The Canterbury Tales; THE MAUNCIPLES TALE
Part
29
PROLOGUE
TO
THE
MAUNCIPLES
TALE
Heere
folweth
the
Prologe
of
the
Maunciples
tale.
Woot
ye
nat
where
ther
stant
a
litel
toun,
Which
that
ycleped
is
Bobbe-up-and-doun
Under
the
Blee,
in
Caunterbury
weye?
Ther
gan
oure
Hooste
for
to
jape
and
pleye,
And
seyde,
"Sires,
what,
Dun
is
in
the
Myre!
Is
ther
no
man
for
preyere
ne
for
hyre,
That
wole
awake
oure
felawe
al
bihynde?
A
theef
myghte
hym
ful
lightly
robbe
and
bynde.
See
how
he
nappeth,
see
how
for
Cokkes
bones,
That
he
wol
falle
fro
his
hors
atones.
Is
that
a
Cook
of
London,
with
meschaunce?
Do
hym
com
forth,
he
knoweth
his
penaunce,
For
he
shal
telle
a
tale,
by
my
fey,
Although
it
be
nat
worth
a
botel
hey.
Awake,
thou
Cook,"
quod
he,
"God
yeve
thee
sorwe,
What
eyleth
thee,
to
slepe
by
the
morwe?
Hastow
had
fleen
al
nyght,
or
artow
dronke?
Or
hastow
with
som
quene
al
nyght
yswonke
So
that
thow
mayst
nat
holden
up
thyn
heed?"
This
Cook
that
was
ful
pale,
and
no
thyng
reed,
Seyde
to
oure
Hoost,
"So
God
my
soule
blesse,
As
ther
is
falle
on
me
swich
hevynesse,
Noot
I
nat
why,
that
me
were
levere
slepe
Than
the
beste
galon
wyn
in
Chepe."
"Wel,"
quod
the
Maunciple,
"if
it
may
doon
ese
To
thee,
Sire
Cook,
and
to
no
wight
displese
Which
that
heere
rideth
in
this
compaignye,
And
that
oure
Hoost
wole
of
his
curteisye,
I
wol
as
now
excuse
thee
of
thy
tale,
For,
in
good
feith,
thy
visage
is
ful
pale.
Thyne
eyen
daswen
eek,
as
that
me
thynketh,
And
wel
I
woot,
thy
breeth
ful
soure
stynketh.
That
sheweth
wel
thou
art
nat
wel
disposed,
Of
me,
certeyn,
thou
shalt
nat
been
yglosed.
See
how
he
ganeth,
lo,
this
dronken
wight!
As
though
he
wolde
swolwe
us
anonright.
Hoold
cloos
thy
mouth,
man,
by
thy
fader
kyn,
The
devel
of
helle
sette
his
foot
therin.
Thy
cursed
breeth
infecte
wole
us
alle,
Fy,
stynkyng
swyn!
fy,
foule
moothe
thou
falle!
A,
taketh
heede,
sires,
of
this
lusty
man!
Now,
sweete
sire,
wol
ye
justen
atte
fan?
Therto
me
thynketh
ye
been
wel
yshape,
I
trowe
that
ye
dronken
han
wyn-ape,
And
that
is,
whan
men
pleyen
with
a
straw."
And
with
this
speche
the
Cook
wax
wrooth
and
wraw,
And
on
the
Manciple
he
gan
nodde
faste,
For
lakke
of
speche,
and
doun
the
hors
hym
caste,
Where
as
he
lay
til
that
men
up
hym
took;
This
was
a
fair
chyvachee
of
a
Cook!
Allas,
he
nadde
holde
hym
by
his
ladel!
And
er
that
he
agayn
were
in
his
sadel
Ther
was
greet
showvyng
bothe
to
and
fro,
To
lifte
hym
up,
and
muchel
care
and
wo,
So
unweeldy
was
this
sory
palled
goost.
And
to
the
Manciple
thanne
spak
oure
hoost,
"By
cause
drynke
hath
dominacioun,
Upon
this
man,
by
my
savacioun,
I
trowe
he
lewedly
wolde
telle
his
tale.
For
were
it
wyn,
or
oold
or
moysty
ale,
That
he
hath
dronke,
he
speketh
in
his
nose,
And
fneseth
faste,
and
eek
he
hath
the
pose.
He
hath
also
to
do
moore
than
ynough
To
kepen
hym
and
his
capul
out
of
slough,
And
if
he
falle
from
his
capul
eftsoone,
Thanne
shal
we
alle
have
ynogh
to
doone
In
liftyng
up
his
hevy
dronken
cors.
