THE PARDONER'S TALE
In Flanders, once, there was a company
Of young companions given to folly,
Riot
and gambling, brothels and taverns;
And, to the music of harps, lutes, gitterns,
They danced and played
at dice both day and night.
And ate also and drank beyond their might,
Whereby they made the devil's sacrifice
Within
that devil's temple, wicked wise,
By superfluity both vile and vain.
So damnable their oaths and so profane
That
it was terrible to hear them swear;
Our Blessed Saviour's Body did they tear;
They thought the Jews had
rent Him not enough;
And each of them at others' sins would laugh.
Then entered dancing-girls of ill repute,
Graceful
and slim, and girls who peddled fruit,
Harpers and bawds and women selling cake,
Who do their office for
the Devil's sake,
To kindle and blow the fire of lechery,
Which is so closely joined with gluttony;
I
call on holy writ, now, to witness
That lust is in all wine and drunkenness.
Lo, how the drunken Lot unnaturally
Lay
with his daughters two, unwittingly;
So drunk he was he knew not what he wrought.
Herod, as in his story's
clearly taught,
When full of wine and merry at a feast,
Sitting at table idly gave behest
To slay
John Baptist, who was all guiltless.
Seneca says a good word too, doubtless;
He says there is no difference
he can find
Between a man that's quite out of his mind
And one that's drunken, save perhaps in this
That
when a wretch in madness fallen is,
The state lasts longer than does drunkenness.
O gluttony; full of all
wickedness,
O first cause of confusion to us all,
Beginning of damnation and our fall,
Till Christ
redeemed us with His blood again!
Behold how dearly, to be brief and plain,
Was purchased this accursed
villainy;
Corrupt was all this world with gluttony!
Adam our father, and his wife also,
From Paradise
to labour and to woe
Were driven for that vice, no doubt; indeed
The while that Adam fasted, as I read,
He
was in Paradise; but then when he
Ate of the fruit forbidden of the tree,
Anon he was cast out to woe and
pain.
O gluttony, of you we may complain!
Oh, knew a man how many maladies
Follow on excess and
on gluttonies,
Surely he would be then more moderate
In diet, and at table more sedate.
Alas! The
throat so short, the tender mouth,
Causing that east and west and north and south,
In earth, in air, in
water men shall swink
To get a glutton dainty meat and drink!
Of this same matter Paul does wisely treat:
"Meat
for the belly and belly for the meat:
And both shall God destroy," as Paul does say.
Alas! A foul thing
is it, by my fay,
To speak this word, and fouler is the deed,
When man so guzzles of the white and red
That
of his own throat makes he his privy,
Because of this cursed superfluity.
The apostle, weeping, says most
piteously:
"For many walk, of whom I've told you, aye,
Weeping I tell you once again they're dross,
For
they are foes of Christ and of the Cross,
Whose end is death, whose belly is their god."
O gut! O belly!
O you stinking cod,
Filled full of dung, with all corruption found!
At either end of you foul is the sound.
With
how great cost and labour do they find
Your food! These cooks, they pound and strain and grind;
Substance
to accident they turn with fire,
All to fulfill your gluttonous desire!
Out of the hard and riven bones
knock they
The marrow, for they throw nothing away
That may go through the gullet soft and sweet;
With
spicery, with leaf, bark, root, replete
Shall be the sauces made for your delight,
To furnish you a sharper
appetite.
But truly, he that such delights entice
Is dead while yet he wallows in this vice.
A
lecherous thing is wine, and drunkenness
Is full of striving and of wretchedness.
O drunken man, disfigured
is your face,
Sour is your breath, foul are you to embrace,
And through your drunken nose there comes a
sound
As if you snored out "Samson, Samson" round;
And yet God knows that Samson drank no wine.
You
fall down just as if you were stuck swine;
Your tongue is loose, your honest care obscure;
For drunkenness
is very sepulture
Of any mind a man may chance to own.
In whom strong drink has domination shown
He
can no counsel keep for any dread.
Now keep you from the white and from the red,
And specially from the
white wine grown at Lepe
That is for sale in Fish Street or in Cheap.
