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CANTERBURY TALES

THE MILLER'S TALE

by Geoffrey Chaucer

THE MILLER'S TALE -

Once on a time was dwelling in Oxford

A wealthy lout who took in guests to board,

And of his craft he was a carpenter.

A poor scholar was lodging with him there,

Who'd learned the arts, but all his phantasy

Was turned to study of astrology;

And knew a certain set of theorems

And could find out by various stratagems,

If men but asked of him in certain hours

When they should have a drought or else have showers,

Or if men asked of him what should befall

To anything- I cannot reckon them all.

This clerk was called the clever Nicholas;

Of secret loves he knew and their solace;

And he kept counsel, too, for he was sly

And meek as any maiden passing by.

He had a chamber in that hostelry,

And lived alone there, without company,

All garnished with sweet herbs of good repute;

And he himself sweet-smelling as the root

Of licorice, valerian, or setwall.

His Almagest, and books both great and small,

His astrolabe, belonging to his art,

His algorism stones- all laid apart

On shelves that ranged beside his lone bed's head;

His press was covered with a cloth of red.

And over all there lay a psaltery

Whereon he made an evening's melody,

Playing so sweetly that the chamber rang;

And Angelus ad virginem he sang;

And after that he warbled the King's Note:

Often in good voice was his merry throat.

And thus this gentle clerk his leisure spends

Supported by some income and his friends.

This carpenter had lately wed a wife

Whom lie loved better than he loved his life;

And she was come to eighteen years of age.

Jealous he was and held her close in cage.

For she was wild and young, and he was old,

And deemed himself as like to be cuckold.

He knew not Cato, for his lore was rude:

That vulgar man should wed similitude.

A man should wed according to estate,

For youth and age are often in debate.

But now, since he had fallen in the snare,

He must endure, like other folk, his care.

Fair was this youthful wife, and therewithal

As weasel's was her body slim and small.

A girdle wore she, barred and striped, of silk.

An apron, too, as white as morning milk

About her loins, and full of many a gore;

White was her smock, embroidered all before

And even behind, her collar round about,

Of coal-black silk, on both sides, in and out;

The strings of the white cap upon her head

Were, like her collar, black silk worked with thread,

Her fillet was of wide silk worn full high:

And certainly she had a lickerish eye.

She'd thinned out carefully her eyebrows two,

And they were arched and black as any sloe.

She was a far more pleasant thing to see

Than is the newly budded young pear-tree;

And softer than the wool is on a wether.

Down from her girdle hung a purse of leather,

Tasselled with silk, with latten beading sown.

In all this world, searching it up and down,

So gay a little doll, I well believe,

Or such a wench, there's no man can conceive.

Far brighter was the brilliance of her hue

Than in the Tower the gold coins minted new.

And songs came shrilling from her pretty head

As from a swallow's sitting on a shed.

Therewith she'd dance too, and could play and sham

Like any kid or calf about its dam.

Her mouth was sweet as bragget or as mead

Or hoard of apples laid in hay or weed.

Skittish she was as is a pretty colt,

Tall as a staff and straight as cross-bow bolt.

A brooch she wore upon her collar low,

As broad as boss of buckler did it show;

Her shoes laced up to where a girl's legs thicken.

She was a primrose, and a tender chicken

For any lord to lay upon his bed,

Or yet for any good yeoman to wed.

Now, sir, and then, sir, go befell the case,

That on a day this clever Nicholas

Fell in with this young wife to toy and play,

The while her husband was down Osney way,

Clerks being as crafty as the best of us;

And unperceived he caught her by the puss,

Saying: "Indeed, unless I have my will,

For secret love of you, sweetheart, I'll spill."

And held her hard about the hips, and how!

And said: "O darling, love me, love me now,

Or I shall die, and pray you God may save!"

And she leaped as a colt does in the trave,

And with her head she twisted fast away,

And said: "I will not kiss you, by my fay!

Why, let go," cried she, "let go, Nicholas!