Telle
on
thy
tale,
of
hym
make
I
no
fors;
But
yet,
Manciple,
in
feith
thou
art
to
nyce,
Thus
openly
repreve
hym
of
his
vice.
Another
day
he
wole
peraventure
Reclayme
thee
and
brynge
thee
to
lure.
I
meene
he
speke
wole
of
smale
thynges,
As
for
to
pynchen
at
thy
rekenynges,
That
were
nat
honeste,
if
it
cam
to
preef."
"No,"
quod
the
Manciple,
"that
were
a
greet
mescheef,
So
myghte
he
lightly
brynge
me
in
the
snare;
Yet
hadde
I
levere
payen
for
the
mare,
Which
that
he
rit
on,
than
he
sholde
with
me
stryve
I
wol
nat
wratthen
hym,
al
so
moot
I
thryve;
That
that
I
speke,
I
seyde
it
in
my
bourde.
And
wite
ye
what,
I
have
heer
in
a
gourde
A
draghte
of
wyn,
ye,
of
a
ripe
grape,
And
right
anon
ye
shul
seen
a
good
jape.
This
Cook
shal
drynke
therof
if
that
I
may,
Up
peyne
of
deeth,
he
wol
nat
seye
me
nat."
And
certeynly,
to
tellen
as
it
was,
Of
this
vessel
the
Cook
drank
faste;
allas,
What
neded
hym?
he
drank
ynough
biforn!
And
whan
he
hadde
pouped
in
this
horn,
To
the
Manciple
he
took
the
gourde
agayn,
And
of
that
drynke
the
Cook
was
wonder
fayn,
And
thanked
hym
in
swich
wise
as
he
koude.
Thanne
gan
oure
Hoost
to
laughen
wonder
loude,
And
seyde,
"I
se
wel
it
is
necessarie
Where
that
we
goon,
that
drynke
we
with
us
carie.
For
that
wol
turne
rancour
and
disese
Tacord
and
love
and
many
a
wrong
apese.
O
thou
Bacus,
yblessed
be
thy
name,
That
so
kanst
turnen
ernest
into
game!
Worship
and
thank
be
to
thy
deitee!
Of
that
mateere
ye
gete
namoore
of
me,
Telle
on
thy
tale,
Manciple,
I
thee
preye."
"Wel,
sire,"
quod
he,
"now
herkneth
what
I
seye."
THE
MAUNCIPLES
TALE
Heere
bigynneth
the
Maunciples
tale
of
the
Crowe.
Whan
Phebus
dwelled
heere
in
this
world
adoun,
As
olde
bookes
maken
mencioun,
He
was
the
mooste
lusty
bachiler
In
al
this
world,
and
eek
the
beste
archer.
He
slow
Phitoun
the
serpent,
as
he
lay
Slepynge
agayn
the
sonne
upon
a
day;
And
many
another
noble
worthy
dede
He
with
his
bowe
wroghte,
as
men
may
rede.
Pleyen
he
koude
on
every
mynstralcie,
And
syngen,
that
it
was
a
melodie
To
heeren
of
his
cleere
voys
the
soun.
Certes,
the
kyng
of
Thebes,
Amphioun,
That
with
his
syngyng
walled
that
citee,
Koude
nevere
syngen
half
so
wel
as
hee.
Therto
he
was
the
semelieste
man,
That
is
or
was
sith
that
the
world
bigan.
What
nedeth
it
hise
fetures
to
discryve?
For
in
this
world
was
noon
so
fair
on
lyve.
He
was
therwith
fulfild
of
gentillesse,
Of
honour,
and
of
parfit
worthynesse.
This
Phebus
that
was
flour
of
bachilrie,
As
wel
in
fredom
as
in
chivalrie,
For
his
desport,
in
signe
eek
of
victorie
Of
Phitoun,
so
as
telleth
us
the
storie,
Was
wont
to
beren
in
his
hand
a
bowe.
Now
hadde
this
Phebus
in
his
hous
a
crowe,
Which
in
a
cage
he
fostred
many
a
day,
And
taughte
it
speken
as
men
teche
a
jay.
Whit
was
this
crowe,
as
is
a
snow-whit
swan,
And
countrefete
the
speche
of
every
man
He
koude,
whan
he
sholde
telle
a
tale.
Therwith
in
al
this
world
no
nyghtngale
Ne
koude,
by
an
hondred
thousand
deel,
Syngen
so
wonder
myrily
and
weel.
Now
hadde
this
Phebus
in
his
hous
a
wyf
Which
that
he
lovede
moore
than
his
lyf;
And
nyght
and
day
dide
evere
his
diligence
Hir
for
to
plese
and
doon
hire
reverence.
