1380

CANTERBURY TALES

THE MANCIPLE'S TALE

OF THE CROW

by Geoffrey Chaucer

THE MANCIPLE'S TALE

OF THE CROW -

When Phoebus once on earth was dwelling, here,

As in the ancient books it is made clear,

He was the lustiest of bachelors

In all this world, and even the best archer;

He slew Python, the serpent, as he lay

Sleeping within the sunlight, on a day;

And many another noble, worthy deed

He with his bow wrought, as all men may read.

He played all instruments of minstrelsy,

And sang so that it made great harmony

To hear his clear voice in the joyous sun.

Truly the king of Thebes, that Amphion

Who, by his singing, walled that great city,

Could never sing one half so well as he.

Therewith he was the handsomest young man

That is or was since first the world began.

What needs it that his features I revive?

For in the world was none so fair alive.

Compact of honour and of nobleness,

Perfect he was in every worthiness.

This Phoebus, of all youthful knights the flower,

Whom generous chivalry did richly dower,

For his amusement (sign of victory

Over that Python, says the old story),

Was wont to bear in hand a golden bow.

Now Phoebus had within his house a crow,

Which in a cage he'd fostered many a day,

And taught to speak, as men may teach a jay.

White was this crow as is a snow white swan,

And counterfeit the speech of any man

He could, when he desired to tell a tale.

Therewith, in all this world, no nightingale

Could, by a hundred-thousandth part, they tell,

Carol and sing so merrily and well.

Now had this Phoebus in his house a wife,

Whom he loved better than he loved his life,

And night and day he used much diligence

To please her and to do her reverence,

Save only, if it's truth that I shall say,

Jealous he was and so did guard her aye;

For he was very loath befooled to be.

And so is everyone in such degree;

But all in vain, for it avails one naught.

A good wife, who is clean in deed and thought,

Should not be kept a prisoner, that's plain;

And certainly the labour is in vain

That guards a slut, for, sirs, it just won't be.

This hold I for an utter idiocy,

That men should lose their labour guarding wives;

So say these wise old writers in their lives.

But now to purpose, as I first began:

This worthy Phoebus did all that a man

Could do to please, thinking that by such pleasures,

And by his manhood and his other measures

To make her love him and keep faithful, too.

But God knows well that nothing man may do

Will ever keep restrained a thing that nature

Has made innate in any human creature.

Take any bird and put it in a cage

And do your best affection to engage

And rear it tenderly with meat and drink

Of all the dainties that you can bethink,

And always keep it cleanly as you may;

Although its cage of gold be never so gay,

Yet would this bird, by twenty thousand-fold,

Rather, within a forest dark and cold,

Go to eat worms and all such wretchedness.

For ever this bird will do his business

To find some way to get outside the wires.

Above all things his freedom he desires.

Or take a cat, and feed him well with milk

And tender flesh, and make his bed of silk,

And let him see a mouse go by the wall;

Anon he leaves the milk and flesh and all

And every dainty that is in that house,

Such appetite has he to eat a mouse.

Desire has here its mighty power shown,

And inborn appetite reclaims its own.

A she-wolf also has a vulgar mind;

The wretchedest he-wolf that she may find,

Or least of reputation, she'll not hate

Whenever she's desirous of a mate.

All these examples speak I of these men

Who are untrue, and not of sweet women.

For men have aye a lickerish appetite

On lower things to do their base delight

Than on their wives, though they be ne'er so fair

And ne'er so true and ne'er so debonair.

Flesh is so fickle, lusting beyond measure,

That we in no one thing can long have pleasure

Or virtuous keep more than a little while.

This Phoebus, who was thinking of no guile,

He was deceived, for all his quality;

For under him a substitute had she,

A man of little reputation, one

Worth naught to Phoebus, by comparison.

The more harm that; it often happens so,

Whereof there come so much of harm and woe.