15 Chaucer’s The Manciple Tale

Middle English

The Manciple’s Prologue

Woot ye nat where ther stant a litel toun 1
Which that ycleped is bobbe-up-and-doun, 2
Under the blee, in caunterbury weye? 3
Ther gan oure hooste for to jape and pleye, 4
And seyde, sires, what! dun is in the myre! 5
Is ther no man, for preyere ne for hyre, 6
That wole awake oure felawe al bihynde? 7
A theef myghte hym ful lightly robbe and bynde. 8
See how he nappeth! see how, for cokkes bones, 9
That he wol falle fro his hors atones! 10
Is that a cook of londoun, with meschaunce? 11
Do hym come forth, he knoweth his penaunce; 12
For he shal telle a tale, by my fey, 13
Although it be nat worth a botel hey. 14
Awake, thou cook, quod he, God yeve thee sorwe! 15
What eyleth thee to slepe by the morwe? 16
Hastow had fleen al nyght, or artow dronke? 17
Or hastow with som quene al nyght yswonke, 18
So that thow mayst nat holden up thyn heed? 19
This cook, that was ful pale and no thyng reed, 20
Seyde to oure hoost, so God my soule blesse, 21
As ther is falle on me swich hevynesse, 22
Noot I nat why, that me were levere slepe 23
Than the beste galon wyn in chepe. 24
Wel, quod the maunciple, if it may doon ese 25
To thee, sire cook, and to no wight displese, 26
Which that heere rideth in this compaignye, 27
And that oure hoost wole, of his curteisye, 28
I wol as now excuse thee of thy tale. 29
For, in good feith, thy visage is ful pale, 30
Thyne eyen daswen eek, as that me thynketh, 31
And, wel I woo, thy breeth ful soure stynketh: 32
That sheweth wel thou art nat wel disposed. 33
Of me, certeyn, thou shalt nat been yglosed. 34
See how he ganeth, lo! this dronken wight, 35
As though he wolde swolwe us anonright. 36
Hoold cloos thy mouth, man, by thy fader kyn! 37
The devel of helle sette his foot therin! 38
Thy cursed breeth infecte wole us alle. 39
Fy, stynkyng swyn! fy, foule moote thee falle! 40
A! taketh heede, sires, of this lusty man. 41
Now, sweete sire, wol ye justen atte fan? 42
Therto me thynketh ye been wel yshape! 43
I trowe that ye dronken han wyn ape, 44
And that is whan men pleyen with a straw. 45
And with this speche the cook wax wrooth and wraw, 46
And on the manciple he gan nodde faste 47
For lakke of speche, and doun the hors hym caste, 48
Where as he lay, til that men hym up took. 49
This was a fair chyvachee of a cook! 50
Allas! he nadde holde hym by his ladel! 51
And er that he agayn were in his sadel, 52
Ther was greet showvyng bothe to and fro 53
To lifte hym up, and muchel care and wo, 54
So unweeldy was this sory palled goost. 55
And to the manciple thanne spak oure hoost: 56
By cause drynke hath dominacioun 57
Upon this man, by my savacioun, 58
I trowe he lewedly wolde telle his tale. 59
For, were it wyn, or oold or moysty ale, 60
That he hath dronke, he speketh in his nose, 61
And fneseth faste, and eek he hath the pose. 62
He hath also to do moore than ynough 63
To kepen hym and his capul out of the slough; 64
And if he falle from his capul eftsoone, 65
Thanne whal we alle have ynogh to doone 66
In liftyng up his hevy dronken cors. 67
Telle on thy tale; of hym make I no fors. 68
But yet, manciple, in feith thou art to nyce, 69
Thus openly repreve hym of his vice. 70
Another day he wole, peraventure, 71
Reclayme thee and brynge thee to lure; 72
I meene, he speke wole of smale thynges, 73
As for to pynchen at thy rekenynges, 74
That were nat honest, if it cam to preef. 75
No, quod the manciple, that were a greet mescheef! 76
So myghte he lightly brynge me in the snare. 77
Yet hadde I levere payen for the mare 78
Which he rit on, than he sholde with me stryve. 79
I wol nat wratthen hym, also moot I thryve! 80