This wine of Spain, it mixes craftily
With
other wines that chance to be near by,
From which there rise such fumes, as well may be,
That when a man
has drunk two draughts, or three,
And thinks himself to be at home in Cheap,
He finds that he's in Spain,
and right at Lepe,-
Not at Rochelle nor yet at Bordeaux town,
And then will he snore out "Samson, Samson."
But
hearken, masters, one word more I pray:
The greatest deeds of all, I'm bold to say,
Of victories in the
old testament,
Through the True God, Who is omnipotent,
Were gained by abstinence and after prayer:
Look
in the Bible, you may learn this there.
Lo, Attila, the mighty conqueror,
Died in his sleep, in shame and
dishonour,
And bleeding at the nose for drunkenness;
A great captain should live in soberness.
Above
all this, advise yourself right well
What was commanded unto Lemuel-
Not Samuel, but Lemuel, say I-
The
Bible's words you cannot well deny:
Drinking by magistrates is called a vice.
No more of this, for it may
well suffice.
And now that I have told of gluttony,
I'll take up gambling, showing you thereby
The
curse of chance, and all its evils treat;
From it proceeds false swearing and deceit,
Blaspheming, murder,
and- what's more- the waste
Of time and money; add to which, debased
And shamed and lost to honour quite
is he,
Who once a common gambler's known to be.
And ever the higher one is of estate,
The more
he's held disgraced and desolate.
And if a prince plays similar hazardry
In all his government and policy,
He
loses in the estimate of men
His good repute, and finds it not again.
Chilon, who was a wise ambassador,
Was
sent to Corinth, all in great honour,
From Lacedaemon, to make alliance.
And when he came, he noticed there,
by chance,
All of the greatest people of the land
Playing at hazard there on every hand.
Wherefore,
and all as soon as it might be,
He stole off home again to his country,
And said: "I will not thus debase
my name;
Nor will I take upon me so great shame
You to ally with common hazarders.
Send, if you
will, other ambassadors;
For, my truth, I say I'd rather die
Than you with gamblers like to them ally.
For
you that are so glorious in honours
Shall never ally yourselves with hazarders
By my consent, or treaty
I have made."
This wise philosopher, 'twas thus he said.
Let us look, then, at King Demetrius.
The
king of Parthia, as the book tells us,
Sent him a pair of golden dice, in scorn,
Because the name of gambler
he had borne;
Wherefore he marked his reputation down
As valueless despite his wide renown.
Great
lords may find sufficient other play
Seemly enough to while the time away.
Now will I speak of oaths both
false and great
A word or two, whereof the old books treat.
Great swearing is a thing abominable,
And
vain oaths yet more reprehensible.
The High God did forbid swearing at all,
As witness Matthew; but in especial
Of
swearing says the holy Jeremiah,
"Thou shalt not swear in vain, to be a liar,
But swear in judgment and
in righteousness";
But idle swearing is a wickedness.
Behold, in the first table of the Law,
That
should be honoured as High God's, sans flaw,
This second one of His commandments plain:
"Thou shalt not
take the Lord God's name in vain."
Nay, sooner He forbids us such swearing
Than homicide or many a wicked
thing;
I say that, as to order, thus it stands;
'Tis known by him who His will understands
That
the great second law of God is that.
Moreover, I will tell you full and flat,
That retribution will not
quit his house
Who in his swearing is too outrageous.
"By God's own precious heart, and by His nails,
And
by the blood of Christ that's now at Hales,
Seven is my chance, and yours is five and trey!"
"By God's good
arms, if you do falsely play,
This dagger through your heart I'll stick for you!"
Such is the whelp ing
of the bitched bones two:
Perjury, anger, cheating, homicide.
Now for the love of Christ, Who for us died,
Forgo
this swearing oaths, both great and small;
But, sirs, now will I tell to you my tale.
