The Canterbury Tales; THE PARDONERS TALE
THE
PARDONERS
PROLOGUE
Heere
folweth
the
Prologe
of
the
Pardoners
tale.
Radix
malorum
est
Cupiditas
Ad
Thimotheum
Lordynges-quod
he-in
chirches
whan
I
preche,
I
peyne
me
to
han
an
hauteyn
speche,
And
rynge
it
out
as
round
as
gooth
a
belle,
For
I
kan
al
by
rote
that
I
telle.
My
theme
is
alwey
oon
and
evere
was,
"Radix
malorum
est
Cupiditas."
First
I
pronounce
whennes
that
I
come,
And
thanne
my
bulles
shewe
I,
alle
and
some;
Oure
lige
lordes
seel
on
my
patente,
That
shewe
I
first,
my
body
to
warente,
That
no
man
be
so
boold,
ne
preest
ne
clerk,
Me
to
destourbe
of
Cristes
hooly
werk.
And
after
that
thanne
telle
I
forth
my
tales,
Bulles
of
popes
and
of
cardynales,
Of
patriarkes
and
bishopes
I
shewe,
And
in
Latyn
I
speke
a
wordes
fewe,
To
saffron
with
my
predicacioun,
And
for
to
stire
hem
to
devocioun.
Thanne
shewe
I
forth
my
longe
cristal
stones,
Yerammed
ful
of
cloutes
and
of
bones;
Relikes
been
they,
as
wenen
they
echoon.
Thanne
have
I
in
latoun
a
sholder-boon
Which
that
was
of
an
hooly
Jewes
sheepe.
"Goode
men,"
I
seye,
"taak
of
my
wordes
keepe:
If
that
this
boon
be
wasshe
in
any
welle,
If
cow,
or
calf,
or
sheep,
or
oxe
swelle,
That
any
worm
hath
ete,
or
worm
ystonge,
Taak
water
of
that
welle,
and
wassh
his
tonge,
And
it
is
hool
anon;
and
forthermoor,
Of
pokkes
and
of
scabbe
and
every
soor
Shal
every
sheepe
be
hool
that
of
this
welle
Drynketh
a
draughte;
taak
kepe
eek
what
I
telle,
If
that
the
goode
man
that
the
beestes
oweth,
Wol
every
wyke,
er
that
the
cok
hym
croweth,
Fastynge,
drinken
of
this
welle
a
draughte,
As
thilke
hooly
Jew
oure
eldres
taughte,
Hise
beestes
and
his
stoor
shal
multiplie.
And,
sire,
also
it
heeleth
jalousie;
For
though
a
man
be
falle
in
jalous
rage,
Lat
maken
with
this
water
his
potage,
And
nevere
shal
he
moore
his
wyf
mystriste,
Though
he
the
soothe
of
hir
defaute
wiste,
Al
had
she
taken
preestes
two
or
thre.
Heere
is
a
miteyn,
eek,
that
ye
may
se:
He
that
his
hand
wol
putte
in
this
mitayn,
He
shal
have
multipliyng
of
his
grayn
What
he
hath
sowen,
be
it
whete
or
otes,
So
that
he
offre
pens,
or
elles
grotes.
Goode
men
and
wommen,
o
thyng
warne
I
yow,
If
any
wight
be
in
this
chirche
now,
That
hath
doon
synne
horrible,
that
he
Dar
nat
for
shame
of
it
yshryven
be,
Or
any
womman,
be
she
yong
or
old,
That
hath
ymaad
hir
housbonde
cokewold,
Swich
folk
shal
have
no
power
ne
no
grace
To
offren
to
my
relikes
in
this
place.
And
who
so
fyndeth
hym
out
of
swich
fame,
He
wol
come
up
and
offre,
on
Goddes
name,
And
I
assoille
him,
by
the
auctoritee
Which
that
by
tulle
ygraunted
was
to
me."
By
this
gaude
have
I
wonne,
yeer
by
yeer,
An
hundred
mark,
sith
I
was
pardoner.
I
stonde
lyk
a
clerk
in
my
pulpet,
And
whan
the
lewed
peple
is
doun
yset,
I
preche
so,
as
ye
han
heerd
bifoore,
And
telle
an
hundred
false
japes
moore.