That that I spak, I seyde it in my bourde. 81
And wite ye what? I have heer in a gourde 82
A draghte of wyn, ye, of a ripe grape, 83
And right anon ye shul seen a good jape. 84
This cook shal drynke therof, if I may. 85
Up peyne of deeth, he wol nat seye me nay. 86
And certeynly, to tellen as it was, 87
Of this vessel the cook drank faste, allas! 88
What neded hym? he drank ynough biforn. 89
And whan he hadde pouped in this horn, 90
To the manciple he took the gourde agayn; 91
And of that drynke the cook was wonder fayn, 92
And thanked hym in swich wise as he koude. 93
Thanne gan oure hoost to laughen wonder loude, 94
And seyde, I se wel it is necessarie, 95
Where that we goon, good drynke with us carie; 96
For that wol turne rancour and disese 97
T’ acord and love, and many a wrong apese. 98
O thou bacus, yblessed be thy name, 99
That so kanst turnen ernest into game! 100
Worshipe and thank be to thy deitee! 101
Of that mateere ye gete namoore of me. 102
Telle on thy tale, manciple, I thee preye. 103
Wel, sire, quod he, now herkneth what I seye. 104

The Manciple’s Tale

Whan phebus dwelled heere in this erthe adoun, 105
As olde bookes maken mencioun, 106
He was the mooste lusty bachlier 107
In al this world, and eek the beste archer. 108
He slow phitoun, the serpent, as he lay 109
Slepynge agayn the soone upon a day; 110
And many another noble worthy dede 111
He with his bowe wroghte, as men may rede. 112
Pleyen he koude on every mynstralcie, 113
And syngen, that it was a melodie 114
To heeren of his cleere voys the soun. 115
Certes the kyng of thebes, amphioun, 116
That with his syngyng walled that citee, 117
Koude nevere syngen half so wel as hee. 118
Therto he was the semelieste man 119
That is or was, sith that the world bigan. 120
What nedeth is his fetures to discryve? 121
For in this world was noon so faire on-lyve. 122
He was therwith fulfild of gentillesse, 123
Of honour, and of parfit worthynesse. 124
This phebus, that was flour of bachilrie, 125
As wel in fredom as in chivalrie, 126
For his desport, in signe eek of victorie 127
Of phitoun, so as telleth us the storie, 128
Was wont to beren in his hand a bowe. 129
Now hadde this phebus in his hous a crowe 130
Which in a cage he fostred many a day, 131
And taughte it speken, as men teche a jay. 132
Whit was this crowe as in a snow-whit swan, 133
And countrefete the speche of every man 134
He koude, whan he sholde telle a tale. 135
Therwith in al this world no nyghtygale 136
Ne koude, by an hondred thousand deel, 137
Syngen so wonder myrily and weel. 138
Now hadde this phebus in his hous a wyf 139
Which that he lovede moore than his lyf, 140
And nyght and day dide evere his diligence 141
Hir for to plese, and doon hire reverence, 142
Save oonly, if the sothe that I shal sayn. 143
Jalous he was, and wolde have kept hire fayn. 144
For hym were looth byjaped for to be, 145
And so is every wight in swich degree; 146
But al in ydel, for it availleth noght. 147
A good wyf, that is clene of werk and thought, 148
Sholde nat been kept in noon awayt, certayn; 149
And trewely, the labour is in vayn 150
To kepe a shrewe, for it wol nat bee. 151
This holde I for a verray nycetee, 152
To spille labour for to kepe wyves: 153
Thus writen olde clerkes in hir lyves. 154
But now to purpos, as I first bigan: 155
This worthy phebus dooth al that he kan 156
To plesen hire, wenynge for swich plesaunce, 157
And for his manhede and his governaunce, 158
That no man sholde han put hym from hir grace. 159
But God it woot, ther may no man embrace 160
As to destreyne a thyng which that nature 161
Hath natureelly set in a creature. 162
Taak any bryd, and put it in a cage, 163
