His children ween’d4230 that it for hunger was
That he his armës gnaw’d, and not for woe,
And saidë, “Father, do not so, alas!
But rather eat the flesh upon us two.
Our flesh thou gave us, our flesh take us fro’,
And eat enough;” right thus they to him said.
And after that, within a day or two,
They laid them in his lap adown, and died.
Himself, despaired, eke for hunger starf.4231
Thus ended is this Earl of Pise;
From high estate Fortúne away him carf.4232
Of this tragédy it ought enough suffice
Whoso will hear it in a longer wise,4233
Readë the greatë poet of Itále,
That Dante hight, for he can it devise4234
From point to point, not one word will he fail.
The Nun’s Priest’s Tale
The Prologue
“Ho!” quoth the Knight, “good sir, no more of this;
That ye have said is right enough, y-wis,4235
And muchë more; for little heaviness
Is right enough to muchë folk, I guess.
I say for me, it is a great disease,4236
Where as men have been in great wealth and ease,
To hearen of their sudden fall, alas!
And the contráry is joy and great solas,4237
As when a man hath been in poor estate,
And climbeth up, and waxeth fortunate,
And there abideth in prosperity;
Such thing is gladsome, as it thinketh me,
And of such thing were goodly for to tell.”
“Yea,” quoth our Hostë, “by Saint Paulë’s bell.
Ye say right sooth; this monk hath clapped4238 loud;
He spake how Fortune cover’d with a cloud
I wot not what, and als’ of a tragédy
Right now ye heard: and pardie no remédy
It is for to bewailë, nor complain
That that is done, and also it is pain,
As ye have said, to hear of heaviness.
Sir Monk, no more of this, so God you bless;
Your tale annoyeth all this company;
Such talking is not worth a butterfly,
For therein is there no sport nor game;
Therefore, Sir Monkë, Dan Piers by your name,
I pray you heart’ly, tell us somewhat else,
For sickerly, n’ere clinking of your bells,4239
That on your bridle hang on every side,
By heaven’s king, that for us allë died,
I should ere this have fallen down for sleep,
Although the slough had been never so deep;
Then had your talë been all told in vain.
For certainly, as thesë clerkës sayn,
Where as a man may have no audience,
Nought helpeth it to tellë his senténce.
And well I wot the substance is in me,
If anything shall well reported be.
Sir, say somewhat of hunting,4240 I you pray.”
“Nay,” quoth the Monk, “I have no lust to play;4241
Now let another tell, as I have told.”
Then spake our Host with rudë speech and bold,
And said unto the Nunnë’s Priest anon,
“Come near, thou Priest, come hither, thou Sir John,4242
Tell us such thing as may our heartës glade.4243
Be blithe, although thou ride upon a jade.
What though thine horse be bothë foul and lean?
If he will serve thee, reck thou not a bean;
Look that thine heart be merry evermo’.”
“Yes, Host,” quoth he, “so may I ride or go,
But4244 I be merry, y-wis I will be blamed.”
And right anon his tale he hath attamed;4245
And thus he said unto us every one,
This sweetë priest, this goodly man, Sir John.
The Tale4246
A poor widow, somedeal y-stept4247 in age,
Was whilom dwelling in a poor cottáge,
Beside a grovë, standing in a dale.
This widow, of which I tellë you my tale,
Since thilkë day that she was last a wife,
In patiénce led a full simple life,
For little was her chattel and her rent.4248
By husbandry4249 of such as God her sent,
She found4250 herself, and eke her daughters two.
Three largë sowës had she, and no mo’;
Three kine, and eke a sheep that hightë Mall.
Full sooty was her bow’r,4251 and eke her hall,
In which she ate full many a slender meal.
Of poignant saucë knew she never a deal.4252
No dainty morsel passed through her throat;
Her diet was accordant to her cote.4253
Repletión her madë never sick;
Attemper4254 diet was all her physíc,
And exercise, and heartë’s suffisance.4255
The goutë let her nothing4256 for to dance,
Nor apoplexy shentë4257 not her head.
No winë drank she, neither white nor red:
Her board was served most with white and black,
Milk and brown bread, in which she found no lack,
Seind4258 bacon, and sometimes an egg or tway;
For she was as it were a manner dey.4259
A yard4260 she had, enclosed all about
With stickës, and a dryë ditch without,
In which she had a cock, hight Chanticleer;
In all the land of crowing n’as4261 his peer.4262
His voice was merrier than the merry orgón,4263
On massë days that in the churches gon.
Well sickerer4264 was his crowing in his lodge,
Than is a clock, or an abbáy horloge.4265
By nature he knew each ascensioún
Of th’ equinoctial in thilkë town;
For when degrees fiftenë were ascended,
Then crew he, that it might not be amended.
His comb was redder than the fine corál,
Embattell’d4266 as it were a castle wall.
His bill was black, and as the jet it shone;
Like azure were his leggës and his tone;4267
His nailës whiter than the lily flow’r,
And like the burnish’d gold was his coloúr,
This gentle cock had in his governánce
Sev’n hennës, for to do all his pleasánce,
Which were his sisters and his paramours,
And wondrous like to him as of coloúrs.
Of which the fairest-hued in the throat
Was called Damosellë Partelote,
Courteous she was, discreet, and debonair,
And cómpaniáble,4268 and bare herself so fair,
Sincë the day that she sev’n night was old,
That truëly she had the heart in hold
Of Chanticleer, locked in every lith;