Save
oonly,
if
the
sothe
that
I
shal
sayn,
Jalous
he
was,
and
wolde
have
kept
hire
fayn,
For
hym
were
looth
byjaped
for
to
be-
And
so
is
every
wight
in
swich
degree;
But
al
in
ydel,
for
it
availleth
noght.
A
good
wyf
that
is
clene
of
werk
and
thoght
Sholde
nat
been
kept
in
noon
awayt,
certayn.
And
trewely
the
labour
is
in
vayn
To
kepe
a
shrewe,
for
it
wol
nat
bee.
This
holde
I
for
a
verray
nycetee,
To
spille
labour
for
to
kepe
wyves,
Thus
writen
olde
clerkes
in
hir
lyves.
But
now
to
purpos,
as
I
first
bigan:
This
worthy
Phebus
dooth
al
that
he
kan
To
plesen
hir,
wenynge
that
swich
plesaunce,
And
for
his
manhede
and
his
governaunce,
That
no
man
sholde
han
put
hym
from
hire
grace.
But
God
it
woot,
ther
may
no
man
embrace
As
to
destreyne
a
thyng,
which
that
nature
Hath
natureelly
set
in
a
creature.
Taak
any
bryd,
and
put
it
in
a
cage,
And
do
al
thyn
entente
and
thy
corage
To
fostre
it
tendrely
with
mete
and
drynke,
Of
alle
deyntees
that
thou
kanst
bithynke;
And
keepe
it
al
so
clenly
as
thou
may,
Al
though
his
cage
of
gold
be
nevere
so
gay,
Yet
hath
this
bryd,
by
twenty
thousand
foold,
Levere
in
a
forest
that
is
rude
and
coold
Goon
ete
wormes,
and
swich
wrecchednesse;
For
evere
this
bryd
wol
doon
his
bisynesse
To
escape
out
of
his
cage,
whan
he
may.
His
libertee
this
bryd
desireth
ay.
Lat
take
a
cat,
and
fostre
hym
wel
with
milk,
And
tendre
flessh,
and
make
his
couche
of
silk,
And
lat
hym
seen
a
mous
go
by
the
wal,
Anon
he
weyveth
milk
and
flessh
and
al,
And
every
deyntee
that
is
in
that
hous,
Swich
appetit
he
hath
to
ete
a
mous.
Lo,
heere
hath
lust
his
dominacioun,
And
appetit
fleemeth
discrecioun.
A
she
wolf
hath
also
a
vileyns
kynde,
The
lewedeste
wolf
that
she
may
fynde,
Or
leest
of
reputacioun
wol
she
take,
In
tyme
whan
hir
lust
to
han
a
make.
Alle
thise
ensamples
speke
I
by
thise
men,
That
been
untrewe,
and
no
thyng
by
wommen,
For
men
han
evere
a
likerous
appetit
On
lower
thyng
to
parfourne
hire
delit,
Than
on
hire
wyves,
be
they
nevere
so
faire,
Ne
nevere
so
trewe,
ne
so
debonaire.
Flessh
is
so
newefangel,
with
meschaunce,
That
we
ne
konne
in
no
thyng
han
plesaunce
That
sowneth
into
vertu
any
while.
This
Phebus,
which
that
thoghte
upon
no
gile,
Deceyved
was,
for
al
his
jolitee;
For
under
hym
another
hadde
shee,
A
man
of
litel
reputacioun,
Nat
worth
to
Phebus
in
comparisoun.
The
moore
harm
is,
it
happeth
ofte
so,
Of
which
ther
cometh
muchel
harm
and
wo.
And
so
bifel,
whan
Phebus
was
absent,
His
wyf
anon
hath
for
hir
lemman
sent;
Hir
lemman?
certes,
this
is
a
knavyssh
speche,
Foryeveth
it
me,
and
that
I
yow
biseche.
The
wise
Plato
seith,
as
ye
may
rede,
"The
word
moot
nede
accorde
with
the
dede."
If
men
shal
telle
proprely
a
thyng,
The
word
moot
cosyn
be
to
the
werkyng.
I
am
a
boystous
man,
right
thus
seye
I.
Ther
nys
no
difference
trewely
Bitwixe
a
wyf
that
is
of
heigh
degree-
If
of
hire
body
dishoneste
she
bee-
And
a
povre
wenche,
oother
than
this,
If
it
so
be
they
werke
bothe
amys,
But
that
the
gentile
in
hire
estaat
above,
She
shal
be
cleped
his
lady
as
in
love,
And
for
that
oother
is
a
povre
womman,
She
shal
be
cleped
his
wenche,
or
his
lemman;
And
God
it
woot,
myn
owene
deere
brother,
Men
leyn
that
oon
as
lowe
as
lith
that
oother.