Thanne
peyne
I
me
to
strecche
forth
the
nekke,
And
est
and
west
upon
the
peple
I
bekke,
As
dooth
a
dowve
sittynge
on
a
berne.
Myne
handes
adn
my
tonge
goon
so
yerne
That
it
is
joye
to
se
my
bisynesse.
Of
avarice
and
of
swich
cursednesse
Is
al
my
prechyng,
for
to
make
hem
free
To
yeven
hir
pens;
and
namely,
unto
me!
For
myn
entente
is
nat
but
for
to
wynne,
And
no
thyng
for
correccioun
of
synne.
I
rekke
nevere,
whan
that
they
been
beryed,
Though
that
hir
soules
goon
a
blakeberyed,
For
certes,
many
a
predicacioun
Comth
ofte
tyme
of
yvel
entencioun.
Som
for
plesance
of
folk,
and
flaterye,
To
been
avaunced
by
ypocrisye,
And
som
for
veyne
glorie,
and
som
for
hate.
For
whan
I
dar
noon
oother
weyes
debate,
Thanne
wol
I
stynge
hym
with
my
tonge
smerte
In
prechyng,
so
that
he
shal
nat
astert
To
been
defamed
falsly,
if
that
he
Hath
trespased
to
my
bretheren,
or
to
me.
For
though
I
telle
noght
his
propre
name,
Men
shal
wel
knowe
that
it
is
the
same
By
signes,
and
by
othere
circumstances.
Thus
quyte
I
folk
that
doon
us
displesances,
Thus
spitte
I
out
my
venym,
under
hewe
Of
hoolynesse,
to
semen
hooly
and
trewe.
But
shortly,
myn
entente
I
wol
devyse;
I
preche
of
no
thyng
but
for
coveityse.
Therfore
my
theme
is
yet,
and
evere
was,
"Radix
malorum
est
Cupiditas."
Thus
kan
I
preche
agayn
that
same
vice
Which
that
I
use,
and
that
is
avarice.
But
though
myself
be
gilty
in
that
synne,
Yet
kan
I
maken
oother
folk
to
twynne
From
avarice,
and
soore
to
repente;
But
that
is
nat
my
principal
entente.
I
preche
no
thyng
but
for
coveitise;
Of
this
mateere
it
oghte
ynogh
suffise.
Thanne
telle
I
hem
ensamples
many
oon
Of
olde
stories
longe
tyme
agoon,
For
lewed
peple
loven
tales
olde;
Swiche
thynges
kan
they
wel
reporte
and
holde.
What?
trowe
ye,
the
whiles
I
may
preche,
And
wynne
gold
and
silver
for
I
teche,
That
I
wol
lyve
in
poverte
wilfully?
Nay,
nay,
I
thoghte
it
nevere,
trewely.
For
I
wol
preche
and
begge
in
sondry
landes,
I
wol
nat
do
no
labour
with
myne
handes,
Ne
make
baskettes,
and
lyve
therby,
By
cause
I
wol
nat
beggen
ydelly.
I
wol
noon
of
the
apostles
countrefete,
I
wol
have
moneie,
wolle,
chese,
and
whete,
Al
were
it
yeven
of
the
povereste
page,
Or
of
the
povereste
wydwe
in
a
village,
Al
sholde
hir
children
sterve
for
famyne.
Nay,
I
wol
drynke
licour
of
the
vyne,
And
have
a
joly
wenche
in
every
toun.
But
herkneth,
lordynges,
in
conclusioun:
Your
likyng
is,
that
I
shal
telle
a
tale.
Now
have
I
dronke
a
draughte
of
corny
ale,
By
God,
I
hope
I
shal
yow
telle
a
thyng
That
shal
by
resoun
been
at
youre
likyng.
For
though
myself
be
a
ful
vicious
man,
A
moral
tale
yet
I
you
telle
kan,
Which
I
am
wont
to
preche,
for
to
wynne.
Now
hoold
youre
pees,
my
tale
I
wol
bigynne.
Part
18
THE
PARDONERS
TALE
Heere
bigynneth
the
Pardoners
tale.