Now these three roisterers,
whereof I tell,
Long before prime was rung by any bell,
Were sitting in a tavern for to drink;
And
as they sat they heard a small bell clink
Before a corpse being carried to his grave;
Whereat one of them
called unto his knave:
"Go run," said he, "and ask them civilly
What corpse it is that's just now passing
by,
And see that you report the man's name well."
"Sir," said the boy, "it needs not that they tell.
I
learned it, ere you came here, full two hours;
He was, by gad, an old comrade of yours;
And he was slain,
all suddenly, last night,
When drunk, as he sat on his bench upright;
An unseen thief, called Death, came
stalking by,
Who hereabouts makes all the people die,
And with his spear he clove his heart in two
And
went his way and made no more ado.
He's slain a thousand with this pestilence;
And, master, ere you come
in his presence,
It seems to me to be right necessary
To be forewarned of such an adversary:
Be
ready to meet him for evermore.
My mother taught me this, I say no more."
"By holy Mary," said the innkeeper,
"The
boy speaks truth, for Death has slain, this year,
A mile or more hence, in a large village,
Both man and
woman, child and hind and page.
I think his habitation must be there;
To be advised of him great wisdom
'twere,
Before he did a man some dishonour."
"Yea, by God's arms!" exclaimed this roisterer,
"Is
it such peril, then, this Death to meet?
I'll seek him in the road and in the street,
As I now vow to God's
own noble bones!
Hear, comrades, we're of one mind, as each owns;
Let each of us hold up his hand to other
And
each of us become the other's brother,
And we three will go slay this traitor Death;
He shall be slain who's
stopped so many a breath,
By God's great dignity, ere it be night."
Together did these three their pledges
plight
To live and die, each of them for the other,
As if he were his very own blood brother.
And
up they started, drunken, in this rage,
And forth they went, and towards that village
Whereof the innkeeper
had told before.
And so, with many a grisly oath, they swore
And Jesus' blessed body once more rent-
"Death
shall be dead if we find where he went."
When they had gone not fully half a mile,
Just as they would have
trodden over a stile,
An old man, and a poor, with them did meet.
This ancient man full meekly them did
greet,
And said thus: "Now, lords, God keep you and see!'
The one that was most insolent of these three
Replied
to him: "What? Churl of evil grace,
Why are you all wrapped up, except your face?
Why do you live so long
in so great age?"
This ancient man looked upon his visage
And thus replied: "Because I cannot find
A
man, nay, though I walked from here to Ind,
Either in town or country who'll engage
To give his youth in
barter for my age;
And therefore must I keep my old age still,
As long a time as it shall be God's will.
Not
even Death, alas! my life will take;
Thus restless I my wretched way must make,
And on the ground, which
is my mother's gate,
I knock with my staff early, aye, and late,
And cry: 'O my dear mother, let me in!
Lo,
how I'm wasted, flesh and blood and skin!
Alas! When shall my bones come to their rest?
Mother, with you
fain would I change my chest,
That in my chamber so long time has been,
Aye! For a haircloth rag to wrap
me in!'
But yet to me she will not show that grace,
And thus all pale and withered is my face.
"But,
sirs, in you it is no courtesy
To speak to an old man despitefully,
Unless in word he trespass or in deed.
In
holy writ you may, yourselves, well read
'Before an old man, hoar upon the head,
You should arise.' Which
I advise you read,
Nor to an old man any injury do
More than you would that men should do to you
In
age, if you so long time shall abide;
And God be with you, whether you walk or ride.
I must pass on now
where I have to go."
"Nay, ancient churl, by God it sha'n't be so,"
Cried out this other hazarder, anon;
"You
sha'n't depart so easily, by Saint John!
You spoke just now of that same traitor Death,
Who in this country
stops our good friends' breath.
Hear my true word, since you are his own spy,
Tell where he is or you shall
rue it, aye
By God and by the holy Sacrament!
Indeed you must be, with this Death, intent
To slay
all us young people, you false thief."
"Now, sirs," said he, "if you're so keen, in brief,
To find out Death,
turn up this crooked way,
For in that grove I left him, by my fay,
Under a tree, and there he will abide;
Nor
for your boasts will he a moment hide.
See you that oak? Right there you shall him find.