Right
so
bitwixe
a
titlelees
tiraunt
And
an
outlawe,
or
a
theef
erraunt,
The
same
I
seye,
ther
is
no
difference.
To
Alisaundre
was
toold
this
sentence,
That
for
the
tiraunt
is
of
gretter
myght,
By
force
of
meynee
for
to
sleen
dounright,
And
brennen
hous
and
hoom,
and
make
al
playn,
Lo,
therfore
is
he
cleped
a
capitayn!
And
for
the
outlawe
hath
but
smal
meynee,
And
may
nat
doon
so
greet
an
harm
as
he,
Ne
brynge
a
contree
to
so
greet
mescheef,
Men
clepen
hym
an
outlawe
or
a
theef.
But
for
I
am
a
man
noght
textueel,
I
wol
noght
telle
of
textes
nevere
a
deel;
I
wol
go
to
my
tale
as
I
bigan.
Whan
Phebus
wyf
had
sente
for
hir
lemman,
Anon
they
wroghten
al
hir
lust
volage.
The
white
crowe
that
heeng
ay
in
the
cage
Biheeld
hire
werk,
and
seyde
nevere
a
word,
And
whan
that
hoom
was
com
Phebus
the
lord,
This
crowe
sang,
"Cokkow!
Cokkow!
Cokkow!"
"What
bryd!"
quod
Phebus,
"what
song
syngestow?
Ne
were
thow
wont
so
myrily
to
synge
That
to
myn
herte
it
was
a
rejoysynge
To
heere
thy
voys?
allas,
what
song
is
this?"
"By
God,"
quod
he,
"I
synge
nat
amys.
Phebus,"
quod
he,
"for
al
thy
worthynesse,
For
al
thy
beautee
and
thy
gentillesse,
For
al
thy
song
and
al
thy
mynstralcye,
For
al
thy
waityng,
blered
is
thyn
eye
With
oon
of
litel
reputacioun
Noght
worth
to
thee,
as
in
comparisoun
The
montance
of
a
gnat,
so
moote
I
thryve,
For
on
thy
bed
thy
wyf
I
saugh
hym
swyve."
What
wol
ye
moore?
the
crowe
anon
hym
tolde,
By
sadde
tokenes
and
by
wordes
bolde,
How
that
his
wyf
han
doon
hire
lecherye,
Hym
to
greet
shame
and
to
greet
vileynye,
And
tolde
hym
ofte,
he
asugh
it
with
hise
eyen.
This
Phebus
gan
aweyward
for
to
wryen,
And
thoughte
his
sorweful
herte
brast
atwo,
His
bowe
he
bente
and
sette
ther
inne
a
flo,
And
in
his
ire
his
wyf
thanne
hath
he
slayn.
This
is
theffect,
ther
is
namoore
to
sayn,
For
sorwe
of
which
he
brak
his
mynstralcie,
Bothe
harpe,
and
lute,
and
gyterne,
and
sautrie,
And
eek
he
brak
hise
arwes
and
his
bowe,
And
after
that
thus
spak
he
to
the
crowe.
"Traitour,"
quod
he,
"with
tonge
of
scorpioun,
Thou
hast
me
broght
to
my
confusioun,
Allas,
that
I
was
wroght!
why
nere
I
deed?
O
deere
wyf,
O
gemme
of
lustiheed,
That
were
to
me
so
sad
and
eek
so
trewe,
Now
listow
deed
with
face
pale
of
hewe,
Ful
giltelees,
that
dorste
I
swere,
ywys.
O
rakel
hand,
to
doon
so
foule
amys!
O
trouble
wit,
O
ire
recchelees!
That
unavysed
smyteth
gilteles.
O
wantrust,
ful
of
fals
suspecioun,
Where
was
thy
wit
and
thy
discrecioun?
O,
every
man,
be
war
of
rakelnesse,
Ne
trowe
no
thyng
withouten
strong
witnesse.
Smyt
nat
to
soone,
er
that
ye
witen
why,
And
beeth
avysed
wel
and
sobrely,
Er
ye
doon
any
execucioun
Upon
youre
ire
for
suspecioun.
Allas,
a
thousand
folk
hath
rakel
ire
Fully
fordoon,
and
broght
hem
in
the
mire!
Allas,
for
sorwe
I
wol
myselven
slee!"
