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Kolve/Olson (1989)
 
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Howard (1951)
 
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Beidler (1964)
 
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Nicholson (1934)
 
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Morrison (1949)
 
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Coghill (1951)
 
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Prologue |
What that Aprill with his shoures sote
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne;
And smale fowles maken melodye,
That slepen al the night with open ye—
So priketh hem Nature in hir corages—
Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, couthe in sondry londes;
And specially, from every shires ende
Of Engelond to Caunterbury they wende,
The holy blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke. |
Whan that April with his showres soote
The drought of March hath perced to the roote
And bathed every vein in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flowr;
What Zephyrus, eek, with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tender croppoes and the younge sunne
Hath in the Ram his halve course y-runne,
And smalle fowles maken melodye
That sleepen all the night with open ye
(So pricketh hem Nature in hir corages),
Than longen folk to goodn on pilgrimages,
And palmers for to seeken straunge strondes
To ferne halwes, kouth in sundry londes:
And specially, from every shires end
Of Engelond, to Canterbury they wende,
The holy blissful martyr for to seeke
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seke. |
When April with his sweet showers has
pierced the dryness of March to the root,
and bathed every vein in such moisture
as has power to bring forth the flower;
when, also, Zephyrus with his sweet breath
has breathed spirit into the tender new shoots
in every wood and meadow, and the young sun
has run half his course in the sign of the Ram,
and small birds sing melodies and
sleep with their eyes open all the night
(So Nature pricks them in their hearts):
then people long to go on pilgrimages,
and palmers long to seek strange shores
and far-off shrines known in various lands,
and, especially, from the ends of every shire
in England they come to Canterbury,
to seek the holy, blissful martyr
who helped them when they were sick. |
When April with his showers sweet with fruit
The drought of March has pierced unto the root
And bathed each vein with liquor that has power
To generate therein and sire the flower;
When Zephyr also has, with his sweet breath,
Quickened again, in every holt and heath,
The tender shoots and buds, and the young sun
Into the Ram one half his course has run,
And many little birds make melody
That sleep through all the night with open eye
(So nature pricks them on to ramp and rage)—
Then do folk long to go on pilgrimage,
And palmers to go seeking out strange strands,
To distant shrines well known in sundry lands.
And specially from every shire's end
Of England they to Canterbury wend,
The holy blessed martyr there to seek
Who helped them when they lay so ill and weak. |
As soon as April pierces to the root
The drought of March, and bathes each bud and shoot
Through every vein of sap with gentle showers
From whose engendering liquor spring the flowers;
When Zephyrs have breathed softly all about
Inspiring every wood and field to sprout,
And in the zodiac the youthful sun
His journey halfway through the Ram has run;
When little birds are busy with their song
Who sleep with open eyes the whole night long
Life stirs their hearts and tingles in them so,
Then people long on pilgrimage to go,
And palmers to set out for distant strands
And foreign shrines renowned in sundry lands.
And specially in England people ride
To Canterbury from every countyside
To visit there the blessed martyred saint
Who gave them strength when they were sick and faint. |
When in April the sweet showers fall
And pierce the drought of March to the root, and all
The veins are bathed in liquor of such power
As brings about the engendering of the flower,
When also Zephyrus with his sweet breath
Exhales an air in every grove and heath
Upon the tender shoots, and the young sun
His half-course in the sign of the Ram has run,
And the small fowl are making melody
That sleep away the night with open eye
(So nature pricks them and their heart engages)
Then people long to go on pilgrimages
And palmers long to see the stranger strands
Of far-off saints, hallowed in sundry lands,
And specially, from every shire's end
Of England, down to Canterbury they wend
To seek the holy blissful martyr, quick
To give his help to them when they were sick. |
|
The Knight's Tale |
Whylom, as olde stories tellen us,
There was a duke that highte Theseus;
Of Athenes he was lord and governour,
And in his tyme swich a conquerour,
That gretter was ther noon under the sonne.