God save you, Who
redeemed all humankind,
And mend your ways!"- thus said this ancient man.
And every one of these three roisterers
ran
Till he came to that tree; and there they found,
Of florins of fine gold, new-minted, round,
Well-nigh
eight bushels full, or so they thought.
No longer, then, after this Death they sought,
But each of them
so glad was of that sight,
Because the florins were so fair and bright,
That down they all sat by this precious
hoard.
The worst of them was first to speak a word.
"Brothers," said he, "take heed to what I say;
My
wits are keen, although I mock and play.
This treasure here Fortune to us has given
That mirth and jollity
our lives may liven,
And easily as it's come, so will we spend.
Eh! By God's precious dignity! Who'd pretend,
Today,
that we should have so fair a grace?
But might this gold be carried from this place
Home to my house, or
if you will, to yours-
For well we know that all this gold is ours-
Then were we all in high felicity.
But
certainly by day this may not be;
For men would say that we were robbers strong,
And we'd, for our own treasure,
hang ere long.
This treasure must be carried home by night
All prudently and slyly, out of sight.
So
I propose that cuts among us all
Be drawn, and let's see where the cut will fall;
And he that gets the short
cut, blithe of heart
Shall run to town at once, and to the mart,
And fetch us bread and wine here, privately.
And
two of us shall guard, right cunningly,
This treasure well; and if he does not tarry,
When it is night we'll
all the treasure carry
Where, by agreement, we may think it best."
That one of them the cuts brought in
his fist
And bade them draw to see where it might fall;
And it fell on the youngest of them all;
And
so, forth toward the town he went anon.
And just as soon as he had turned and gone,
That one of them spoke
thus unto the other:
"You know well that you are my own sworn brother,
So to your profit I will speak anon.
You
know well how our comrade is just gone;
And here is gold, and that in great plenty,
That's to be parted
here among us three.
Nevertheless, if I can shape it so
That it be parted only by us two,
Shall
I not do a turn that is friendly?"
The other said: "Well, now, how can that be?
He knows well that the gold
is with us two.
What shall we say to him? What shall we do?"
"Shall it be secret?" asked the first rogue,
then,
"And I will tell you in eight words, or ten,
What we must do, and how bring it about."
"Agreed,"
replied the other, "Never doubt,
That, on my word, I nothing will betray."
"Now," said the first, "we're
two, and I dare say
The two of us are stronger than is one.
Watch when he sits, and soon as that is done
Arise
and make as if with him to play;
And I will thrust him through the two sides, yea,
The while you romp with
him as in a game,
And with your dagger see you do the same;
And then shall all this gold divided be,
My
right dear friend, just between you and me;
Then may we both our every wish fulfill
And play at dice all
at our own sweet will."
And thus agreed were these two rogues, that day,
To slay the third, as you have
heard me say.
This youngest rogue who'd gone into the town,
Often in fancy rolled he up and down
The
beauty of those florins new and bright.
"O Lord," thought he, "if so be that I might
Have all this treasure
to myself alone,
There is no man who lives beneath the throne
Of God that should be then so merry as I."
And
at the last the Fiend, our enemy,
Put in his thought that he should poison buy
With which he might kill
both his fellows; aye,
The Devil found him in such wicked state,
He had full leave his grief to consummate;
For
it was utterly the man's intent
To kill them both and never to repent.
And on he strode, no longer would
he tarry,
Into the town, to an apothecary,
And prayed of him that he'd prepare and sell
Some poison
for his rats, and some as well
For a polecat that in his yard had lain,
The which, he said, his capons there
had slain,
And fain he was to rid him, if he might,
Of vermin that thus damaged him by night.
The
apothecary said: "And you shall have
A thing of which, so God my spirit save,
In all this world there is
no live creature
That's eaten or has drunk of this mixture
As much as equals but a grain of wheat,
That
shall not sudden death thereafter meet;
Yea, die he shall, and in a shorter while
Than you require to walk
but one short mile;
This poison is so violent and strong."
