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Geoffrey Chaucer - The Canterbury Tales; The Man of Law
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Part 6
     
          
     PROLOGUE OF THE MAN OF LAWE.
     
     The wordes of the Hoost to the compaignye.
     
        Oure Hooste saugh wel that the brighte sonne
     The ark of his artificial day hath ronne
     The ferthe part, and half an houre and moore;
     And though he were nat depe expert in loore,
     He wiste ti was the eightetethe day
     
     Of Aprill, that is messager to May;
     And saugh wel, that the shadwe of every tree
     Was as in lengthe the same quantitee
     That was the body erect that caused it,
     And therfore by the shadwe he took his wit
     
     That Phebus, which that shoon so clere and brighte,
     Degrees was fyve and fourty clombe on highte;
     And for that day, as in that latitude,
     It was ten at the clokke, he gan conclude,
     And sodeynly he plighte his hors aboute.-
     
     "Lordynges," quod he, "I warne yow, al this route,
     The fourthe party of this day is gon.
     Now for the love of God and of Seint John,
     Leseth no tyme, as ferforth as ye may.
     Lordynges, the tyme wasteth nyght and day,
     
     And steleth from us, what pryvely slepynge,
     
     And what thurgh necligence in oure wakynge,
     As dooth the streem, that turneth nevere agayn,
     Descendyng fro the montaigne into playn.
     Wel kan Senec and many a philosophre
     
     Biwaillen tyme, moore than gold in cofre.
     `for losse of catel may recovered be,
     But losse of tyme shendeth us,` quod he.
     It wol nat come agayn, withouten drede,
     Namoore than wole Malkynes maydenhede,
     
     Whan she hath lost it in hir wantownesse.
     Lat us nat mowlen thus in ydelnesse;
     Sir man of lawe," quod he, "so have ye blis,
     Telle us a tale anon, as forward is.
     Ye been submytted thurgh youre free assent
     
     To stonden in this cas at my juggement.
     Acquiteth yow as now of youre biheeste,
     Thanne have ye do youre devoir atte leeste."
        "Hooste," quod he, "Depardieux ich assente,
     To breke forward is nat myn entente.
     
     Biheste is dette, and I wole holde fayn
     Al my biheste, I kan no bettre sayn.
     For swich lawe as a man yeveth another wight,
     He sholde hymselven usen it by right;
     Thus wole oure text, but nathelees certeyn
     
     I kan right now no thrifty tale seyn;
     But Chaucer, thogh he kan but lewedly
     On metres and on rymyng craftily,
     Hath seyd hem in swich Englissh as he kan,
     Of olde tyme, as knoweth many a man.
     
     And if he have noght seyd hem, leve brother,
     In o book, he hath seyd hem in another.
     For he hath toold of loveris up and doun
     Mo than Ovide made of mencioun,
     In hise Episteles that been ful olde;
     
     What sholde I tellen hem, syn they ben tolde?
     In youthe he made of Ceys and Alcione,
     And sitthen hath he spoken of everichone
     Thise noble wyves and thise loveris eke.
     Whoso that wole his large volume seke
     
     Cleped the Seintes Legende of Cupide,
     Ther may he seen the large woundes wyde
     Of Lucresse, and of Babilan Tesbee,
     The swerd of Dido for the false Enee,
     The tree of Phillis for hir Demophon,
     
     The pleinte of Dianire and Hermyon,
     Of Adriane and of Isiphilee,
     The bareyne yle stondynge in the see,
     The dreynte Leandre for his Erro,
     The teeris of Eleyne, and eek the wo
     
     Of Brixseyde, and of the, Ladomea,
     The crueltee of the, queene Medea,
     Thy litel children hangyng by the hals
     For thy Jason, that was in love so fals.
     O Ypermystra, Penolopee, Alceste,
     
     Youre wyfhede he comendeth with the beste!
     But certeinly no word ne writeth he
     Of thilke wikke ensample of Canacee,
     That loved hir owene brother synfully-
     Of swiche cursed stories I sey fy!-
     
     Or ellis of Tyro Appollonius,
     How that the cursed kyng Antiochus
     Birafte his doghter of hir maydenhede,
     That is so horrible a tale for to rede,
     Whan he hir threw upon the pavement.
     
     And therfore he, of ful avysement,
     Nolde nevere write, in none of his sermouns,
     Of swiche unkynde abhomynaciouns;
     Ne I wol noon reherce, if that I may.
     But of my tale how shall I doon this day?
     
     Me were looth be likned, doutelees,
     To Muses that men clepe Pierides-
     Methamorphosios woot what I mene-
     But nathelees, I recche noght a bene
     Though I come after hym with hawebake,
     
     I speke in prose, and lat him rymes make."
     And with that word he, with a sobre cheere,
     Bigan his tale, as ye shal after heere.
     Part 7
     
     THE TALE OF THE MAN OF LAWE.
     
     The prologe of the Mannes Tale of Lawe.
     