And do al thyn entente and thy corage 164
To fostre it tendrely with mete and drynke 165
Of alle deyntees that thou kanst bithynke, 166
And keep it al so clenly as thou may, 167
Although his cage of gold be never so gay, 168
Yet hath this brid, by twenty thousand foold, 169
Levere in a forest, that is rude and coold, 170
Goon ete wormes and swich wrecchednesse. 171
For evere this brid wol doon his bisynesse 172
To escape out of his cage, yif he may. 173
His libertee this brid desireth ay. 174
Lat take a cat and fostre hym wel with milk 175
And tendre flessh, and make his couche of silk, 176
And lat hym seen a mous go by the wal, 177
Anon he weyveth milk and flessh and al, 178
And every deyntee that is in that hous, 179
Swich appetit hath he to ete a mous. 180
Lo heere hath lust his dominacioun, 181
And appetit fleemeth discrecioun, 182
A she-wolf hath also a vileyns knyde. 183
The lewedeste wolf that she may fynde, 184
Or leest of reputacoun, wol she take, 185
In tyme whan hir lust to han a make. 186
Alle thise ensamples speke I by thise men 187
That been untrewe, and nothyng by wommen. 188
For men han evere a likerous appetit 189
On lower thyng to parfourne hire delit 190
Than on hire wyves, be they never so faire, 191
Ne never so trewe, ne so debonaire. 192
Flessh is so newefangel, with meschaunce, 193
That we ne konne in nothyng han plesaunce 194
That sowneth into vertu any while. 195
This phebus, which that thoghte upon no gile, 196
Deceyved was, for al his jolitee. 197
For under hym another hadde shee, 198
A man of litel reputacioun, 199
Nat worth to phebus in comparisoun. 200
The moore harm is, it happeth ofte so, 201
Of which ther cometh muchel harm and wo. 202
And so bifel, whan phebus was absent, 203
His wyf anon hath for hir lemman sent. 204
Hir lemman? certes, this is a knavyssh speche! 205
Foryeveth it me, and that I yow biseche. 206
The wise plato seith, as ye may rede, 207
The word moot nede accorde with the dede. 208
If men shal telle proprely a thyng. 209
The word moot cosyn be to the werkyng. 210
I am a boystous man, right thus seye I, 211
Ther nys no difference, trewely, 212
Bitwixe a wyf that is of heigh degree, 213
If of hir body dishonest she bee, 214
And a povre wenche, oother than this — 215
If it so be they werke bothe amys — 216
But that the gentile, in estaat above, 217
She shal be cleped his lady, as in love; 218
And for that oother is a povre womman, 219
She shal be cleped his wenche or his lemman, 220
And, God it woot, myn owene deere brother. 221
Men leyn that oon as lowe as lith that oother. 222
Right so bitwixe a titleees tiraunt 223
And an outlawe, or a theef erraunt, 224
The same I seye, ther is no difference. 225
To alisaundre was toold this sentence, 226
That, for the tirant is of gretter myght, 227
By force of meynee, for to sleen dounright, 228
And brennen hous and hoom, and make al playn, 229
Lo, therfore is he cleped a capitayn; 230
And for the outlawe hath but smal meynee, 231
And may nat doon so greet an harm as he, 232
Ne brynge a contree to so greet mescheef, 233
Men clepen hym an outlawe or a theef. 234
But, for I am a man noght textueel, 235
I wold noght telle of textes never a deel; 236
I wol go to my tale, as I bigan. 237
Whan phebus wyf had sent for hir lemman, 238
Anon they wroghten al hir lust volage. 239
The white crowe, that heeng ay in the cage. 240
Biheeld hire werk, and seyde never a word. 241
And whan that hoom was come phebus, the lord, 242
This crowe sang cokkow! cokkow! cokkow! 243
What bryd! quod phebus, what song dyngestow? 244
Ne were thow wont so myrily to synge 245
That to myn herte it was a rejoysynge 246
To heere thy voys? allas! what song is this? 247