In
Flaundres
whilom
was
a
compaignye
Of
yonge
folk,
that
haunteden
folye,
As
riot,
hasard,
stywes,
and
tavernes,
Wher
as
with
harpes,
lutes,
and
gyternes
They
daunce
and
pleyen
at
dees,
bothe
day
and
nyght,
And
eten
also
and
drynken
over
hir
myght,
Thurgh
which
they
doon
the
devel
sacrifise
Withinne
that
develes
temple
in
cursed
wise,
By
superfluytee
abhomynable.
Hir
othes
been
so
grete
and
so
dampnable
That
it
is
grisly
for
to
heere
hem
swere.
Oure
blissed
lordes
body
they
to-tere,
Hem
thoughte
that
Jewes
rente
hym
noght
ynough,
And
ech
of
hem
at
otheres
synne
lough.
And
right
anon
thanne
comen
tombesteres,
Fetys
and
smale,
and
yonge
frutesteres,
Syngeres
with
harpes,
baudes,
wafereres,
Whiche
been
the
verray
develes
officeres
To
kyndle
and
blowe
the
fyr
of
lecherye,
That
is
annexed
unto
glotonye.
The
hooly
writ
take
I
to
my
witnesse,
That
luxurie
is
in
wyn
and
dronkenesse.
Lo,
how
that
dronken
Looth
unkyndely
Lay
by
hise
doghtres
two
unwityngly;
So
dronke
he
was,
he
nyste
what
he
wroghte.
Herodes,
whoso
wel
the
stories
soghte,
Whan
he
of
wyn
was
repleet
at
his
feeste,
Right
at
his
owene
table
he
yaf
his
heeste
To
sleen
the
Baptist
John,
ful
giltelees.
Senee
seith
a
good
word,
doutelees;
He
seith,
he
kan
no
difference
fynde
Bitwix
a
man
that
is
out
of
his
mynde,
And
a
man
which
that
is
dronkelewe,
But
that
woodnesse
fallen
in
a
shrewe
Persevereth
lenger
than
dooth
dronkenesse.
O
glotonye,
ful
of
cursednesse!
O
cause
first
of
oure
confusioun!
O
original
of
oure
dampnacioun
Til
Crist
hadde
boght
us
with
his
blood
agayn!
Lo,
how
deere,
shortly
for
to
sayn,
Aboght
was
thilke
cursed
vileynye!
Corrupt
was
al
this
world
for
glotonye!
Adam
oure
fader,
and
his
wyf
also,
Fro
Paradys
to
labour
and
to
wo
Were
dryven
for
that
vice,
it
is
no
drede;
For
whil
that
Adam
fasted,
as
I
rede,
He
was
in
Paradys,
and
whan
that
he
Eet
of
the
fruyt
deffended
on
the
tree,
Anon
he
was
out-cast
to
wo
and
peyne.
O
glotonye,
on
thee
wel
oghte
us
pleyne!
O,
wiste
a
man
how
manye
maladyes
Folwen
of
excesse
and
of
goltonyes,
He
wolde
been
the
moore
mesurable
Of
his
diete,
sittynge
at
his
table.
Allas,
the
shorte
throte,
the
tendre
mouth
Maketh
that
est
and
west
and
north
and
south
In
erthe,
in
eir,
in
water,
man
to
swynke
To
gete
a
glotoun
deyntee
mete
and
drynke.
Of
this
matiere,
O
Paul!
wel
kanstow
trete,
Mete
unto
wombe
and
wombe
eek
unto
mete
Shal
God
destroyen
bothe,
as
Paulus
seith.
Allas,
a
foul
thyng
is
it,
by
my
feith!
To
seye
this
word,
and
fouler
is
the
dede
Whan
man
so
drynketh
of
the
white
and
rede,
That
of
his
throte
he
maketh
his
pryvee
Thurgh
thilke
cursed
superfluitee.
The
Apostel
wepying
seith
ful
pitously,
"Ther
walken
manye
of
whiche
yow
toold
have
I,
I
seye
it
now
wepyng
with
pitous
voys,
That
they
been
enemys
of
Cristes
croys,
Of
whiche
the
ende
is
deeth,
wombe
is
hir
god."
O
wombe!
O
bely!
O
stynkyng
cod!