Ful many a riche contree hadde he wonne;
What with his wisdom and his chivalrye,
He conquered al the regne of Femenye,
That whylom was y-cleped Scithia,
And weddede the quene Ipolita,
And broghte hire hoom with him in his contree
With muchel glorie and greet solempnitee,
And eek hire yonge suster Emelye.
And thus with victorie and with melodye
Lete I this noble duk to Athenes ryde,
And al his hoost, in armes, him bisyde. |
Whilom, as olde stories tellen us,
There was a duke that highte Theseus:
Of Athens he was lord and governour,
And in his time swich a conquerour
That greeter was there none under the sunne.
Full many a riche contree had he wonne:
What with his wisdom and his chivalrye,
He conquered all the regne of Femenye,
That whilom was y-cleped Scythia,
And weddede the queen Ipolyta,
And brought hir home with him in his contree,
With muchel glory and greet solempnitee,
And eek hir yonge suster Emelye.
And thus with victory and with melodye
Let I this noble duke to Athens ride,
And all his host in armes him beside. |
Once upon a time, as ancient stories tell us,
there was a duke who was named Theseus.
He was lord and ruler of Athens,
and such a conqueror in his day
that there was no greater under the sun.
He had won many a rich country
by virtue of his wisdom and his knightly prowess.
He conquered the whole realm of the Amazon women,
which formerly was called Scythia,
and took in marriage Queen Hippolyta
and brought her hom with him to his country
with much glory and great pomp;
and he brought as well her young sister Emily.
And thus, with victory and the sound of music,
I leave this noble duke riding to Athens
and, with him, all his force in arms. |
Once upon a time, as old tales tell to us,
There was a duke whose name was Theseus;
Of Athens he was lord and governor,
And in his time was such a conqueror
That greater was there not beneath the sun.
Fully many a rich country had he won;
What with his wisdom and his chivalry
He gained the realm of Femininity,
That was of old time known as Scythia.
There wedded he the queen, Hippolyta,
And brought her home with him to his country.
In glory great and with great pageantry,
And too, her younger sister Emily.
And thus, in victory and with melody,
Let I this noble duke to Athens ride
With all his armed host marching at his side. |
Once, as old stories tell, there was a prince
Named Theseus that in Athens ruled long since,
A conqueror in his time; for rich lands won
There was no greater underneath the sun.
He took the realm once known as Scythia
And married its brave queen, Hippolyta,
And brought her home in high festivity,
Also her younger sister, Emily.
And but for trying the most patient ear,
Make no doubt of it, I should let you hear
In full how Theseus came to overwhelm,
Together with his knights, this women's realm,
And the great battle that was thus brought on
Between Athenian and Amazon... |
Stories of old have made in known to us
That there was once a Duke called Theseus,
Ruler of Athens, Lord and Governor,
And in his time so great a conqueror
There was none mightier beneath the sun.
And many a rich country he had won,
What with his widsom and his troops of horse.
He had subdued the Amazons by force
And all their realm, once known as Sythia,
But then called Femeny. Hippolyta,
Their queen, he took to wife, and, says the story,
He brought her home in solemn pomp and glory,
Also her younger sister, Emily.
And thus victorious and with minstrelsy
I leave this noble Duke for Athens bound
With all his host of men-at-arms around. |
|
The Miller's Tale |
This parish clerk, this joly Absolon,
Hath in his herte switch a love-longinge,
That of no wyf ne took he noon offringe;
For curteisye, he seyde, he wolde noon.
The mone, when it was night, ful brighte shoon,
And Absolon his giterne hath y-take;
For paramours he thoghte for to wake.
And forth he gooth, jolif and amorous,
Til he cam to the carpenters wal.
He singeth in his vois gentil and smal,
"Now, dere lady, if they wille be,
I preye yow that ye wol rewe on me,"
Ful wel acordaunt to his giterninge.
This carpenter awook and herde him singe,
And spak unto his wyf, and seyde anon,
"What, Alison, herestow nat Absolon
That chaunteth thus under oure boures wal?"
