---

Geoffrey Chaucer - The Canterbury Tales; The Man of Law
Work rating: Low

1 2 
     Now, lady bright, to whom alle woful cryen,
     Thow glorie of wommanhede, thow faire may,
     Thow haven of refut, brighte sterre of day,
     Rewe on my child, that of thy gentillesse
     Ruest on every reweful in distresse.
     
     O litel child, allas, what is thy gilt,
     That nevere wroghtest synne as yet, pardee!
     Why wil thyn harde fader han thee spilt?
     O mercy, deere Constable," quod she,
     "As lat my litel child dwelle heer with thee;
     And if thou darst nat saven hym for blame,
     Yet kys hym ones in his fadres name."
     
     Therwith she looketh bakward to the londe,
     And seyde, "Farwel, housbonde routheless!"
     And up she rist, and walketh doun the stronde,
     Toward the ship.  Hir folweth al the prees,
     And evere she preyeth hir child to holde his pees,
     And taketh hir leve, and with an hooly entente
     She blisseth hir, and into ship she wente.
     
     Vitailled was the ship, it is no drede,
     Habundantly for hir ful longe space;
     And othere necessaries that sholde nede
     She hadde ynogh, heried be Goddes grace;
     For wynd and weder almyghty God purchace,
     And brynge hir hoom, I kan no bettre seye!
     But in the see she dryveth forth hir weye.
     
        Alla the kyng comth hoom, soone after this,
     Unto his castel of the which I tolde,
     And asketh where his wyf and his child is.
     The constable gan aboute his herte colde,
     And pleynly al the manere he hym tolde,
     As ye han herd, I kan telle it no bettre;
     And sheweth the kyng his seel and eek his lettre,
     
     And seyde, "Lord, as ye comanded me,
     Up peyne of deeth, so have I doon, certein."
     This messager tormented was, til he
     Moste biknowe, and tellen plat and pleyn
     Fro nyght to nyght in what place he had leyn,
     And thus by wit and sotil enquerynge
     Ymagined was, by whom this harm gan sprynge.
     
     The hand was knowe that the lettre wroot,
     And al the venym of this cursed dede,
     But in what wise certeinly I noot.
     Theffect is this, that Alla, out of drede,
     His mooder slow, that may men pleynly rede,
     For that she traitoure was to hir ligeance,
     Thus endeth olde Donegild, with meschance!
     
        The sorwe that this Alla, nyght and day,
     Maketh for his wyf, and for his child also,
     Ther is no tonge that it telle may-
     But now wol I unto Custance go,
     That fleteth in the see in peyne and wo,
     Fyve yeer and moore, as liked Cristes sonde,
     Er that hir ship approched unto londe.
     
     Under an hethen castel, atte laste,
     Of which the name in my text toght I fynde,
     Custance and eek hir child the see upcaste.
     Almyghty god that saved al mankynde,
     Have on Custance and on hir child som mynde,
     That fallen is in hethen hand eft-soone,
     In point to spille, as I shal telle yow soone.
     
     Doun fro the castel comth ther many a wight
     To gauren on this ship and on Custance,
     But shortly from the castel on a nyght
     The lordes styward, God yeve hym meschance!-
     A theef that hadde reneyed oure creance,
     Cam into the ship allone, and seyde he sholde
     Hir lemman be, wherso she wolde or nolde.
     
     Wo was this wrecched womman tho bigon!
     Hir child cride, and she cride pitously,
     But blisful Marie heelp hir right anon,
     For with hir struglyng wel and myghtily,
     The theef fil over bord al sodeynly,
     And in the see he dreynte for vengeance,
     And thus hath Crist unwemmed kept Custance.
     
        O foule lust of luxurie, lo, thyn ende!
     Nat oonly that thou feyntest mannes mynde,
     But verraily thou wolt his body shende.
     Thende of thy werk or of thy lustes blynde
     Is compleynyng; hou many oon may men fynde,
     That noght for werk somtyme, but for thentente
     To doon this synne, been outher slayn or shente!
     
     How may this wayke womman han this strengthe
     Hir to defende agayn this renegat?
     O Golias, unmesurable of lengthe,
     Hou myghte David make thee so maat,
     So yong, and of armure so desolaat?
     Hou dorste he looke upon thy dredful face?
     Wel may men seen, it nas but Goddes grace!
     
     Who yaf Judith corage or hardynesse
     To sleen hym, Olofernus, in his tente,
     And to deliveren out of wrecchednesse
     The peple of God?  I seyde, for this entente
     That right as God spirit of vigour sente
     To hem, and saved hem out of meschance,
     So sente he myght and vigour to Custance.
     
     Forth gooth hir ship thurghout the narwe mouth
     Of Jubaltar and Septe, dryvynge alway,
     Somtyme west, and somtyme north and south,
     And somtyme est, ful many a wery day;
     Til Cristes mooder-blessed be she ay!-
     Hath shapen, thurgh hir endelees goodnesse,
     To make an ende of al hir hevynesse.
     