        O hateful harm, condicion of poverte!
     With thurst, with coold, with hunger so confoundid!
     To asken help thee shameth in thyn herte,
     If thou noon aske, so soore artow ywoundid
     That verray nede unwrappeth al thy wounde hid;
     Maugree thyn heed thou most for indigence
     Or stele, or begge, or borwe thy despence!
     
     Thow blamest Crist, and seist ful bitterly
     He mysdeparteth richesse temporal.
     Thy neighebore thou wytest synfully,
     And seist thou hast to lite and he hath al.
     "Parfay!" seistow, "somtyme he rekene shal,
     Whan that his tayl shal brennen in the gleede,
     For he noght helpeth needfulle in hir neede."
     
     Herkne what is the sentence of the wise,
     "Bet is to dyen than have indigence."
     Thy selve neighebor wol thee despise,
     If thou be povre, farwel thy reverence!
     Yet of the wise man take this sentence,
     "Alle dayes of povre men been wikke;"
     Be war therfore, er thou come to that prikke.
     
     If thou be povre, thy brother hateth thee,
     And alle thy freendes fleen from thee; allas,
     O riche marchauntz, ful of wele been yee!
     O noble, o prudent folk, as in this cas!
     Youre bagges been nat fild with ambes as,
     But with sys cynk, that renneth for youre chaunce,
     At Cristemasse myrie may ye daunce!
     
     Ye seken lond and see for your wynnynges,
     As wise folk ye knowen all thestaat
     Of regnes; ye been fadres of tydynges
     And tales, bothe of pees and of debaat.
     I were right now of tales desolaat
     Nere that a marchant, goon is many a yeere,
     Me taughte a tale, which that ye shal heere.
     
     Heere begynneth the Man of Lawe his Tale.
     
        In Surrye whilom dwelte a compaignye
     Of chapmen riche, and therto sadde and trewe,
     That wyde-where senten hir spicerye,
     Clothes of gold, and satyns riche of hewe.
     Hir chaffare was so thrifty and so newe
     That every wight hath deyntee to chaffare
     With hem, and eek to sellen hem hir ware.
     
     Now fil it, that the maistres of that sort 
     Han shapen hem to Rome for to wende;
     Were it for chapmanhode, or for disport,
     Noon oother message wolde they thider sende,
     But comen hemself to Rome, this is the ende,
     And in swich place as thoughte hem avantage
     For hir entente, they take hir herbergage.
     
     Sojourned han thise Marchantz in that toun
     A certein tyme, as fil to hire plesance.
     And so bifel, that thexcellent renoun
     Of the Emperoures doghter, Dame Custance,
     Reported was, with every circumstance
     Unto thise Surryen marchantz in swich wyse
     Fro day to day, as I shal yow devyse.
     
     This was the commune voys of every man:
     "Oure Emperour of Rome, God hym see,
     A doghter hath, that syn the world bigan,
     To rekene as wel hir goodnesse as beautee,
     Nas nevere swich another as is shee.
     I prey to God in honour hir sustene
     And wolde she were of all Europe the queene!
     
     In hir is heigh beautee, withoute pride,
     Yowthe, withoute grenehede or folye,
     To alle hir werkes vertu is hir gyde,
     Humblesse hath slayn in hir al tirannye,
     She is mirour of alle curteisye,
     Hir herte is verray chambre of hoolynesse,
     Hir hand ministre of fredam for almesse."
     
     And al this voys was sooth, as God is trewe!
     But now to purpos, lat us turne agayn;
     Thise marchantz han doon fraught hir shippes newe,
     And whan they han this blisful mayden sayn,
     Hoom to Surrye been they went ful fayn,
     And doon hir nedes as they han doon yoore,
     And lyven in wele, I kan sey yow namoore.
     
     Now fil it, that thise marchantz stode in grace
     Of hym, that was the Sowdan of Surrye.
     For whan they cam from any strange place,
     He wolde, of his benigne curteisye,
     Make hem good chiere, and bisily espye
     Tidynges of sondry regnes, for to leere
     The wondres that they myghte seen or heere.
     
     Amonges othere thynges, specially
     Thise marchantz han hym toold of dame Custance
     So greet noblesse, in ernest ceriously,
     That this Sowdan hath caught so greet plesance
     To han hir figure in his remembrance,
     That all his lust and al his bisy cure
     Was for to love hir, while his lyf may dure.
     
     Praventure in thilke large book,
     Which that men clipe the hevene, ywriten was
     With sterres, whan that he his birthe took,
     That he for love sholde han his deeth, allas!
     For in the sterres clerer than is glas
     Is writen, God woot, whoso koude it rede,
     The deeth of every man, withouten drede.
     
     In sterres many a wynter therbiforn
     Was writen the deeth of Ector, Achilles,
     Of Pompei, Julius, er they were born,
     The strif of Thebes, and of Ercules,
     Of Sampson, Turnus, and of Socrates
     The deeth, but mennes wittes ben so dulle
     That no wight kan wel rede it atte fulle.
     
