Geoffrey Chaucer, 600 years

Geoff Rides Again

Created to mark the 600th Anniversary of the Death of Geoffrey Chaucer, 25 October 1400
Excerpts from The Canterbury Tales (Translation: Nevill Coghill)
 

#1 Prologue
 "Early next morning at the spring of day
 Up rose our Host and roused us like a cock,
 Gathering us together in a flock,
 And off we rode at slightly faster pace
 Than walking to St Thomas' watering place;
 And there our Host drew up, began to ease
 His horse, and said, 'Now listen if you please,
 My lords! Remember what you promised me.
 If evensong and matins will agree
 Let's see who shall be first to tell a tale,
 And as I hope to drink good wine and ale
 I'll be your judge. The rebel who disobeys,
 However much the journey costs, he pays.' "

#2 The Knight's Tale
 "And in the middle of the shrine mischance
 Stood comfortless with sorry countenance.
 There I saw madness cackling his distress,
 Armed insurrection, outcry, fierce excess,
 The carrion in the undergrowth slit-throated
 And thousands violently slain. I noted
 The raping tyrant with his prey o'ertaken,
 The levelled city, gutted and forsaken...
 And high above, depicted in a tower,
 Sat Conquest, robed in majesty and power,
 Under a sword that swung above his head,
 Sharp-edged and hanging by a subtle thread."

#3 The Miller's Tale
 "Now Nicholas had risen for a piss,
 And thought he could improve upon the jape
 And make him kiss his arse ere he escape,
 And opening the window with a jerk,
 Stuck out his arse, a handsome piece of work,
 Buttocks and all, as far as to the haunch.
 Said Absalon, all set to make a launch,
 'Speak, pretty bird, I know not where thou art!'
 This Nicholas at once let fly a fart
 As loud as if it were a thunder-clap.
 He was near blinded by the blast, poor chap,
 But his hot iron was ready; with a thump
 He smote him in the middle of the rump."

#4 The Reeve's Tale
" 'Shake yourself, wake up; you pig's head, you!
For Christ's soul, listen! O such noble games
As I have had! I tell you, by St James,
Three times the neet, from midnight into morn,
The miller's daughter helped me grind my corn
While you've been lying in your cowardly way...'
'You scoundrel!' said the miller. 'What d'you say?
You beast! You treacherous blackguard! Filthy rat!
God's dignity! I'll murder you for that!
How dare you be so bold as to fling mud
Upon my daughter, come of noble blood?' "

#5 The Host Stops Chaucer's Tale of Sir Topaz
 " 'No more of this for God's dear dignity!'
 Our Host said, suddenly interrupting me,
 'I'm wearied out by your illiterate stuff.
 God bless my soul! I've had about enough.
 My ears are aching from your frowsty story!
 The devil take such rhymes! They're purgatory!
 That must be what's called doggerel-rhyme', said he.
 'Why so?', said I. 'Why should you hinder me
 In telling my tale more than another man,
 Since I am giving you the best I can?'
 'By God', he said, 'put plainly in a word,
 Your dreary rhyming isn't worth a turd!' "

#6 The Nun's Priest's Tale
 "My tale is of a cock and of the clatter
 That came of following his wife's advice
 To walk about his yard on the precise
 Morning after the dream of which I told.
 O women's counsel is so often cold!
 A woman's counsel brought us first to woe,
 Made Adam out of Paradise to go
 Where he had been so merry, so well at ease.
 But, for I know not whom it may displease
 If I suggest that women are to blame,
 Pass over that; I only speak in game.
Read the authorities to know about 
What has been said of women; you'll find out.
This is the cock's opinion I am giving, 
I think no harm of any woman living."

#7 The Pardoner's Tale
   " ...'I never yet have found,
Though I have walked to India, searching round
Village and city on my pilgrimage,
One who would change his youth to have my age.'
...'Well, sir', he said, 'if it be your design
 To find out Death, turn up this crooked way
 Towards that grove. I left him there today
 Under a tree, and there you'll find him waiting.
 He isn't one to hide for all your prating.
 You see that oak? He won't be far to find.
 And God protect you that redeemed mankind,
 Aye, and amend you!' Thus that ancient man.
 At once the three young rioters began
 To run, and reached the tree, and there they found
 A pile of golden florins on the ground
 New-coined, eight bushels of them as they thought."

#8 The Wife of Bath's Tale: Prelude
 " 'When my fourth husband lay upon his bier
 I wept all day and looked as drear as drear,
 As widows must, for it is quite in place,
 And with a handkerchief I hid my face.
 Now that I felt provided with a mate
 I wept but little, I need hardly state.'
 'To church they bore my husband on the morrow
 With all the neighbours round him venting sorrow,
 And one of them of course was handsome Johnny.
 So help me God I thought he looked so bonny
 Behind the coffin! Heavens, what a pair
 Of legs he had! Such feet, so clean and fair!
 I gave my heart, I put it in his cage.
 He was, I think, some twenty years of age
 And I was forty then, to tell the truth..."

#9 The Merchant's Tale
"Now let us turn again to January
Who walked the garden with his pretty May
And sang more merrily than a popinjay,
'I love you best, and ever shall, my sweet!'
So long among the paths had strayed their feet
That they at last had reached the very tree
Where Damian sat in waiting merrily,
High in his leafy bower of fresh green.
And fresh young May, so shiningly serene,
Began to sigh, and said, 'Alas, my side
Is hurting me; whatever may betide
I must have just one pear that I can see
Or I shall die!'..."
'Alas', he said, 'there's nobody about
Able to climb. Alas, alas', said he,
'That I am blind.' 'No matter, sir', said she,
'Then I could climb up well enough', said she,
If I could set my foot upon your back.'

#10 The Franklin's Tale
"Very often, people say,
 These conjurors can bring into a large
 And lofty hall fresh water and a barge
 And there they seem to row it up and down;
 Sometimes a lion, grim and tawny-brown,
 Sometimes a meadow full of flowery shapes,
 Sometimes a vine with white and purple grapes,
 Sometimes a castle which by some device,
 Though stone and lime, will vanish in a trice
 Or seem at least to vanish out of sight."

Chaucer's great work, The Canterbury Tales, hilarious and poignant stories told by pilgrims en route to the shrine of Thomas a Becket at Canterbury, was written in a century that had seen more than half of England's population wiped out in the Bubonic Plague of 1348-49.