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CANTERBURY TALES

THE TALE OF THE WIFE OF BATH

by Geoffrey Chaucer

THE TALE OF THE WIFE OF BATH -

Now in the olden days of King Arthur,

Of whom the Britons speak with great honour,

All this wide land was land of faery.

The elf-queen, with her jolly company,

Danced oftentimes on many a green mead;

This was the old opinion, as I read.

I speak of many hundred years ago;

But now no man can see the elves, you know.

For now the so-great charity and prayers

Of limiters and other holy friars

That do infest each land and every stream

As thick as motes are in a bright sunbeam,

Blessing halls, chambers, kitchens, ladies' bowers,

Cities and towns and castles and high towers,

Manors and barns and stables, aye and dairies-

This causes it that there are now no fairies.

For where was wont to walk full many an elf,

Right there walks now the limiter himself

In noons and afternoons and in mornings,

Saying his matins and such holy things,

As he goes round his district in his gown.

Women may now go safely up and down,

In every copse or under every tree;

There is no other incubus, than he,

And would do them nothing but dishonour.

And so befell it that this King Arthur

Had at his court a lusty bachelor

Who, on a day, came riding from river;

And happened that, alone as she was born,

He saw a maiden walking through the corn,

From whom, in spite of all she did and said,

Straightway by force he took her maidenhead;

For which violation was there such clamour,

And such appealing unto King Arthur,

That soon condemned was this knight to be dead

By course of law, and should have lost his head,

Peradventure, such being the statute then;

But that the other ladies and the queen

So long prayed of the king to show him grace,

He granted life, at last, in the law's place,

And gave him to the queen, as she should will,

Whether she'd save him, or his blood should spill.

The queen she thanked the king with all her might,

And after this, thus spoke she to the knight,

When she'd an opportunity, one day:

"You stand yet," said she, "in such poor a way

That for your life you've no security.

I'll grant you life if you can tell to me

What thing it is that women most desire.

Be wise, and keep your neck from iron dire!

And if you cannot tell it me anon,

Then will I give you license to be gone

A twelvemonth and a day, to search and learn

Sufficient answer in this grave concern.

And your knight's word I'll have, ere forth you pace,

To yield your body to me in this place."

Grieved was this knight, and sorrowfully he sighed;

But there! he could not do as pleased his pride.

And at the last he chose that he would wend

And come again upon the twelvemonth's end,

With such an answer as God might purvey;

And so he took his leave and went his way.

He sought out every house and every place

Wherein he hoped to find that he had grace

To learn what women love the most of all;

But nowhere ever did it him befall

To find, upon the question stated here,

Two, persons who agreed with statement clear.

Some said that women all loved best riches,

Some said, fair fame, and some said, prettiness;

Some, rich array, some said 'twas lust abed

And often to be widowed and re-wed.

Some said that our poor hearts are aye most eased

When we have been most flattered and thus pleased

And he went near the truth, I will not lie;

A man may win us best with flattery;

And with attentions and with busyness

We're often limed, the greater and the less.

And some say, too, that we do love the best

To be quite free to do our own behest,

And that no man reprove us for our vice,

But saying we are wise, take our advice.

For truly there is no one of us all,

If anyone shall rub us on a gall,

That will not kick because he tells the truth.

Try, and he'll find, who does so, I say sooth.

No matter how much vice we have within,

We would be held for wise and clean of sin.

And some folk say that great delight have we

To be held constant, also trustworthy,

And on one purpose steadfastly to dwell,

And not betray a thing that men may tell.

But that tale is not worth a rake's handle;

By God, we women can no thing conceal,

As witness Midas. Would you hear the tale?

Ovid, among some other matters small,

Said Midas had beneath his long curled hair,

Two ass's ears that grew in secret there,

The which defect he hid, as best he might,