more and more,
To see her beauty and the wonder;
But never was there dint of thunder,
Nor that thing that men calle foudre,* *thunderbolt
That smote sometimes a town to powder,
And in his swifte coming brenn’d,* *burned
That so swithe* gan descend, *rapidly
As this fowl, when that it beheld
That I a-roam was in the feld;
And with his grim pawes strong,
Within his sharpe nailes long,
Me, flying, at a swap* he hent,** *swoop *seized
And with his sours <10> again up went,
Me carrying in his clawes stark* *strong
As light as I had been a lark,
How high, I cannot telle you,
For I came up, I wist not how.
The poet faints through bewilderment and fear; but the eagle,
speaking with the voice of a man, recalls him to himself, and
comforts him by the assurance that what now befalls him is for
his instruction and profit. Answering the poet’s unspoken
inquiry whether he is not to die otherwise, or whether Jove will
him stellify, the eagle says that he has been sent by Jupiter out
of his “great ruth,”
“For that thou hast so truely
So long served ententively* *with attentive zeal
His blinde nephew* Cupido, *grandson
And faire Venus also,
Withoute guuerdon ever yet,
And natheless hast set thy wit
(Although that in thy head full lite* is) *little
To make bookes, songs, and ditties,
In rhyme or elles in cadence,
As thou best canst, in reverence
Of Love, and of his servants eke,
That have his service sought, and seek,
And pained thee to praise his art,
Although thou haddest never part; <11>
Wherefore, all so God me bless,
Jovis holds it great humbless,
And virtue eke, that thou wilt make
A-night full oft thy head to ache,
In thy study so thou writest,
And evermore of love enditest,
In honour of him and praisings,
And in his folke’s furtherings,
And in their matter all devisest,* *relates
And not him nor his folk despisest,
Although thou may’st go in the dance
Of them that him list not advance.
Wherefore, as I said now, y-wis,
Jupiter well considers this;
And also, beausire,* other things; *good sir
That is, that thou hast no tidings
Of Love’s folk, if they be glad,
Nor of naught elles that God made;
And not only from far country
That no tidings come to thee,
But of thy very neighebours,
That dwellen almost at thy doors,
Thou hearest neither that nor this.
For when thy labour all done is,
And hast y-made thy reckonings, <12>
Instead of rest and newe things,
Thou go’st home to thy house anon,
And, all so dumb as any stone,
Thou sittest at another book,
Till fully dazed* is thy look; *blinded
And livest thus as a hermite
Although thine abstinence is lite.”* <13> *little
Therefore has Jove appointed the eagle to take the poet to the
House of Fame, to do him some pleasure in recompense for his
devotion to Cupid; and he will hear, says the bird,
“When we be come there as I say,
More wondrous thinges, dare I lay,* *bet
Of Love’s folke more tidings,
Both *soothe sawes and leasings;* *true sayings and lies*
And more loves new begun,
And long y-served loves won,
And more loves casually
That be betid,* no man knows why, *happened by chance
But as a blind man starts a hare;
And more jollity and welfare,
While that they finde *love of steel,* *love true as steel*
As thinketh them, and over all weel;
More discords, and more jealousies,
More murmurs, and more novelties,
And more dissimulations,
And feigned reparations;
And more beardes, in two hours,
Withoute razor or scissours
Y-made, <14> than graines be of sands;
And eke more holding in hands,* *embracings
And also more renovelances* *renewings
Of old *forleten acquaintances;* *broken-off acquaintanceships*
More love-days,<15> and more accords,* *agreements
Than on instruments be chords;
And eke of love more exchanges
Than ever cornes were in granges.”* *barns
The poet can scarcely believe that, though Fame had all the pies
[magpies] and all the spies in a kingdom, she should hear so
much; but the eagle proceeds to prove that she can.
First shalt thou heare where she dwelleth;
And, so as thine own booke telleth, <16>
Her palace stands, as I shall say,
Right ev’n in middes of the way
Betweene heav’n, and earth, and sea,
That whatsoe’er in all these three
Is spoken, *privy or apert,* *secretly or openly*
The air thereto is so overt,* *clear
And stands eke in so just* a place, *suitable
That ev’ry sound must to it pace,
Or whatso comes from any tongue,
Be it rowned,* read, or sung, *whispered
Or spoken in surety or dread,* *doubt
Certain *it must thither need.”* *it must needs go thither*
The eagle, in a long discourse, demonstrates that, as all natural
things have a natural place towards which they move by natural
inclination, and as sound is only broken air, so every sound
must come to Fame’s House, “though it were piped of a mouse”
— on the same principle by which every part of a mass of water
is affected by the casting in of a stone. The poet is all the while
borne upward, entertained with various information by the bird;
which at last cries out —
“Hold up thy head, for all is well!
Saint Julian, lo! bon hostel! <17>
See here the House of Fame, lo
May’st thou not heare that I do?”
“What?” quoth I. “The greate soun’,”
Quoth he, “that rumbleth up and down
In Fame’s House, full of tidings,
Both of fair speech and of chidings,
And of false and sooth compouned;* *compounded, mingled
Hearken well; it is not rowned.* *whispered
Hearest thou not the greate swough?”* *confused sound
“Yes, pardie!” quoth I, “well enough.”
And what sound is it like?” quoth he
“Peter! the beating of the sea,”
Quoth I, “against the rockes hollow,
When tempests do the shippes swallow.
And let a man stand, out of doubt,
A mile thence, and hear it rout.* *roar
Or elles like the last humbling* *dull low distant noise
After the clap of a thund’ring,
When Jovis hath the air y-beat;
But it doth me for feare sweat.”
“Nay, dread thee not thereof,” quoth he;
“It is nothing will bite thee,
Thou shalt no harme have, truly.”
And with that word both he and I
As nigh the place arrived were,
As men might caste with a spear.
I wist not how, but in a street
He set me fair upon my feet,
And saide: “Walke forth apace,
And take *thine adventure or case,* *thy chance of what
That thou shalt find in Fame’s place.” may befall*
“Now,” quoth I, “while we have space
To speak, ere that I go from thee,
For the love of God, as telle me,