By god! quod he, I synge nat amys. 248
Phebus, quod he, for al thy worthynesse, 249
For al thy beautee and thy gentilesse, 250
For al thy song and al thy mynstralcye, 251
For al thy waityng, blered is thyn ye 252
With oon of litel reputacioun, 253
Noght worth to thee, as in comparisoun, 254
The montance of a gnat, so moote I thryve! 255
For on thy bed thy wyf I saugh hym swyve. 256
What wol ye moore? the crowe anon hym tolde, 257
By sadde tokenes and by wordes bolde, 258
How that his wyf had doon hire lecherye, 259
Hym to greet sham and to greet vileynye; 260
And tolde hym ofte he saugh it with his yen. 261
His phebus gan aweyward for to wryen, 262
And thoughte his sorweful herte brast atwo. 263
His bowe he bente, and sette therinne a flo, 264
And in his ire his wyf thanne hath he slayn. 265
This is th’ effect, ther is namoore to sayn; 266
For sorwe of which he brak his mynstralcie, 267
Bothe harpe, and lute, and gyterne, and sautrie; 268
And eek he brak his arwes and his bowe, 269
And after that thus spak he to the crowe; 270
Traitour, quod he, with tonge of scorpioun, 271
Thou hast me broght to my confusioun; 272
Allas, that I was wroght! why nere I deed? 273
O deere wyf! o gemme of lustiheed! 274
That were to me so sad and eek so trewe, 275
Now listow deed, with face pale of hewe, 276
Ful gilteless, that dorste I swere, ywys! 277
O rakel hand, to doon so foule amys! 278
O trouble wit, o ire recchelees, 279
That unavysed smyteth gilteles! 280
O wantrust, ful of fals suspecion, 281
Where was thy wit and thy discrecion? 282
O every man, be war of rakelinesse! 283
Ne trowe no thyng withouten strong witnesse. 284
Smyt nat to soone, er that ye witen why, 285
And beeth avysed wel and sobrely 286
Er ye doon any execucion 287
Upon youre ire for suspecion. 288
Allas! a thousand folk hath rakel ire 289
Fully fordoon, and broght hem in the mire. 290
Allas! for sorwe I wol myselven slee! 291
And to crowe, o false theef! seyde he, 292
I wol thee quite anon thy false tale. 293
Thou songe whilom lyk a nyghtyngale; 294
Now shaltow, false theef, thy song forgon, 295
And eek thy white fetheres everichon, 296
Ne nevere in al thy life ne shaltou speke. 297
Thus shal men on a traytour been awreke; 298
Thou and thyn ofspryng evere shul be blake, 299
Ne nevere sweete noyse shul ye make, 300
But evere crie agayn tempest and rayn, 301
In tokenynge that thurgh thee my wyf is slayn. 302
And to the crowe he stirte, and that anon, 303
And pulled his white fetheres everychon, 304
And made hym blak, and refte hym al his song, 305
And eek his speche, and out at dore hym slong 306
Unto the devel, which I hym bitake; 307
And for this caas been alle crowes blake. 308
Lordynges, by this ensamble I yow preye, 309
Beth war, and taketh kep what that ye seye: 310
Ne telleth nevere no man in youre lyf 311
How that another man hath dight his wyf; 312
He wol yow haten mortally, certeyn. 313
Daun salomon, as wise clerkes seyn, 314
Techeth a man to kepen his tonge weel. 315
, but as I seyde, I am noght textueel. 316
But nathelees, thus taughte me my dame: 317
My sone, thenk on the crowe, a goodes name! 318
My sone, keep wel thy tonge, and keep thy freend. 319
A wikked tonge is worse than a feend; 320
My sone, from a feend men may hem blesse. 321
My sone, God of his endelees goodnesse 322
Walled a tonge with teeth and lippes eke, 323
For man sholde hym avyse what he speeke. 324
My sone, ful ofte, for to muche speche 325
Hath many a man been spilt, as clerkes teche; 326
But for litel speche avysely 327
Is no man shent, to speke generally. 328
My sone, thy tonge sholdestow restreyne 329
At alle tymes, but whan thou doost thy peyne 330
To speke of god, in honour and preyere. 331