Fulfilled
of
donge
and
of
corrupcioun,
At
either
ende
of
thee
foul
is
the
soun;
How
greet
labour
and
cost
is
thee
to
fynde,
Thise
cookes,
how
they
stampe,
and
streyne,
and
grynde,
And
turnen
substaunce
into
accident,
To
fulfillen
al
thy
likerous
talent!
Out
of
the
harde
bones
knokke
they
The
mary,
for
they
caste
noght
awey,
That
may
go
thurgh
the
golet
softe
and
swoote;
Of
spicerie,
of
leef,
and
bark,
and
roote,
Shal
been
his
sauce
ymaked
by
delit,
To
make
hym
yet
a
newer
appetit.
But
certes,
he
that
haunteth
swiche
delices
Is
deed,
whil
that
he
lyveth
in
tho
vices.
A
lecherous
thyng
is
wyn,
and
dronkenesse
Is
ful
of
stryvyng
and
of
wrecchednesse.
O
dronke
man,
disfigured
is
thy
face!
Sour
is
thy
breeth,
foul
artow
to
embrace,
And
thurgh
thy
dronke
nose
semeth
the
soun,
As
though
thow
seydest
ay,
"Sampsoun!
Sampsoun!"
And
yet,
God
woot,
Sampsoun
drank
nevere
no
wyn!
Thou
fallest,
as
it
were
a
styked
swyn;
Thy
tonge
is
lost,
and
al
thyn
honeste
cure
For
dronkenesse
is
verray
sepulture
Of
mannes
wit
and
his
discrecioun,
In
whom
that
drynke
hath
dominacioun.
He
kan
no
conseil
kepe,
it
is
no
drede;
Now
kepe
yow
fro
the
white
and
fro
the
rede,
And
namely,
fro
the
white
wyn
of
Lepe,
That
is
to
selle
in
fysshstrete,
or
in
Chepe.
This
wyn
of
Spaigne
crepeth
subtilly
In
othere
wynes,
growynge
faste
by,
Of
which
ther
ryseth
swich
fumositee,
That
whan
a
man
hath
dronken
draughtes
thre
And
weneth
that
he
be
at
hoom
in
Chepe,
He
is
in
Spaigne,
right
at
the
toune
of
Lepe,
Nat
at
the
Rochele,
ne
at
Bur
deux
toun;
And
thanne
wol
he
seye
"Sampsoun,
Sampsoun!"
But
herkneth,
lordes,
o
word
I
yow
preye,
That
alle
the
sovereyn
actes,
dar
I
seye,
Of
victories
in
the
Olde
Testament,
Thurgh
verray
God
that
is
omnipotent
Were
doon
in
abstinence
and
in
preyere.
Looketh
the
Bible,
and
ther
ye
may
it
leere.
Looke,
Attilla,
the
grete
conquerour,
Deyde
in
his
sleepe,
with
shame
and
dishonour,
Bledynge
ay
at
his
nose
in
dronkenesse.
A
capitayn
sholde
lyve
in
sobrenesse;
And
over
al
this
avyseth
yow
right
wel,
What
was
comaunded
unto
Lamwel,
Nat
Samuel,
but
Lamwel,
seye
I;
Redeth
the
Bible
and
fynde
it
expresly,
Of
wyn
yevyng
to
hem
that
han
justise.
Namoore
of
this,
for
it
may
wel
suffise.
And
now
that
I
have
spoken
of
glotonye,
Now
wol
I
yow
deffenden
hasardrye.
Hasard
is
verray
mooder
of
lesynges,
And
of
dedeite
and
cursed
forswerynges,
Blasphemyng
of
Crist,
manslaughtre
and
wast
also,
Of
catel
and
of
tyme,
and
forthermo
It
is
repreeve
and
contrarie
of
honour
For
to
ben
holde
a
commune
hasardour.
And
ever
the
hyer
he
is
of
estaat,
The
moore
is
he
holden
desolaat;
If
that
a
prynce
useth
hasardrye,
In
all
governaunce
and
policye
He
is
as
by
commune
opinioun
Yholde
the
lasse
in
reputacioun.
Stilboun,
that
was
a
wys
embassadour,
Was
sent
to
Corynthe
in
ful
greet
honour,
Fro
Lacidomye
to
maken
hire
alliaunce.