     This Sowdan for his privee conseil sente,
     And, shortly of this matiere for to pace,
     He hath to hem declared his entente
     And seyde hem, certein, but he myghte have grace
     To han Custance withinne a litel space,
     He nas but deed; and charged hem in hye
     To shapen for his lyf som remedye.
     
     Diverse men diverse thynges seyden;
     They argumenten, casten up and doun,
     Many a subtil resoun forth they leyden,
     They speken of magyk and abusioun;
     But finally, as in conclusioun,
     They kan nat seen in that noon avantage,
     Ne in noon oother wey, save mariage.
     
     Thanne sawe they therin swich difficultee
     By wey of reson, for to speke al playn
     Bycause that ther was swich diversitee
     Bitwene hir bothe lawes, that they sayn
     They trowe that "no cristene prince wolde fayn
     Wedden his child under oure lawes swete
     That us were taught by Mahoun oure prophete."
     
     And he answerde: "Rather than I lese
     Custance, I wol be cristned, doutelees.
     I moot been hires, I may noon oother chese;
     I prey yow, hoold youre argumentz in pees.
     
     Saveth my lyf, and beth noght recchelees
     To geten hir that hath my lyf in cure,
     For in this wo I may nat longe endure."
     
     What nedeth gretter dilatacioun?
     I syey, by tretys and embassadrye
     And by the popes mediacioun,
     And al the chirche and al the chivalrie,
     That in destruccioun of Mawmettrie
     And in encrees of Cristes lawe deere,
     They been acorded, so as ye shal heere,
     
     How that the Sowdan and his baronage
     And alle hise liges sholde ycristned be-
     And he shal han Custance in mariage,
     And certein gold, I noot what quantitee,
     And heerto founden suffisant suretee.
     This same accord was sworn on eyther syde.
     Now, faire Custance, almyghty God thee gyde!
     
     Now wolde som men waiten, as I gesse,
     That I sholde tellen al the purveiance
     That themperour, of his grete noblesse,
     Hath shapen for his doghter dame Custance;
     Wel may men knowen that so greet ordinance
     May no man tellen in alitel clause
     As was arrayed for so heigh a cause.
     
     Bisshopes been shapen with hir for to wende,
     Lordes, ladies, knyghtes of renoun,
     And oother folk ynogh, this is the ende,
     And notified is, thurghout the toun,
     That every wight with greet devocioun
     Sholde preyen Crist, that he this mariage
     Receyve in gree, and spede this viage.
     
     The day is comen of hir departynge,
     I seye, the woful day fatal is come,
     That ther may be no lenger tariynge,
     But forthward they hem dressen, alle and some.
     Custance, that was with sorwe al overcome,
     Ful pale arist, and dresseth hir to wende,
     For wel she seeth ther is noon oother ende.
     
     Allas, what wonder is it thogh she wepte,
     That shal be sent to strange nacioun
     Fro freendes that so tendrely hir kepte,
     And to be bounden under subjeccioun
     Of oon, she knoweth nat his condicioun?
     Housbondes been alle goode, and han ben yoore,
     That knowen wyves!  I dar sey yow namoore.
     
     "Fader," she seyde, "Thy wrecched child Custance,
     Thy yonge doghter, fostred up so softe,
     And ye my mooder, my soverayn plesance,
     Over alle thyng, out-taken Crist on-lofte,
     Custance, youre child, hir recomandeth ofte
     Unto your grace, for I shal to Surrye
     Ne shal I nevere seen yow moore with eye.
     
     Allas! unto the barbre nacioun
     I moste goon, syn that it is youre wille,
     But Crist, that starf for our savacioun,
     So yeve me grace hise heestes to fulfille,-
     I, wrecche womman, no fors though I spille.
     Wommen are born to thraldom and penance,
     And to been under mannes governance."
     
     I trowe, at Troye whan Pirrus brak the wal,
     Or Ilion brende, ne at Thebes the Citee,
     Ne at Rome for the harm thurgh Hanybal
     
     That Romayns hath venquysshed tymes thre,
     Nas herd swich tendre wepyng for pitee
     As in the chambre was, for his departynge;
     But forth she moot, wher-so she wepe or synge.
     
     O firste moevyng crueel firmanent,
     With thy diurnal sweigh, that crowdest ay
     And hurlest al from Est til Occident
     That naturelly wolde holde another way,
     Thy crowdyng set the hevene in swich array
     At the bigynnyng of this fiers viage,
     That crueel Mars hath slayn this mariage.
     
     Infortunat ascendent tortuous,
     Of which the lord is helplees falle, allas!
     Out of his angle into the derkeste hous.
     O Mars! O Atazir! as in this cas,
     O fieble Moone, unhappy been thy paas!
     Thou knyttest thee, ther thou art nat receyved;
     Ther thou were weel, fro thennes artow weyved.-
     
     Imprudent Emperour of Rome, allas!
     Was ther no philosophre in al thy toun?
     Is no tyme bet than oother in swich cas?
     Of viage is ther noon eleccioun,
     Namely to folk of heigh condicioun,
     Noght whan a roote is of a burthe yknowe?
     Allas, we been to lewed or to slowe!
     