The firste vertu, sone, if thou wolt leere, 332
Is to restreyne and kepe wel thy tonge; 333
Thus lerne children whan that they been yonge. 334
My sone, of muchel spekyng yvele avysed, 335
Ther lasse spekyng hadde ynough suffised, 336
Comth muchel harm; thus was me toold and taught. 337
In muchel speche synne wanteth naught. 338
Wostow wherof a rakel tonge serveth? 339
Right as a swerd forkutteth and forkerveth 340
An arm a-two, my deere done, right so 341
A tonge kutteth freendshipe al a-two. 342
A jangler is to God abhomynable. 343
Reed salomon, so wys and honurable; 344
Reed david in his psalmes, reed senekke. 345
My sone, spek nat, but with thyn heed thou bekke. 346
Dissimule as thou were deef, if that thou heere 347
A janglere speke of perilous mateere. 348
The flemyng seith, and lerne it if thee leste, 349
That litel janglyng causeth muchel reste. 350
My sone, if thou no wikked word hast seyd, 351
Thee thar nat drede for to be biwreyd; 352
But he that hath mysseyd, I dar wel sayn, 353
He may by no wey clepe his word agayn. 354
Thyng that is seyd is seyd, and forth it gooth, 355
Though hym repente, or be hym nevere so looth. 356
He is his thral to whom that he hath sayd 357
A tale of which he is now yvele apayd. 358
My sone, be war, and be noon auctour newe 359
Of tidynges, wheither they been false or trewe. 360
Whereso thou come, amonges hye or lowe, 361
Kepe wel thy tonge, and thenk upon the crowe. 362

Translation

The Manciple’s Prologue

Do you all know where stands a little town
Which everybody calls Bob-Up-and-Down,
Under the Blean, down Canterbury way?
There our Host began to jest and play,
And said: ‘Sires, we’re stuck! Dun’s in the mire!
Is there no man, for prayer or for hire,
Will wake our friend sleeping there behind?
A thief as now might easily rob him blind.
Look at him napping! See how, God’s bones,
He’ll tumble from his horse onto the stones!
Is that the London Cook, cursed mischance?
Make him come forth, and do his penance,
For he shall tell a tale too, by my faith,
Although it’s not worth a barrow of hay.
Awake, thou Cook!’ quoth he, ‘God give you sorrow!
What ails you to sleep this fine morrow?
Did fleas bite you all night? Or are you drunk?
Or had you a harlot all night in your bunk,
So you’ve not the strength to lift your head?’
The Cook, who was full pale and nothing red,
Said to our Host: ‘So God my soul may bless,
There fell upon me such a heaviness –
I know not why – I’d rather have my sleep
Than the best barrel of wine in Westcheap.’
‘Well,’ quoth the Manciple, ‘it it may ease
Your pain, Sir Cook, and no one else displease
That rides among us in this company,
And if our Host agrees, of his courtesy,
I will for now excuse you of your tale.
For in good faith your visage is full pale.
Your eyes are dull as well now, methinks,
And I find your breath full sour it stinks;
It’s obvious that you are indisposed.
By me, for certain, you’d not be proposed!
See how he yawns now, this drunken knight,
As though he would swallow us all aright.
Close your mouth man, by your father’s kin!
The devil from Hell has set his foot therein!
Your cursed breath will soon infect us all.
Fie, stinking swine, to foulness you’ll fall!
Ah, take heed, sires, of this gallant man!
Now, sweet sire, will you joust at the fan?
It looks as if you’re in perfect shape!
I’d say you’re as drunken as an ape,
That’s when men suck wine out with a straw.’
At this speech the Cook grew wrath and raw,
At the Manciple he shook his head full fast
For lack of speech, and off the horse him cast,
Where he lay a-sprawling, till someone took
Him up: this was a fair horseman of a cook!
Alas, he couldn’t hold on by his ladle!