And
to
the
crowe,
"O
false
theef,"
seyde
he,
"I
wol
thee
quite
anon
thy
false
tale;
Thou
songe
whilom
lyk
a
nyghtngale,
Now
shaltow,
false
theef,
thy
song
forgon,
And
eek
thy
white
fetheres
everichon.
Ne
nevere
in
al
thy
lyf
ne
shaltou
speke,
Thus
shal
men
on
a
traytour
been
awreke.
Thou
and
thyn
ofspryng
evere
shul
be
blake,
Ne
nevere
sweete
noyse
shul
ye
make,
But
evere
crie
agayn
tempest
and
rayn,
In
tokenynge
that
thurgh
thee
my
wyf
is
slayn."
And
to
the
crowe
he
stirte,
and
that
anon,
And
pulled
hise
white
fetheres
everychon,
And
made
hym
blak,
and
refte
hym
al
his
song,
And
eek
his
speche,
and
out
at
dore
hym
slong,
Unto
the
devel-which
I
hym
bitake!-
And
for
this
caas
been
alle
Crowes
blake.
Lordynges,
by
this
ensample
I
yow
preye,
Beth
war
and
taketh
kepe
what
I
seye:
Ne
telleth
nevere
no
man
in
youre
lyf
How
that
another
man
hath
dight
his
wyf;
He
wol
yow
haten
mortally,
certeyn.
Daun
Salomon,
as
wise
clerkes
seyn,
Techeth
a
man
to
kepen
his
tonge
weel.
But
as
I
seyde,
I
am
noght
textueel;
But
nathelees,
thus
taughte
me
my
dame;
"My
sone,
thenk
on
the
crowe,
on
Goddes
name.
My
sone,
keepe
wel
thy
tonge
and
keepe
thy
freend,
A
wikked
tonge
is
worse
than
a
feend.
My
sone,
from
a
feend
men
may
hem
blesse.
My
sone,
God
of
his
endelees
goodnesse
Walled
a
tonge
with
teeth
and
lippes
eke,
For
man
sholde
hym
avyse
what
he
speeke.
My
sone,
ful
ofte
for
to
muche
speche
Hath
many
a
man
been
spilt,
as
clerkes
teche.
But
for
litel
speche,
avysely,
Is
no
man
shent,
to
speke
generally.
My
sone,
thy
tonge
sholdestow
restreyne
At
alle
tymes,
but
whan
thou
doost
thy
peyne
To
speke
of
God
in
honour
and
in
preyere;
The
firste
vertu
sone,
if
thou
wolt
leere,
Is
to
restreyne
and
kepe
wel
thy
tonge.
Thus
lerne
children,
whan
that
they
been
yonge,
My
sone,
of
muchel
spekyng
yvele
avysed,
Ther
lasse
spekyng
hadde
ynough
suffised,
Comth
muchel
harm-thus
was
me
toold
and
taught.-
In
muchel
speche
synne
wanteth
naught.
Wostow
wherof
a
rakel
tonge
serveth?
Right
as
a
swerd
forkutteth
and
forkerveth
An
arme
atwo,
my
deere
sone,
right
so
A
tonge
kutteth
freendshipe
al
atwo.
A
jangler
is
to
God
abhomynable;
Reed
Salomon,
so
wys
and
honurable,
Reed
David
in
hise
psalmes,
reed
Senekke!
My
sone,
spek
nat,
but
with
thyn
heed
thou
bekke;
Dissimule
as
thou
were
deef,
it
that
thou
heere
A
jangler
speke
of
perilous
mateere.
The
Flemyng
seith,
and
lerne
it
if
thee
leste,
That
litel
janglyng
causeth
muchel
reste.
My
sone,
if
thou
no
wikked
word
hast
seyd,
Thee
thar
nat
drede
for
to
be
biwreyd;
But
he
that
hath
mysseyd,
I
dar
wel
sayn,
He
may
by
no
wey
clepe
his
word
agayn.
Thyng
that
is
seyd
is
seyd,
and
forth
it
gooth;
Though
hym
repente,
or
be
hym
leef
or
looth,
He
is
his
thral
to
whom
that
he
hath
sayd
A
tale,
of
which
he
is
now
yvele
apayd.
My
sone,
be
war,
and
be
noon
auctour
newe
Of
tidynyges,
wheither
they
been
false
or
trewe,
Wherso
thou
com,
amonges
hye
or
lowe,
Kepe
wel
thy
tonge,
and
thenk
upon
the
Crowe."
Heere
is
ended
the
Maunciples
tale
of
the
Crowe.