     To ship is brought this woful faire mayde
     Solempnely, with every circumstance,
     "Now Jesu Crist be with yow alle," she seyde.
     Ther nys namoore but, "Farewel faire Custance!"
     She peyneth hir to make good contenance,
     And forth I lete hir saille in this manere,
     And turne I wole agayn to my matere.
     
        The mooder of the Sowdan, welle of vyices,
     Espied hath hir sones pleyne entente,
     How he wol lete hise olde sacrifices,
     And right anon she for hir conseil sente,
     And they been come, to knowe what she mente,
     And whan assembled was this folk in feere,
     She sette hir doun, and seyde as ye shal heere.
     
     "Lordes," quod she, "ye knowen everichon,
     How that my sone in point is for to lete
     The hooly lawes of oure Alkaron,
     Yeven by Goddes message, Makomete.
     But oon avow to grete God I heete,
     The lyf shal rather out of my body sterte,
     Than Makometes lawe out of myn herte!
     
     What sholde us tyden of this newe lawe
     But thraldom to our bodies, and penance,
     And afterward in helle to be drawe
     For we reneyed Mahoun oure creance?
     But lordes, wol ye maken assurance
     As I shal seyn, assentynge to my loore,
     And I shal make us sauf for everemoore."
     
        They sworen and assenten every man
     To lyve with hir, and dye, and by hir stonde,
     And everich in the beste wise he kan
     To strengthen hir shal alle hise frendes fonde,
     And she hath this emprise ytake on honde,
     Which ye shal heren, that I shal devyse.
     And to hem alle she spak right in this wyse:
     
     "We shul first feyne us cristendom to take,-
     Coold water shal nat greve us but a lite-
     And I shal swich a feeste and revel make,
     That as I trowe I shal the Sowdan quite;
     For thogh his wyf be cristned never so white,
     She shal have nede to wasshe awey the rede,
     Thogh she a fontful water with hir lede!"
     
        O Sowdanesse, roote of iniquitee!
     Virage, thou Semyrame the secounde!
     O serpent under femynyntee,
     Lik to the serpent depe in helle ybounde!
     O feyned womman, al that may confounde
     Vertu and innocence thurgh thy malice
     Is bred in thee, as nest of every vice!
     
     O Sathan, envious syn thilke day
     That thou were chaced from oure heritage,
     Wel knowestow to wommen the olde way!
     Thou madest Eva brynge us in servage;
     Thou wolt fordoon this cristen mariage.
     Thyn instrument, so weylawey the while!
     Makestow of wommen, whan thou wolt bigile!
     
     This Sowdanesse, whom I thus blame and warie,
     Leet prively hir conseil goon hir way.
     What sholde I in this tale lenger tarie?
     She rydeth to the Sowdan on a day
     And seyde hym, that she wolde reneye hir lay,
     And cristendom of preestes handes fonge,
     Repentynge hir she hethen was so longe;
     
     Bisechynge hym to doon hir that honour
     That she moste han the cristen folk to feeste.
     "To plesen hem I wol do my labour."
     The Sowdan seith, "I wol doon at youre heeste,"
     And knelynge thanketh hir of that requeste.
     So gald he was, he nyste what to seye;
     She kiste hir sone, and hoome she gooth hir weye.
     
     Explicit prima pars.
     
     Sequitur pars secunda.
     
        Arryved been this cristen folk to londe,
     In Surrye, with a greet solempne route,
     And hastifliche this Sowdan sente his sonde
     First to his mooder and all the regne aboute,
     And seyde his wyf was comen, oute of doute,
     And preyde hir for to ryde agayn the queene,
     The honour of his regne to susteene.
     
     Greet was the prees, and riche was tharray
     Of Surryens and Romayns met yfeere;
     The mooder of the Sowdan, riche and gay,
     Receyveth hir with also glad a cheere
     As any mooder myghte hir doghter deere,
     And to the nexte citee ther bisyde
     A softe pass solempnely they ryde.
     
     
     Noght trowe I the triumphe of Julius,
     Of which that Lucan maketh swich a boost,
     Was roialler, ne moore curius
     Than was thassemblee of this blisful hoost.
     But this scorpioun, this wikked goost,
     The Sowdanesse, for all hir falterynge
     Caste under this ful mortally to stynge.
     
     The Sowdabn comth hymself soone after this
     So roially, that wonder is to telle,
     And welcometh hir with alle joye and blis,
     And thus in murthe and joye I lete hem dwelle-
     The fruyt of this matiere is that I telle.-
     Whan tyme cam, men thoughte it for the beste,
     The revel stynte, and men goon to hir reste.
     
     The tyme cam, this olde Sowdanesse
     Ordeyned hath this feeste of which I tolde,
     And to the feeste cristen folk hem dresse
     In general, ye, bothe yonge and olde.
     Heere may men feeste and roialtee biholde,
     And deyntees mo than I kan yow devyse;
     But al to deere they boghte it er they ryse!
     