And, ere he was once more in the saddle,
There was much shoving, both to and fro,
To get him up, a deal of care and woe,
So helpless was this sorry pallid ghost.
And to the Manciple then spoke our Host:
‘Because drink has the domination
Of this poor man, by my salvation,
I think but poorly he’d tell his tale.
Whether it’s wine or old or fresh-brewed ale
That he’s drunk, he’s speaking through his nose,
And wheezing hard, and like to have a cold.
He’s more than enough to do right now
To keep him and his horse from the slough;
And if he falls from his horse a time or two,
Then we shall all have enough to do
In lifting of his heavy drunken carcase.
Tell on your tale; he’s nothing to the purpose.
– Yet, Manciple, it’s hardly my advice
To openly reprove him for his vice.
Another day, he will, peradventure,
Reclaim you, and call you to the lure.
I mean, he’ll chatter about little things,
Such as small errors in your reckonings,
All not quite honest, if it came to proof.’
‘What,’ quoth the Manciple, ‘is that the truth!
So might he easily catch me in a snare.
Well now, I’d rather pay him for the mare
He rides on, than have him with me strive.
I’ll not anger him so, as I would thrive!
Whatever I spoke, I said but jesting word.
And know you now I have here in a gourd
A draught of wine, yea, of a ripened grape,
And right anon you’ll see a merry jape.
The Cook must drink thereof, indeed, I say;
On pain of death, he shall not say me nay.’
And certainly, to tell this as it was,
The Cook drank from it fast enough – alas!
What need, since he’d been drunk all the morn?
And when he had tooted on this merry horn,
To the Manciple he gave the gourd again;
And with that drink the Cook was free of pain,
And thanked him, best as he could, and bowed.
Then our Host began to laugh wondrous loud,
And said: ‘I see now, that it’s necessary,
When we go abroad, good drink to carry,
For it will turn all rancour and distress
To peace and love, and many a wrong redress.
O Bacchus, now thus blessed be your name,
That can so make of earnestness a game!
Worship and thanks be to your deity!
Of all that now you’ll get no more of me;
Tell on your tale, sir Manciple, I pray.’
‘Well, sire,’ quoth he, ‘now hark to what I say.’

The Manciple’s Tale

When Phoebus had on earth his habitation,
As the ancient books are pleased to mention,
He was the most gallant of bachelors
In all this world, and the best of archers.
He slew Python, the serpent, as he lay
Sleeping on the ground one sunny day.
And many another noble worthy deed
He wrought with his great bow, as men may read.
And every instrument of minstrelsy,
He could play, and sing, that a melody
It was merely to hear his clear voice sound.
In truth, the King of Thebes, Amphion,
Who with his singing walled a city,
Could never sing half so well as he.
And also he was the handsomest man
That is, or was, since all the world began.
What need his noble features to describe?
– For in this world was none so fair alive,
He was filled full, as well, with nobleness,
With honour, and perfect courteousness.
This Phoebus, the flower of chivalry
And noted as well for magnanimity,
To sport himself – and mark his victory
Over Python, so runs the old story –
Was wont to carry in his hand a bow.
Now Phoebus in his house he had a crow,
That in a cage he nurtured many a day,
And taught to speak, as men will teach a jay.
White was this crow as is a snow-white swan,
And counterfeited the speech of every man
Whenever he set out to tell a tale.
And too, in all this world, no nightingale
Could in a hundred thousandth part excel
In singing so wondrous sweet and well.
Now in his house this Phoebus had a wife,
Whom he loved more than his very life,
And night and day he showed his diligence
In pleasing her, and doing her reverence;
Except for the fact that, truth to say,
He was jealous, and in a gilded cage
Would have kept her, and live undeceived.
And so is every man to some degree;
But all in vain, for it avails us naught.
A good wife who’s chaste in deed and thought,
Should not be spied upon, that’s for certain;
And truly it is labour all in vain
To keep watch on a bad one, can’t succeed.
This I hold as foolishness indeed,
To waste labour keeping watch on wives.