        Now lat us stynte of Custance but a throwe,
     And speke we of the Romayn Emperour,
     That out of Surrye hath by lettres knowe
     The slaughtre of cristen folk, and dishonour
     Doon to his doghter by a fals traytour,
     I mene the cursed wikked Sowdanesse,
     That at the feeste leet sleen both moore and lesse;
     
     For which this emperour hath sent anon
     His senatour with roial ordinance,
     And othere lordes, God woot many oon,
     On Surryens to taken heigh vengeance.
     They brennen, sleen, and brynge hem to meschance
     Ful many a day, but shortly, this is thende,
     Hoomward to Rome they shapen hem to wende.
     
     This senatour repaireth with victorie
     To Romeward saillynge ful roially,
     And mette the ship dryvynge, as seith the storie,
     In which Custance sit ful pitously.
     No thyng ne knew he what she was, ne why
     She was in swich array, ne she nyl seye
     Of hir estat, thogh that she sholde deye.
     
     He bryngeth hir to Rome, and to his wyf
     He yaf hir, and hir yonge sone also,
     And with the senatour she ladde hir lyf.
     Thus kan oure Lady bryngen out of wo
     Woful Custance, and many another mo.
     And longe tyme dwelled she in that place,
     In hooly werkes evere, as was hir grace.
     
     The senatoures wyf hir aunte was,
     But for all that she knew hir never the moore-
     I wol no lenger tarien in this cas,
     But to kyng Alla, which I spake of yoore,
     That wepeth for his wyf and siketh soore,
     I wol retourne, and lete I wol Custance
     Under the senatoures governance.
     
        Kyng Alla, which that hadde his mooder slayn,
     Upon a day fil in swich repentance
     That, if I shortly tellen shal and playn,
     To Rome he comth, to receyven his penance,
     And putte hym in the popes ordinance
     In heigh and logh, and Jesu Crist bisoghte
     Foryeve hise wikked werkes that he wroghte.
     
     The fame anon thurgh Rome toun is born
     How Alla kyng shal comen on pilgrymage,
     By herbergeours that wenten hym biforn,
     For which the Senatour, as was usage,
     Rood hym agayns, and many of his lynage,
     As wel to shewen his heighe magnificence
     As to doon any kyng a reverence.
     
     Greet cheere dooth this noble Senatour
     To kyng Alla, and he to hym also,
     Everich of hem dooth oother greet honour;
     And so bifel, that inwith a day or two
     This senatour is to kyng Alla go
     To feste; and shortly, if I shal nat lye,
     Custances sone wente in his compaignye.
     
     Som men wolde seyn, at requeste of Custance
     This senatour hath lad this child to feeste;
     I may nat tellen every circumstance,
     Be as be may, ther was he at the leeste,
     But sooth is this, that at his moodres heeste
     Biforn Alla durynge the metes space,
     The child stood lookynge in the kynges face.
     
     This Alla kyng hath of this child greet wonder,
     And to the senatour he seyde anon,
     "Whos is that faire child, that stondeth yonder?"
     "I noot," quod he, "by God and by Seint John!
     A mooder he hath, but fader hath he noon,
     That I of woot."  But shortly, in a stounde,
     He tolde Alla how that this child was founde.
     
     "But God woot," quod this senatour also,
     "So vertuous a lyver in my lyf
     Ne saugh I nevere as she, ne herde of mo
     Of worldly wommen, mayde, ne of wyf;
     I dar wel seyn, hir hadde levere a knyf
     Thurghout hir brest, than ben a womman wikke,
     There is no man koude brynge hir to that prikke."
     
     Now was this child as lyke unto Custance,
     As possible is a creature to be.
     This Alla hath the face in remembrance
     Of dame Custance, and theron mused he,
     If that the childes mooder were aught she
     That is his wyf; and prively he sighte
     And spedde hym fro the table that he myghte.
     
     "Parfay," thoghte he, "fantome is in myn heed.
     I oghte deme, of skilful juggement, 
     That in the salte see my wyf is deed."
     And afterward he made his argument:
     "What woot I, if that Crist have hyder ysent
     My wyf by see, as wel as he hir sente
     To my contree fro thennes that she wente?"
     
     And, after noon, hoom with the senatour
     Goth Alla, for to seen this wonder chaunce.
     This senatour dooth Alla greet honour,
     And hastifly he sente after Custance.
     But trusteth weel, hir liste nat to daunce
     Whan that she wiste wherfore was that sonde;
     Unnethe upon hir feet she myghte stonde.
     
     Whan Alla saugh his wyf, faire he hir grette,
     And weep, that it was routhe for to see.
     For at the firste look he on hir sette,
     He knew wel verraily that it was she.
     And she for sorwe as doumb stant as a tree,
     So was hir herte shet in hir distresse,
     Whan she remembred his unkyndenesse.
     