        O sodeyn wo, that evere art successour
     To worldly blisse, spreynd with bitternesse!
     The ende of the joye of oure worldly labour!
     Wo occupieth the fyn of oure galdnesse!
     Herke this conseil for thy sikernesse,
     Upon thy galde day have in thy minde
     The unwar wo or harm that comth bihynde.
     
     For shortly for to tellen at o word,
     The Sowdan and the cristen everichone
     Been al tohewe and stiked at the bord,
     But it were oonly dame Custance allone.
     This olde Sowdanesse, cursed krone,
     Hath with hir freendes doon this cursed dede,
     For she hirself wolde all the contree lede.
     
     Ne was ther Surryen noon, that was converted,
     That of the conseil of the Sowdan woot,
     That he nas al tohewe er he asterted.
     And Custance han they take anon foot-hoot
     And in a ship all steerelees, God woot,
     They han hir set, and biddeth hir lerne saille
     Out of Surrye agaynward to Ytaille.
     
     A certein tresor that she thider ladde,
     And, sooth to seyn, vitaille greet plentee
     They han hir yeven, and clothes eek she hadde,
     And forth she sailleth in the salte see.
     O my Custance, ful of benignytee,
     O emperoures yonge doghter deere,
     He that is lord of Fortune be thy steere!
     
     She blesseth hir, and with ful pitous voys
     Unto the croys of Crist thus seyde she,
     "O cleere, o welful auter, hooly croys,
     Reed of the lambes blood, ful of pitee,
     That wesshe the world fro the olde iniquitee,
     Me fro the feend and fro his clawes kepe,
     That day that I shal drenchen in the depe.
     
     Victorious tree, proteccioun of trewe,
     That oonly worthy were for to bere
     The kyng of hevene with his woundes newe,
     The white lamb that hurt was with the spere,
     Flemer of feendes out of hym and here
     On which thy lymes feithfully extenden,
     Me keep, and yif me myght my lyf tamenden."
     
     Yeres and dayes fleteth this creature
     Thurghout the See of Grece unto the Strayte
     Of Marrok, as it was hir aventure.
     On many a sory meel now may she bayte;
     After hir deeth ful often may she wayte,
     Er that the wilde wawes wol hire dryve
     Unto the place ther she shal arryve.
     
        Men myghten asken why she was nat slayn?
     Eek at the feeste who myghte hir body save?
     And I answere to that demande agayn,
     Who saved Danyel in the horrible cave,
     Ther every wight save he, maister and knave,
     Was with the leoun frete, er he asterte?
     No wight but God, that he bar in his herte.
     
     God liste to shewe his wonderful myracle
     In hir, for we sholde seen his myghty werkis.
     Crist, which that is to every harm triacle,
     By certeine meenes ofte, as knowen clerkis,
     Dooth thyng for certein ende, that ful derk is
     To mannes wit, that for oure ignorance
     Ne konne noght knowe his prudent purveiance.
     
     Now, sith she was nat at the feeste yslawe,
     Who kepte hir fro the drenchyng in the see?
     Who kepte Jonas in the fisshes mawe
     Til he was spouted up at Nynyvee?
     Wel may men knowe it was no wight but he
     That kepte peple Ebrayk from hir drenchynge,
     With drye feet thurghout the see passynge.
     
     Who bad the foure spirites of tempest,
     That power han tanoyen lond and see,
     "Bothe north and south, and also west and est,
     Anoyeth neither see, ne land, ne tree?"
     Soothly, the comandour of that was he,
     That fro the tempest ay this womman kepte,
     As wel eek when she wook as whan she slepte.
     
     Where myghte this womman mete and drynke have?
     Thre yeer and moore how lasteth hir vitaille?
     Who fedde the Egypcien Marie in the cave,
     Or in desert?
     no wight but Crist sanz faille.
     Fyve thousand folk it was as greet mervaille
     With loves fyve and fisshes two to feede;
     God sente his foyson at hir grete neede.
     
     She dryveth forth into oure occian
     Thurghout oure wilde see, til atte laste
     Under an hoold that nempnen I ne kan,
     Fer in Northhumberlond, the wawe hir caste,
     And in the sond hir ship stiked so faste
     That thennes wolde it noght of al a tyde,
     The wyl of Crist was that she sholde abyde.
     
     The constable of the castel doun is fare
     To seen his wrak, and al the ship he soghte,
     And foond this wery womman ful of care,
     He foond also the tresor that she broghte,
     In hir langage mercy she bisoghte,
     The lyf out of hire body for to twynne,
     Hir to delivere of wo that she was inne.
     
     A maner Latyn corrupt was hir speche,
     But algates ther-by was she understonde.
     The constable, whan hym lyst no lenger seche,
     This woful womman broghte he to the londe.
     She kneleth doun and thanketh Goddes sonde;
     But what she was, she wolde no man seye,
     For foul ne fair, thogh that she sholde deye.
     