And
whan
he
cam
hym
happede
par
chaunce,
That
alle
the
gretteste
that
were
of
that
lond
Pleyynge
atte
hasard
he
hem
fond.
For
which,
as
soone
as
it
myghte
be,
He
stal
hym
hoom
agayn
to
his
contree,
And
seyde,
"Ther
wol
I
nat
lese
my
name,
Ne
I
wol
nat
take
on
me
so
greet
defame.
Yow
for
to
allie
unto
none
hasardours.
Sendeth
othere
wise
embassadours,
For
by
my
trouthe
me
were
levere
dye
Than
I
yow
sholde
to
hasardours
allye.
For
ye
that
been
so
glorious
in
honours
Shul
nat
allyen
yow
with
hasardours,
As
by
my
wyl,
ne
as
by
my
tretee,"
This
wise
philosophre,
thus
seyde
hee.
Looke
eek,
that
to
the
kyng
Demetrius
The
kyng
of
Parthes,
as
the
book
seith
us,
Sente
him
a
paire
of
dees
of
gold,
in
scorn,
For
he
hadde
used
hasard
therbiforn,
For
which
he
heeld
his
glorie
or
his
renoun
At
no
value
or
reputacioun.
Lordes
may
fynden
oother
maner
pley
Honeste
ynough,
to
dryve
the
day
awey.
Now
wol
I
speke
of
othes
false
and
grete
A
word
or
two,
as
olde
bookes
trete.
Gret
sweryng
is
a
thyng
abhominable,
And
fals
sweryng
is
yet
moore
reprevable.
The
heighe
God
forbad
sweryng
at
al,
Witnesse
on
Mathew;
but
in
special
Of
sweryng
seith
the
hooly
Jeremye,
"Thou
shalt
seye
sooth
thyne
othes,
and
nat
lye,
And
swere
in
doom,
and
eek
in
rightwisnesse,"
But
ydel
sweryng
is
a
cursednesse.
Bihoold
and
se,
that
in
the
firste
table
Of
heighe
Goddes
heestes
honurable
How
that
the
seconde
heeste
of
hym
is
this:
Take
nat
my
name
in
ydel
or
amys.
Lo,
rather
he
forbedeth
swich
sweryng
Than
homycide,
or
any
cursed
thyng!
I
seye,
that
as
by
ordre
thus
it
stondeth,
This
knowen
that
hise
heestes
understondeth
How
that
the
seconde
heeste
of
God
is
that.
And
forther-over
I
wol
thee
telle
al
plat,
That
vengeance
shal
nat
parten
from
his
hous
That
of
hise
othes
is
to
outrageous-
"By
Goddes
precious
herte
and
by
his
nayles,
And
by
the
blood
of
Crist
that
is
in
Hayles,
Sevene
is
my
chaunce
and
thyn
is
cynk
and
treye.
By
Goddes
armes,
if
thou
falsly
pleye,
This
dagger
shal
thurghout
thyn
herte
go!"
This
fruyt
cometh
of
the
bicched
bones
two,
Forsweryng,
ire,
falsnesse,
homycide!
Now
for
the
love
of
Crist,
that
for
us
dyde,
Lete
youre
othes
bothe
grete
and
smale.
But,
sires,
now
wol
I
telle
forth
my
tale.
Thise
riotoures
thre,
of
whiche
I
telle,
Longe
erst
er
prime
rong
of
any
belle,
Were
set
hem
in
a
taverne
for
to
drynke.
And
as
they
sat,
they
herde
a
belle
clynke
Biforn
a
cors,
was
caried
to
his
grave.
That
oon
of
hem
gan
callen
to
his
knave,
"Go
bet,"
quod
he,
"and
axe
redily
What
cors
is
this,
that
passeth
heer
forby,
And
looke,
that
thou
reporte
his
name
weel."
"Sir,"
quod
this
boy,
"it
nedeth
neveradeel;
It
was
me
toold,
er
ye
cam
heer
two
houres.
He
was,
pardee,
an
old
felawe
of
youres,
And
sodeynly
he
was
yslayn
to-nyght,
Fordronke,
as
he
sat
on
his
bench
upright.