– Thus the ancients wrote throughout their lives.
Now to my purpose, as I first began:
This noble Phoebus does the best he can
To please her, thinking to dance attendance,
And that with his courtesy and governance,
No man would eclipse him from her grace.
But, God knows, no man can embrace
With restraints anything that nature
Has naturally implanted in a creature.
Take a bird: imprison him in a cage,
And all your care and your intent engage
On feeding him tenderly with meat and drink,
And every dainty of which you can think,
And keep him there as tidily as you may,
Although his gilded cage be never so gay,
Yet would the bird twenty thousand fold
Prefer his forest, however harsh and cold,
A diet of worms, and other nastiness.
Forever this bird will be about the business
Of escaping from his cage, if he may;
His liberty the bird desires, I say.
Or take a cat, and nurture it well on milk
And tender flesh, and make his bed of silk,
Let him but see a mouse by the wall –
Anon he abandons milk and flesh and all,
And every dainty thing that’s in the house,
Such is his appetite to eat a mouse!
Lo, here has desire its domination,
And appetite banishes discretion.
She-wolves too are of the baser kind:
The coarsest wolf that she may find,
Or least in reputation, will she take,
When the time comes to find a mate.
All these examples are aimed at men
Who prove untrue, in no way at women.
For men have ever a lecherous appetite
On lower things to perform their delight
Than on their wives, be they ever so fair,
Or be they ever so true, and debonair.
Flesh is so fond of novelty – sad mischance! –
Newfangledness finds nothing in the glance
That’s in accord with virtue, for any while.
This Phoebus, who was innocent of guile,
Was deceived, despite that he was comely,
For under him another man had she,
He a man of little reputation,
Not worth Phoebus in comparison.
More is the harm, it happens often so,
From which there comes much harm and woe.
So it befell, when Phoebus was absent,
His wife anon for her cocksman sent.
Her cocksman? Indeed, a knavish speech!
Forgive me the term, I do beseech
Plato, the wise, says this, as you may read:
The word should ever accord with the deed.
If a man would speak rightly of a thing,
The word must be cousin to the doing.
I’m a blunt man, and right thus say I:
There is no difference, to my eye,
Between a wife who is of high degree,
If with her body she dishonest be,
And a poor wench, lower than all this –
If it so be they both do go amiss –
Except that the gentlewoman above,
Will be called his lady, as in love,
But the other who’s a poor woman,
Shall be called his wench or his lemman.
Yet God knows, my own dear brother,
Men lay the one as low as lies the other.
Just as between a usurping tyrant
And an outlaw or a thief arrant,
The same appertains; there’s no difference.
Alexander the Great heard just this sentence:
That because a tyrant has great might,
By force of armies to slay outright,
And burn house and home, and scorch the plain,
Lo he’s a mighty general, men explain;
But the outlaw with a tiny company,
Who may not do as great harm as he,
Nor bring a country to such great mischief,
Men label him an outlaw or a thief.
But as I am unlearned, not textual,
Never a word of texts shall I tell;
I’ll return to the tale that I began.
When Phoebus’ wife had sent for her man,
Anon they wrought their lust to assuage.
The white crow, who hung there in his cage
Beheld the work, but spoke never a word.
But when home was come Phoebus his lord,
The crow sang out: ‘Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!’
What, bird?’ quoth Phoebus, ‘What song sing you?
Were you not wont so merrily to sing
That to my heart it was all rejoicing
To hear your voice? Alas, what song is this?’
‘By God,’ quoth he, I sing naught amiss!
Phoebus, ‘quoth he, ‘for all your worthiness,
For all your beauty and your nobleness,
For all your song and all your minstrelsy,
For all your watching, your eye’s deceived
By a man of little reputation,
One not worth you, in comparison,
Not even worth a gnat, by my life!
For on your bed I saw him have your wife.’
What more do you wish? The crow anon told,
With serious proof and with words bold,
How his wife had indulged in lechery,
Bringing him to great shame and misery,
Said he’d often seen it with his own eyes.