     She seyde, she was so mazed in the see
     That she forgat hir mynde, by hir trouthe.
     The constable hath of hir so greet pitee,
     And eke his wyf, that they wepen for routhe.
     She was so diligent withouten slouthe
     To serve and plesen everich in that place,
     That alle hir loven that looken on hir face.
     
     This constable and dame Hermengyld his wyf
     Were payens, and that contree every-where;
     But Hermengyld loved hir right as hir lyf,
     And Custance hath so longe sojourned there
     In orisons with many a bitter teere,
     Til Jesu hath converted thurgh his grace
     Dame Hermengyld, constablesse of that place.
     
     In al that lond no cristen dorste route,
     Alle cristen folk been fled fro that contree
     Thurgh payens that conquereden al aboute
     The plages of the North by land and see.
     To Walys fledde the Cristyanytee
     Of olde Britons, dwellynge in this Ile;
     Ther was hir refut for the meene-while.
     
     But yet nere cristene Britons so exiled
     That ther nere somme that in hir privetee
     Honoured Crist, and hethen folk bigiled,
     And ny the castel swiche ther dwelten three;
     That oon of hem was blynd, and myghte nat see,
     But it were with thilke eyen of his mynde,
     With whiche men seen, after that they ben blynde.
     
        Bright was the sonne as in that someres day,
     For which the constable and his wyf also
     And Custance han ytake the righte way
     Toward the see, a furlong wey or two,
     To pleyen, and to romen, to and fro,
     And in hir walk this blynde man they mette,
     Croked and oold, with eyen faste yshette.
     
     "In name of Crist," cride this olde Britoun,
     "Dame Hermengyld, yif me my sighte agayn."
     This lady weex affrayed of the soun,
     Lest that hir housbonde, shortly for to sayn,
     Wolde hir for Jesu Cristes love han slayn,
     Til Custance made hir boold, and bad hir wirche
     The wyl of Crist, as doghter of his chirche.
     
     The constable weex abasshed of that sight,
     And seyde, "What amounteth all this fare!"
     Custance answerde, "Sire, it is Cristes myght,
     That helpeth folk out of the feendes snare."
     And so ferforth she gan oure lay declare,
     That she the constable, er that it were eve,
     Converteth, and on Crist maketh hym bileve.
     
     This constable was no-thyng lord of this place
     Of which I speke, ther he Custance fond;
     But kepte it strongly many wyntres space
     Under Alla, kyng of al Northhumbrelond,
     That was ful wys and worthy of his hond
     Agayn the Scottes, as men may wel heere;-
     But turne I wole agayn to my mateere.
     
     Sathan, that ever us waiteth to bigile,
     Saugh of Custance al hir perfeccioun
     And caste anon how he myghte quite hir while;
     And made a yong knyght, that dwelte in that toun,
     Love hir so hoote of foul affeccioun
     That verraily hym thoughte he sholde spille,
     But he of hir myghte ones have his wille.
     
     He woweth hir, but it availleth noght,
     She wolde do no synne, by no were;
     And for despit he compassed in his thoght
     To maken hir on shameful deeth to deye.
     He wayteth whan the constable was aweye
     And pryvely upon a nyght he crepte
     In Hermengyldes chambre whil she slepte.
     
     Wery, for-waked in hir orisouns,
     Slepeth Custance, and Hermengyld also.
     This knyght, thurgh Sathanas temptaciouns,
     All softely is to the bed ygo,
     And kitte the throte of Hermengyld atwo,
     And leyde the blody knyf by dame Custance,
     And wente his wey, ther God yeve hym meschance!
     
     Soone after cometh this constable hoom agayn,
     And eek Alla, that kyng was of that lond,
     And saugh his wyf despitously yslayn,
     For which ful ofte he weep and wroong his hond,
     And in the bed the blody knyf he fond
     By Dame Custance; allas, what myghte she seye?
     For verray wo hir wit was al aweye!
     
     To kyng Alla was toold al this meschance,
     And eek the tyme, and where, and in what wise
     That in a ship was founden dame Custance,
     As heer-biforn that ye han herd devyse.
     The kynges herte of pitee gan agryse,
     Whan he saugh so benigne a creature
     Falle in disese and in mysaventure.
     
     For as the lomb toward his deeth is broght,
     So stant this innocent bifore the kyng.
     This false knyght, that hath this tresoun wroght,
     Berth hir on hond that she hath doon thys thyng,
     But nathelees, ther was greet moornyng
     Among the peple, and seyn, they kan nat gesse
     That she had doon so greet a wikkednesse;
     
     For they han seyn hir evere so vertuous,
     And lovyng Hermengyld right as hir lyf:
     Of this baar witnesse everich in that hous
     
     Save he that Hermengyld slow with his knyf.
     This gentil kyng hath caught a greet motyf
     Of this witnesse, and thoghte he wolde enquere
     Depper in this, a trouthe for to lere.
     