This wicked man the poison took along
With
him boxed up, and then he straightway ran
Into the street adjoining, to a man,
And of him borrowed generous
bottles three;
And into two his poison then poured he;
The third one he kept clean for his own drink.
For
all that night he was resolved to swink
In carrying the florins from that place.
And when this roisterer,
with evil grace,
Had filled with wine his mighty bottles three,
Then to his comrades forth again went he.
What
is the need to tell about it more?
For just as they had planned his death before,
Just so they murdered
him, and that anon.
And when the thing was done, then spoke the one:
"Now let us sit and drink and so be
merry,
And afterward we will his body bury."
And as he spoke, one bottle of the three
He took wherein
the poison chanced to be
And drank and gave his comrade drink also,
For which, and that anon, lay dead these
two.
I feel quite sure that Doctor Avicena
Within the sections of his Canon never
Set down more
certain signs of poisoning
Than showed these wretches two at their ending.
Thus ended these two homicides
in woe;
Died thus the treacherous poisoner also.
O cursed sin, full of abominableness!
O treacherous
homicide! O wickedness!
O gluttony, lechery, and hazardry!
O blasphemer of Christ with villainy,
And
with great oaths, habitual for pride!
Alas! Mankind, how may this thing betide
That to thy dear Creator,
Who thee wrought,
And with His precious blood salvation bought,
Thou art so false and so unkind, alas!
Now,
good men, God forgive you each trespass,
And keep you from the sin of avarice.
My holy pardon cures and
will suffice,
So that it brings me gold, or silver brings,
Or else, I care not- brooches, spoons or rings.
Bow
down your heads before this holy bull!
Come up, you wives, and offer of your wool!
Your names I'll enter
on my roll, anon,
And into Heaven's bliss you'll go, each one.
For I'll absolve you, by my special power,
You
that make offering, as clean this hour
As you were born.
And lo, sirs, thus I preach.
And Jesus
Christ, who is our souls' great leech,
So grant you each his pardon to receive;
For that is best; I will
not you deceive.
But, sirs, one word forgot I in my tale;
I've relics in my pouch that cannot fail,
As
good as England ever saw, I hope,
The which I got by kindness of the pope.
If gifts your change of heart
and mind reveal,
You'll get my absolution while you kneel.
Come forth, and kneel down here before, anon,
And
humbly you'll receive my full pardon;
Or else receive a pardon as you wend,
All new and fresh as every mile
shall end,
So that you offer me each time, anew,
More gold and silver, all good coins and true.
It
is an honour to each one that's here
That you may have a competent pardoner
To give you absolution as you
ride,
For all adventures that may still betide.
Perchance from horse may fall down one or two,
Breaking
his neck, and it might well be you.
See what insurance, then, it is for all
That I within your fellowship
did fall,
Who may absolve you, both the great and less,
When soul from body passes, as I guess.
I
think our host might just as well begin,
For he is most-enveloped in all sin.
Come forth, sir host, and
offer first anon,
And you shall kiss the relics, every one,
Aye, for a groat! Unbuckle now your purse."
"Nay,
nay," said he, "then may I have Christ's curse!
It sha'n't be," said he, "as I've hope for riches,
Why,
you would have me kissing your old breeches,
And swear they were the relics of a saint,
Though with your
excrement 'twere dabbed like paint.
By cross Saint Helen found in Holy Land,
I would I had your ballocks
in my hand
Instead of relics in a reliquary;
Let's cut them off, and them I'll help you carry;
They
shall be shrined within a hog's fat turd."
This pardoner, he answered not a word;
So wrathy was he no word
would he say.
"Now," said our host, "I will no longer play
With you, nor any other angry man."
But
at this point the worthy knight began,
When that he saw how all the folk did laugh:
"No more of this, for
it's gone far enough;
Sir pardoner, be glad and merry here;
And you, sir host, who are to me so dear,
I
pray you that you kiss the pardoner.
And, pardoner, I pray you to draw near,
And as we did before, let's
laugh and play."
And then they kissed and rode forth on their way.
Go to the links page to find the website for this tale and the rest of the tales by Chaucer.