And she answerde hir housbond therwithal,
"Yis, God wot, John, I here it every deel."
This passeth forth; what wol ye bet than wel?
Fro day to day this joly Absolon
So woweth hire, that him is wo bigon.
He waketh al the night and al the day;
He kembeth hise lokkes brode, and made him gay... |
This parish clerk, this jolly Absolon,
Hath in his herte swich a love-longinge
That of no wife took he noon offringe—
For curteisy he said he wolde noon.
The moon, whan it was night, full brighte shoon,
And Absolon his giterne hath y-take,
For paramours, he thoughte for to wake;
And forth he goth, jolif and amorous,
Till he came to the carpenteres hous,
A litel after cockes had y-crowe,
And dressed him up by a shot-windowe
That was upon the carpenteres wall.
He singeth in his voice gentil and small,
Now, dere lady, if they wille be,
I praye you that ye wol rew on me—
Full well acccordant to his giterninge.
This carpenter awoke, and heard him singe,
And spak unto his wife and said anon,
"What, Alison, heerestou not Absolon
That chaunteth this under our bowre's wall?"
And she answered hir husband therewithal,
"Yis, God wot, John, I heer it everydeel."
This passeth forth—what wol ye bet than well?
Fro day to day this jolly Absolon
So woweth hir that him is woe-bigon.
He waketh all the night and all the day;
He kembeth his lockes brod and made him gay... |
Jolly Absalom, this parish clerk,
had such love-longing in his heart
that he accepted no offering from any wife;
he said that he wouldn't for the sake of his manners.
When night came, the moon shone brightly
and Absalom took his guitar,
for he planned to stay up as lovers do.
Forth he went, lusty and amorous,
until he came to the carpenter's house
a little after cockcrow,
and took his stand by a shuttered window
in the carpenter's wall.
He sang in his refined, dainty voice,
"Now, dear lady, if it be your will,
I pray you to take pity on me,"
nicely in tune with his playing.
The carpenter woke up and heard him sing
and spoke to his wife saying,
"Why, Alison, don't you hear Absalom
singing that way below our chamber wall?"
And she thereupon answered her husband,
"Yes, God knows, John, I hear every bit of it.
Such things go on. What do you expect?"
From day to day this pretty Absalom
wooed her until he was woebegone;
he stayed awake all night and all day;
he combed his wide-spreading locks and made
himself look pretty... |
This parish clerk, this lively Absalom
Had in his heart, now, such a love-longing
That from no wife took he an offering;
For courtesy, he said, he would take none.
The moon, when it was night, full brightly shone,
And his guitar did Absalom then take,
For in love-watching he'd intent to wake.
And forth he went, jolly and amorous,
Until he came unto the carpenter's house
A little after coks began to crow;
And took his stand beneath a shot-window
That was let into the good wood-wright's wall.
He sang then, in his pleasant voice and small,
"Oh now, dear lady, if your will it be,
I pray that you will have some ruth on me,"
The words in harmony with his string-plucking.
This carpenter awoke and heard him sing,
And called unto his wife and said, in sum:
"What, Alison! Do you hear, Absalom,
Who plays and sings beneath our bedroom wall?"
And she said to her husband, therewithal:
"Yes, God knows, John, I hear it, truth to tell."
So this went on; what is there better than well?
From day to day this pretty Absalom
So wooed her he was woebegone therefrom.
He lay awake all night and all the day;
He combed his spreading hair and dressed him gay... |
This jolly parish clerk
Had such a heartful of lover-hankerings
He would not take the women's offerings;
No, no, he said, it would not be polite.
The moon, when darkness fell, shone full and bright,
And absolom, always ready for love's sake
With his guitar to be up and awake,
Made toward the carpenter's, brisk and amorous,
And went along until he reached the house
A little after the coks began to crow.
Under a casement he sang weet and low,
"Dear lady, by your will, be kind to me,"
And strummed on his guitar in harmony.