     Allas, Custance, thou hast no champioun!
     Ne fighte kanstow noght, so weylaway!
     But he, that starf for our redempcioun,
     And boond Sathan-and yet lith ther he lay-
     So be thy stronge champion this day!
     For but if Crist open myracle kithe,
     Withouten gilt thou shalt be slayn as swithe.
     
     She sette hir doun on knees, and thus she sayde,
     "Immortal God, that savedest Susanne
     Fro false blame, and thou, merciful Mayde,
     Marie I meene, doghter to Seynte Anne,
     Bifore whos child angeles synge Osanne,
     If I be giltlees of this felonye,
     My socour be, for ellis shal I dye."
     
        Have ye nat seyn som tyme a pale face
     Among a prees, of hym that hath be lad
     Toward his deeth, wher as hym gat no grace,
     And swich a colour in his face hath had,
     Men myghte knowe his face, that was bistad,
     Amonges alle the faces in that route?
     So stant Custance, and looketh hir aboute.
     
     O queenes, lyvynge in prosperitee,
     Duchesses, and ladyes everichone,
     Haveth som routhe on hir adversitee;
     An emperoures doghter stant allone,
     She hath no wight to whom to make hir mone.
     O blood roial, that stondest in this drede,
     Fer been thy freendes at thy grete nede!
     
        This Alla kyng hath swich compassioun,
     As gentil herte is fulfild of pitee,
     That from hise eyen ran the water doun.
     "Now hastily do fecche a book," quod he,
     "And if this knyght wol sweren how that she
     This womman slow, yet wol we us avyse,
     Whom that we wole, that shal been oure justise."
     
     A Britoun book, written with Evaungiles,
     Was fet, and on this book he swoor anoon
     She gilty was, and in the meene-whiles
     An hand hym smoot upon the nekke-boon,
     That doun he fil atones, as a stoon;
     And bothe hise eyen broste out of his face,
     In sighte of every body in that place.
     
     A voys was herd in general audience,
     And seyde, "Thou hast desclaundred giltelees
     The doghter of hooly chirche in heigh presence,
     Thus hastou doon, and yet holde I my pees."
     Of this mervaille agast was al the prees,
     As mazed folk they stoden everichone
     For drede of wreche, save Custance allone.
     
     Greet was the drede and eek the repentance
     Of hem that hadden wronge suspecioun
     Upon this sely innocent, Custance;
     And for this miracle, in conclusioun,
     And by Custances mediacioun,
     The kyng, and many another in that place,
     Converted was, thanked be Cristes grace.
     
     This false knyght was slayn for his untrouthe,
     By juggement of Alla hastifly-
     And yet Custance hadde of his deeth greet routhe-
     And after this Jesus, of His mercy,
     Made Alla wedden ful solempnely
     This hooly mayden, that is so bright and sheene,
     And thus hath Crist ymaad Custance a queene.
     
     But who was woful, if I shal nat lye,
     Of this weddyng but Donegild, and namo,
     The kynges mooder, ful of tirannye?
     Hir thoughte hir cursed herte brast atwo,
     She wolde noght hir sone had do so,
     Hir thoughte a despit, that he sholde take
     So strange a creature unto his make.
     
     Me list nat of the chaf nor of the stree
     Maken so long a tale, as of the corn;
     What sholde I tellen of the roialtee
     At mariages, or which cours goth biforn,
     Who bloweth in the trumpe, or in an horn?
     The fruyt of every tale is for to seye;
     They ete, and drynke, and daunce, and synge, and pleye.
     
     They goon to bedde, as it was skile and right,
     For thogh that wyves be ful hooly thynges,
     They moste take in pacience at nyght
     Swiche manere necessaries as been plesynges
     To folk that han ywedded hem with rynges,
     And leye a lite hir hoolynesse aside
     As for the tyme, it may no bet bitide.
     
     On hir he gat a knave childe anon,
     And to a bisshop and his constable eke
     He took his wyf to kepe, whan he is gon
     To Scotlondward, his foomen for to seke.
     Now faire Custance, that is so humble and meke,
     So longe is goon with childe, til that stille
     She halt hire chambre, abidyng Cristes wille.
     
     The tyme is come; a knave child she beer,
     Mauricius at the fontstoon they hym calle.
     This constable dooth forth come a messageer,
     And wroot unto his kyng, that cleped was Alle,
     How that this blisful tidyng is bifalle,
     And othere tidynges spedeful for to seye;
     He taketh the lettre, and forth he gooth his weye.
     
     This messager, to doon his avantage,
     Unto the kynges mooder rideth swithe,
     And salueth hir ful faire in his langage,
     "Madame," quod he, "ye may be glad and blithe,
     And thanketh God an hundred thousand sithe.
     My lady queene hath child, withouten doute,
     To joye and blisse to al this regne aboute.
     
     Lo, heere the lettres seled of this thyng,
     That I moot bere with al the haste I may.
     If ye wol aught unto youre sone, the kyng,
     I am youre servant both nyght and day."
     Donegild answerde, "as now at this tyme, nay,
     But heere al nyght I wol thou take thy reste,
     Tomorwe wol I seye thee what me leste."
     