Then Phoebus turned away, his thoughts awry,
And felt his sorrowful heart might break in two;
His bow he bent, and set therein an arrow,
And in his anger then his wife did slay –
That was the outcome: there’s no more to say.
For sorrow he broke his tools of minstrelsy,
His harp and lute, gittern and psaltery,
And then he broke his arrows and his bow.
And after that thus spoke he to the crow:
‘Traitor,’ quoth he, ‘with tongue of scorpion,
You have brought me to my confusion!
Alas that I was born! Would I were dead!
O dear wife, O gem of joy now sped,
Who were to me so constant and so true,
Now you lie dead with face pale of hue,
All guiltless – that I dare swear, of this!
O reckless hand, to strike so far amiss!
O troubled mind! O anger heedless,
Thoughtlessly to smite the guiltless!
O mistrust, full of false suspicion!
Where was your reason and discretion?
O, every man, now, beware of rashness!
Believe nothing without strong witness.
Smite not too soon, ere you know why,
And take thought, with a sober eye,
Ere you indulge in execution,
In anger, born of mere suspicion.
Alas, a thousand folk has reckless ire
Destroyed, and hurled them in the mire!
Alas, of sorrow I’ll perish utterly!’
And to the crow: ‘O, false thief!’ said he,
‘I will repay you now for your false tale.
Once you sang like to the nightingale;
Now shall you, false thief, your song forgo,
And all your white feathers, shall lose also,
Never through all your life shall you speak.
Thus shall we on a traitor vengeance wreak!
You and your offspring ever shall be black,
With no sweet sound shall you answer back,
But ever croak, foretelling storm and rain,
As sign that through you my wife was slain.’
And to the crow he went, and that anon,
And pulled out his white feathers every one,
And made him black, and took away his song,
And his speech too, and out of doors he’s gone
To the devil: that he might take him back.
And for this reason so are all crows black.
Lordings, of this example I you pray,
Beware, and be careful what you say:
And never tell a man, thus, on your life,
That another man has been with his wife.
He will hate you mortally, for certain.
King Solomon, as the clerks explain,
Teaches a man to guard his tongue well –
Though as I said, I am not textual –
Nevertheless, thus taught to me, my dame:
‘My son, think of the crow, in God’s name!
My son, keep your counsel and keep your friend.
A wicked tongue is one the fiend doth send;
My son, against the fiend a man may bless!
My son, God, of his eternal goodness,
Walled the tongue too with lips and teeth,
For a man should be careful what he speaks.
My son, full often by a careless speech
Has many a man been ruined, clerks do teach,
But by saying little, and advisedly,
No man is ruined, speaking generally.
My son, your tongue you should restrain
At all times, except when you take pain
To speak of God in honour and prayer.
The first virtue, son, be you aware,
Is to restrain, and guard well your tongue;
So children learn when they are young.
My son, from much speaking, ill-advised,
Where less speech would have sufficed,
Comes much harm: so I was told and taught.
Too much speaking of sin lacks naught.
Know you not how a reckless tongue serves?
As a sword that slashes about and swerves,
Slicing an arm or two, my son, just so
A tongue severs friendship at a blow.
A chatterer is to God abominable.
Read Solomon, the wise and honourable;
Read David in his Psalms; read Seneca.
My son, speak not at all but be a nodder.
Feign to be deaf, if you but chance to hear
A gossip speaking of some dangerous matter.
The Flemings say – and note it if you please –
That lack of gossip is a source of peace.
My son, if you no wicked speech have made,
You need never fear you’ll be betrayed;
And he that speaks ill, I should explain,
He may never recall his words again.
A thing that’s said is said, and forth it goes,
Though regretted, like as not, I’d suppose.
He is a thrall to one to whom he’s said
Words he now regrets: speak not, instead.
My son: be wary, be not the author new
Of tidings, whether they are false or true.
Wherever you are, among the high or low,
Guard your tongue, and think about the crow.

Source: “The Manciple’s Tale” from The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer, translated by Anthony Kline, available online: https://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/English/CanterburyTalesXIX.php