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THE CANON'S YEOMAN'S PROLOGUE

by Geoffrey Chaucer

THE CANON'S YEOMAN'S PROLOGUE -

When Saint Cecilia's Life was done, and whiles

We had not farther gone a good five miles,

At Boughton-under-Blean us did o'ertake

A man, who was clothed all in clothes of black,

And underneath he had a surplice white.

His hackney was of dappled-grey, so bright

With sweat that it was marvelous to see;

It seemed that he had spurred him for miles three.

The horse too that his yeoman rode upon

So sweat that scarcely could it go; and on

The breast strap of the harness foam stood high,

Whereof he was as flecked as is a pie.

A double wallet on his crupper lay,

And as it seemed, he went in light array.

Lightly, for summer, rode this worthy man,

And in my heart to wonder I began

What he could be, until I understood

The way he had his cloak sewed to his hood;

From which, when long I had communed with me,

I judged at length some canon he must be.

His hat hung on his back down by a lace,

For he had ridden more than trot or pace;

He had spurred hard, indeed, as madman would.

A burdock leaf he had beneath his hood

To curb the sweat and keep his head from heat

But what a joy it was to see him sweat!

His forehead dripped as a distillatory

Were full of plantain and of pellitory.

And this man when he came began to cry:

"God save," said he, "this jolly company!

Fast I have spurred," said he then, "for your sake,

Because I wanted you to overtake,

To ride on in this merry company."

His yeoman too was full of courtesy,

And said: "Good sirs, all in the morningtide

Out of your hostelry I saw you ride,

And warned my lord and master, full and plain,

And he to ride with you is truly fain

For his amusement; he loves dalliance."

"Friend, for your warning, God give you good chance,"

Said then our host, "for truly it would seem

Your lord is wise, and so I may well deem;

He is right jocund also, I dare lay.

Can he a merry tale tell, on the way,

Wherewith to gladden this our company?"

"Who, sir? My lord? Yea, yea, without a lie,

He knows of mirth and of all jollity

Not but enough; and also, sir, trust me,

If you but knew him as well as do I,

You'd wonder much how well and craftily

He can behave, and that in different wise.

He's taken on him many an enterprise

That were right hard for anyone that's here

(Unless he learned it) to effect, I fear.

As plainly as he rides, here among you,

It would be to your profit if you knew

Him well; you'd not give up his acquaintance

For much of wealth, I dare lay in balance

All that I have of goods in my possession.

He is a man of wondrous high discretion,

I warn you well, he's a surpassing man."

"Well," said our host, "then pray tell, if you can,

Is he a clerk, or not? Tell what he is."

"Nay, he is greater than a clerk, ywis,"

This yeoman said, "and briefly, if you'll wait,

Host, of his craft a little I'll relate.

"I say, my lord has so much subtlety

(But all his art you cannot learn from me,

And yet I help by working at his side),

That all this pleasant land through which we ride,

From here right into Canterbury town,

Why, he could turn it all clean upside-down

And pave it all with silver and with gold."

And when this yeoman had this story told

Unto our host, our host said: "Ben' cite!

This thing is wondrous marvelous to me,

Since your lord is a man of such science,

For which men should hold him in reverence,

That of his dignity his care's so slight;

His over-garment is not worth a mite

For such a man as he, so may I go!

It is all dirty and it's torn also.

Why is your lord so slovenly, pray I,

And yet has power better clothes to buy,

If but his deeds accord well with your speech?

Tell me that, sir, and that I do beseech."

"Why?" asked this yeoman, "Why ask this of me?

God help me, wealthy he will never be!

(But I will, not stand back of what I say,

And therefore keep it secret, I you pray).

He is too wise, in faith, as I believe;

That which is overdone, as I conceive,

Won't turn out right, clerks say, and that's a vice.

In that, I hold him ignorantly nice.

For when a man has overmuch of wit,

It often happens he misuses it;

So does my lord, and this thing grieves me sore.

May God amend it, I can say no more."

"No matter then, good yeoman," said our host;