     Twyes she swowned in his owene sighte.
     He weep, and hym excuseth pitously.
     "Now God," quod he, "and alle hise halwes brighte
     So wisly on my soule as have mercy,
     That of youre harm as giltelees am I
     As is Maurice my sone, so lyk youre face;
     Elles the feend me fecche out of this place!"
     
     Long was the sobbyng and the bitter peyne
     Er that hir woful hertes myghte cesse,
     Greet was the pitee for to heere hem pleyne,
     Thurgh whiche pleintes gan hir wo encresse.
     I pray yow alle my labour to relesse;
     I may nat telle hir wo until tomorwe,
     I am so wery for to speke of sorwe.
     
     But finally, whan that the sothe is wist,
     That Alla giltelees was of hir wo,
     I trowe an hundred tymes been they kist,
     And swich a blisse is ther bitwix hem two,
     That save the joye that lasteth everemo
     Ther is noon lyk that any creature
     Hath seyn, or shal, whil that the world may dure.
     
     Tho preyde she hir housbonde mekely,
     In relief of hir longe pitous pyne,
     That he wolde preye hir fader specially
     That, of his magestee, he wolde enclyne
     To vouchesauf som day with hym to dyne.
     She preyde hym eek, he wolde by no weye
     Unto hir fader no word of hir seye.
     
     Som men wolde seyn, how that the child Maurice
     Dooth this message unto this emperour,
     But, as I gesse, Alla was nat so nyce
     To hym that was of so sovereyn honour,
     As he that is of cristen folk the flour,
     Sente any child, but it is bet to deeme
     He wente hymself, and so it may wel seeme.
     
     This emperour hath graunted gentilly
     To come to dyner, as he hym bisoughte,
     And wel rede I he looked bisily
     Upon this child, and on his doghter thoghte.
     Alla goth to his in, and as him oghte
     Arrayed for this feste in every wise
     As ferforth as his konnyng may suffise.
     
     The morwe cam, and Alla gan hym dresse
     And eek his wyf, this emperour to meete,
     And forth they ryde in joye and in galdnesse,
     And whan she saugh hir fader in the strete,
     She lighte doun and falleth hym to feete.
     "Fader," quod she, "youre yonge child Custance
     Is now ful clene out of youre remembrance.
     
     I am youre doghter Custance," quod she,
     "That whilom ye han sent unto Surrye.
     It am I, fader, that in the salte see
     Was put allone, and dampned for to dye.
     Now goode fader, mercy I yow crye,
     Sende me namoore unto noon hethenesse,
     But thonketh my lord heere of his kyndenesse."
     
     Who kan the pitous joye tellen al
     Bitwix hem thre, syn they been thus ymette?
     But of my tale make an ende I shal,
     The day goth faste, I wol no lenger lette.
     This glade folk to dyner they hem sette,
     In joye and blisse at mete I lete hem dwelle,
     A thousand foold wel moore than I kan telle.
     
     This child Maurice was sithen emperour
     Maad by the pope, and lyved cristenly.
     To Cristes chirche he dide greet honour;
     But I lete all his storie passen by-
     Of Custance is my tale specially-
     In the olde Romayn geestes may men fynde
     Maurices lyf, I bere it noght in mynde.
     
     This kyng Alla, whan he his tyme say,
     With his Custance, his hooly wyf so sweete,
     To Engelond been they come the righte way,
     Wher as they lyve in joye and in quiete.
     But litel while it lasteth, I yow heete,
     Joye of this world, for tyme wol nat abyde,
     Fro day to nyght it changeth as the tyde.
     
     Who lyved evere in swich delit o day
     That hym ne moeved outher conscience
     Or ire, or talent, or som-kyn affray,
     Envye, or pride, or passion, or offence?
     I ne seye but for this ende this sentence,
     That litel while in joye or in plesance
     Lasteth the blisse of Alla with Custance.
     
     For deeth, that taketh of heigh and logh his rente,
     Whan passed was a yeer, evene as I gesse,
     Out of this world this kyng Alla he hente,
     For whom Custance hath ful greet hevynesse.
     Now lat us praye God his soule blesse,
     And dame Custance, finally to seye,
     Toward the toun of Rome goth hir weye.
     
     To Rome is come this hooly creature,
     And fyndeth ther hir freendes hoole and sounde.
     Now is she scaped al hire aventure,
     And whan that she hir fader hath yfounde,
     Doun on hir knees falleth she to grounde,
     Wepynge for tendrenesse, in herte blithe,
     She heryeth God an hundred thousande sithe.
     
     In vertu and in hooly almus-dede
     They lyven alle, and never asonder wende
     Til deeth departed hem; this lyf they lede;-
     And fareth now weel, my tale is at an ende.
     Now Jesu Crist, that of his myght may sende
     Joye after wo, governe us in his grace,
     And kepe us alle that been in this place.  Amen.
     
     Heere endeth the tale of the Man of Lawe.
Source
The script ran 0.008 seconds.