This lovelorn singing woke the carpenter
Who said to his wife, "What, Alison, don't you hear
Absolom singing under our bedroom wall?"
"Yes, God knows, John," she answered, "I hear it all."
What would you like? In this way things went on
Till jolly Absolom was woebegone
For wooing her, awake all night and day.
He combed his curls and made himself look gay... |
In taking the collection Absalon
Would find his heart was set in such a whirl
Of love, he would take nothing from a girl,
For courtesy, he said, it wasn't right.
That evening, when the moon was shining bright
He ups with his guitar and off he tours
On the look-out for any paramours.
Larky and amorous, away he strode
Until he reached the carpenter's abode
A little after cock-crow, took his stand
Beside the casement window close at hand
(It was set low upon the cottage-face)
And started singing softly and with grace,
'Now dearest lady, if they pleasure be
In thoughts of love, think tenderly of me!'
On his guitar he plucked a tuneful string.
This carpenter awoke and heard him sing
And turning to his wife said, 'Alison!
Wife! Do you hear him? There goes Absalon
Chanting away under our chamber wall.'
And she, 'Yes John, God knows I hear it all.'
If she thought more of it she didn't tell.
So things went on. What's better than 'All's well'?
From day to day this jolly Absalon,
Wooing away, became quite woe-begone;
He lay awake all night, and all the day,
Combed his think locks and tried to pass for gay... |
|
The Wife Of Bath's Tale |
And ther as ye of povert me repreve,
The hye God, on whom that we bileve,
In wilful povert chees to live his lyf.
And certes every man, mayden, or wyf,
May understonde that Jesus, hevene king,
Ne wolde nat chese a vicious living.
Glad povert is an honest thing, certeyn;
This wol Senek and othere clerkes seyn.
Whoso that halt him payd of his poverte,
I holde him riche, al haddle he nat a sherte.
He that coveyteth is a povre wight,
For he wolde han that is nat in his might.
But he that noght hath, ne coveyteth have,
Is riche, although ye holde him but a knave.
Verray povert, it singeth proprely.
Juvenal seith of povert merily:
'The povre man, whan he goth by the weye,
Bilfore the theves he may singe and pleye.'
Poverte is hateful good, and as I gesse,
A ful greet bringere out of bisiness;
A greet amendere eek of sapience
To him that taketh it in pacience.
Poverte is this, although it seme elenge,
Possessioun that no wight wol chalenge;
Poverte is this, although it seme elenge,
Possessioun that no wight wol chalenge;
Poverte ful ofte, whan a man is lowe,
Maketh his God and eek himself to knowe;
Poverte a spectacle is, as thinketh me,
Thurgh which he may his verray frendes see. |
And there as ye of poverte me repreve,
The hye God, on whom that we beleve,
In willful poverte chees to live his lif;
And certes every man, maiden, or wif
May understond that Jesus, hevene King,
Ne wold not chese a vicious living.
Glad poverte is an honest thing, certain.
This wol Senek and other clerkes sayn.
Whoso that halt him paid of his poverte,
I hold him rich al had he not a sherte;
He that coveiteth is a poore wight,
For he would han that is not in his might.
But he that nought hath, ne coveiteth to have,
Is rich, although we hold him but a knave.
Veray poverte it singeth properly,
Juvenal saith of poverte, "Mirrily
The poore man, whan he goth by the waye,
Biforn the theves he may sing and play.'
Poverte is hateful good, and as I guesse,
A full greet bringer out of bisiness;
A greet amender eek of sapience
To him that taken it in pacience.
Poverte is this, although it seem alenge,
Possession that no wight wol challenge.
Poverte full often, when a man is lowe,
Maketh his God and eek himself to knowe.
Poverte a spectacle is, as thinketh me,
Thurgh which he may his veray freendes, see. |
"And as for the poverty you reprove me for,
high God in whom we believe
chose to live his life in willing poverty;
and certainly every man, maiden, or wife
can understand that Jesus, heaven's king,
would not choose a vicious way of life.