     This messager drank sadly ale and wyn,
     And stolen wer hise lettres prively
     Out of his box, whil he sleep as a swyn;
     And countrefeted was ful subtilly
     Another lettre wroght ful synfully,
     Unto the kyng direct of this mateere
     Fro his constable, as ye shal after heere.
     
     The lettre spak, the queene delivered was
     Of so horrible a feendly creature
     That in the castel noon so hardy was
     That any while dorste ther endure;
     The mooder was an elf, by aventure,
     Yeomen by charmes or by sorcerie,
     And every wight hateth hir compaignye.
     
     Wo was this kyng whan he this lettre had sayn,
     But to no wight he tolde his sorwes soore,
     But of his owene hand he wroot agayn:
     "Welcome the sonde of Crist for everemoore
     To me, that am now lerned in his loore.
     Lord, welcome be thy lust and thy plesaunce,
     My lust I putte al in thyn ordinaunce.
     
     Kepeth this child, al be it foul or feire,
     And eek my wyf, unto myn hoom-comynge;
     Crist, whan hym list, may sende me an heir
     Moore agreable than this to my likynge."
     This lettre he seleth, pryvely wepynge,
     Which to the messager was take soone
     And forth he gooth, ther is namoore to doone.
     
        O messager, fulfild of dronkenesse,
     Strong is thy breeth, thy lymes faltren ay,
     And thou biwreyest alle secreenesse.
     Thy mynde is lorn, thou janglest as a jay,
     Thy face is turned in a newe array;
     Ther dronkenesse regneth in any route,
     Ther is no conseil hyd, withouten doute.
     
     O Donegild, I ne have noon Englissh digne
     Unto thy malice and thy tirannye;
     And therfore to the feend I thee resigne,
     Lat hym enditen of thy traitorie!
     Fy, mannysh, fy?  O nay, by God, I lye!
     Fy, feendlych spirit! for I dar wel telle,
     Thogh thou heere walke, thy spirit is in helle.
     
     This messager comth fro the kyng agayn,
     And at the kynges moodres court he lighte
     And she was of this messager ful fayn,
     And plesed hym in al that ever she myghte.
     He drank, and wel his girdel underpighte.
     He slepeth, and he fnorteth in his gyse
     Al nyght until the sonne gan aryse.
     
     Eft were hise lettres stolen everychon
     And countrefeted lettres in this wyse,
     "The king comandeth his constable anon
     Up peyne of hangyng and on heigh juyse
     That he ne sholde suffren in no wyse
     Custance inwith his reawme for tabyde,
     Thre dayes and o quarter of a tyde.
     
     But in the same ship as he hir fond,
     Hir and hir yonge sone, and al hir geere,
     He sholde putte, and croude hir fro the lond,
     And chargen hir she never eft coome theere."
     O my Custance, wel may thy goost have fere,
     And slepynge in thy dreem been in penance,
     Whan Donegild cast al this ordinance.
     
        This messager, on morwe whan he wook,
     Unto the Castel halt the nexte way,
     And to the constable he the lettre took.
     And whan that he this pitous lettre say,
     Ful ofte he seyde, "Allas and weylaway!"
     "Lord Crist," quod he, "how may this world endure,
     So ful of synne is many a creature?
     
     O myghty God, if that it be thy wille,
     Sith thou art rightful juge, how may it be
     That thou wolt suffren innocentz to spille,
     And wikked folk regnen in prosperitee?
     O goode Custance, allas, so wo is me,
     That I moot be thy tormentour, or deye
     On shames deeth!  Ther is noon oother weye!"
     
        Wepen bothe yonge and olde in al that place,
     Whan that the kyng this cursed lettre sente,
     And Custance, with a deedly pale face,
     The ferthe day toward the ship she wente;
     But nathelees she taketh in good entente
     The wyl of Crist, and knelynge on the stronde,
     She seyde, "Lord, ay welcome be thy sonde!
     
     He that me kepte fro the false blame,
     While I was on the lond amonges yow,
     He kan me kepe from harm and eek fro shame
     In salte see, al thogh I se noght how.
     As strong as evere he was, he is yet now;
     In hym triste I, and in his mooder deere,
     That is to me myu seyl and eek my steere."
     
     Hir litel child lay wepyng in hir arm,
     And knelynge, pitously to hym she seyde,
     "Pees, litel sone, I wol do thee noon harm."
     With that hir coverchief on hir heed she breyde,
     And over hise litel eyen she it leyde,
     And in hir arm she lulleth it ful faste,
     And into hevene hir eyen up she caste.
     
     "Mooder," quod she, "and mayde bright, Marie,
     Sooth is that thurgh wommanes eggement
     Mankynde was lorn and damned ay to dye,
     For which thy child was on a croys yrent;
     Thy blisful eyen sawe al his torment;
     Thanne is ther no comparison bitwene
     Thy wo, and any wo man may sustene.
     
     Thow sawe thy child yslayn bifore thyne eyen,
     And yet now lyveth my litel child, parfay.
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