Contented poverty is an honorable thing, indeed;
this is said by Seneca and other learned men.
Whoever is content with his poverty
I hold to be rich, even if he hasn't a shirt.
He who covets anything is a poor man,
for he wants to have something which is not in
his power.
But he who has nothing and desires nothing is rich,
although you may consider him nothing but a lowly man.
"True poverty sings of its own accord;
Juvenal says of poverty, 'Merrily can
the poor man sing and joke before the
theives when he goes by the road.'
Poverty is a good that is hated, and, I guess,
a great expeller of cares;
a great amender of knowledge, too,
to him that takes it in patience.
Poverty is this, although it seem unhealthy:
possession of that which no man will challenge.
Poverty will often, when a man is low,
make him know his God and himself as well.
Poverty is a glass, it seems to me,
through which he can see his true friends. |
"And when you me reproach for poverty,
The High God, in Whom we believe, say I,
In voluntary poverty lived His life.
And surely every man, or maid, or wife
May understand that Jesus, Heaven's King,
Would not have chosen vileness of living.
Glad poverty's an honest thing, that's plain,
Which Seneca and other clerks maintain.
Whoso will be content with poverty,
I hold him rich, though not a shirt has he.
And he that covets much is a poor wight,
For he would gain what's all beyond his might.
But he that has not, nor desires to have,
Is rich, although you hold him but a knave.
"True poverty, it sings right naturally;
Juvenal gaily says of poverty:
"The poor man, when he walks along the way,
Before the robbers he may sing and play.'
Poverty's odious good, and, as I guess,
It is a stimulant to busyness;
A great improver, too, of sapience
In him that takes it all with due patience.
Poverty's this, though it seem misery—
It's quality may none dispute, say I.
Poverty often, when a man is low,
Makes him his God and even himself to know.
And poverty's an eye-glass, seems to me,
Through which a man his loyal friends may see.
Since you've received no injury from me,
Then why reproach me for my poverty. |
"As for my poverty, at which you grieve,
Almighty God in whom we all believe
In willful poverty chose to lead his life,
And surely every man and maid and wife
Can understand that Jesus, heaven's king,
Would never choose a low or vicious thing.
A poor and cheerful life is nobly led;
So Seneca and others have well said.
The man so poor he doesn't have a stitch
Who thinks himself repaid, I count as rich.
He that is covetous, he is the poor man,
Pining to have the things he never can.
It is of cheerful mind, true poverty.
Juvenal says about it happily:
'The poor man as he goes along his way
And passes thieves is free to sing and play.'
Poverty is a good we loathe, a great
Reliever of our busy worldly state,
A great amender also of our minds
As he that patiently will bear it finds.
And poverty, for all it seems distressed,
Is a possession no one will contest.
Poverty, too, by bringing a man low,
Helps him the better God and self to know.
Poverty is a glass where we can see
Which are our true friends, as it seems to me. |
'As for my poverty which you reprove,
Almighty God Himself in whom we move,
Believe and have our being, chose a life
Of poverty, and every man or wife
Nay, every child can see our Heavenly King
Would never stoop to choose a shameful thing.
No shame in poverty if the heart is gay,
As Seneca and all the learned say.
He who accepts his poverty unhurt
I'd say is rich although he lacked a shirt.
But truly poor are they who whine and fret
And covet what they cannot hope to get.
And he that, having nothing, covets not,
Is rich, though you may think he is a sot.
'True poverty can find a song to sing.
Juvenal says a pleasant little thing:
"The poor can dance and sing in the relief
Of having nothing that will tempt a thief."
Though it be hateful, poverty is good,
A great incentive to a livelyhood,
And a great help to our capacity
For wisdom, if accepted patiently.
Poverty is, though wanting in estate,
A kind of wealth that none calumniate.
Poverty often, when the heart is lowly,
Brings one to God and teaches what is holy,
Gives knowledge of oneself and even lends
A glass by which to see one's truest friends. |