Ther
cam
a
privee
theef
men
clepeth
Deeth,
That
in
this
contree
al
the
peple
sleeth,
And
with
his
spere
he
smoot
his
herte
atwo,
And
wente
his
wey
withouten
wordes
mo.
He
hath
a
thousand
slayn
this
pestilence,
And
maister,
er
ye
come
in
his
presence,
Me
thynketh
that
it
were
necessarie
For
to
be
war
of
swich
an
adversarie.
Beth
redy
for
to
meete
hym
everemoore,
Thus
taughte
me
my
dame,
I
sey
namoore."
"By
Seinte
Marie,:
seyde
this
taverner,
"The
child
seith
sooth,
for
he
hath
slayn
this
yeer
Henne
over
a
mile,
withinne
a
greet
village
Bothe
man
and
womman,
child,
and
hyne,
and
page.
I
trowe
his
habitacioun
be
there.
To
been
avysed,
greet
wysdom
it
were,
Er
that
he
dide
a
man
a
dishonour."
"Ye,
Goddes
armes,"
quod
this
riotour,
"Is
it
swich
peril
with
hym
for
to
meete?
I
shal
hym
seke,
by
wey
and
eek
by
strete,
I
make
avow
to
Goddes
digne
bones.
Herkneth,
felawes,
we
thre
been
al
ones;
Lat
ech
of
us
holde
up
his
hand
til
oother,
And
ech
of
us
bicomen
otheres
brother,
And
we
wol
sleen
this
false
traytour
Deeth.
He
shal
be
slayn,
which
that
so
manye
sleeth,
By
Goddes
dignitee,
er
it
be
nyght."
Togidres
han
thise
thre
hir
trouthes
plight,
To
lyve
and
dyen,
ech
of
hem
for
oother,
As
though
he
were
his
owene
ybore
brother;
And
up
they
stirte
al
dronken
in
this
rage,
And
forth
they
goon
towardes
that
village,
Of
which
the
taverner
hadde
spoke
biforn.
And
many
a
grisly
ooth
thanne
han
they
sworn,
And
Cristes
blessed
body
they
to-rente,
`Deeth
shal
be
deed,
if
that
they
may
hym
hente.'
Whan
they
han
goon
nat
fully
half
a
mile,
Right
as
they
wolde
han
troden
over
a
stile,
An
oold
man
and
a
povre
with
hem
mette.
This
olde
man
ful
mekely
hem
grette,
And
seyde
thus,
"Now,
lordes,
God
yow
see."
The
proudeste
of
thise
riotoures
three
Answerde
agayn,
"What,
carl,
with
sory
grace,
Why
artow
al
forwrapped
save
thy
face?
Why
lyvestow
so
longe
in
so
greet
age?"
This
olde
man
gan
looke
in
his
visage,
And
seyde
thus,
"For
I
ne
kan
nat
fynde
A
man,
though
that
I
walked
in
to
Ynde,
Neither
in
citee
nor
in
no
village,
That
wolde
chaunge
his
youthe
for
myn
age.
And
therfore
mooth
I
han
myn
age
stille
As
longe
tyme
as
it
is
Goddes
wille.
Ne
deeth,
allas,
ne
wol
nat
han
my
lyf!
Thus
walke
I
lyk
a
restelees
kaityf,
And
on
the
ground,
which
is
my
moodres
gate,
I
knokke
with
my
staf
bothe
erly
and
late,
And
seye,
'leeve
mooder,
leet
me
in!
Lo,
how
I
vanysshe,
flessh
and
blood
and
skyn!
Allas,
whan
shul
my
bones
been
at
reste?
Mooder,
with
yow
wolde
I
chaunge
my
cheste,
That
in
my
chambre
longe
tyme
hath
be,
Ye,
for
an
heyre-clowt
to
wrappe
me.'
But
yet
to
me
she
wol
nat
do
that
grace;
For
which
ful
pale
and
welked
is
my
face.
But,
sires,
to
yow
it
is
no
curteisye
To
speken
to
an
old
man
vileynye,
But
he
trespasse
in
word,
or
elles
in
dede.
In
hooly
writ
ye
may
yourself
wel
rede,
`Agayns
an
oold
man,
hoor
upon
his
heed,
Ye
sholde
arise;'
wherfore
I
yeve
yow
reed,
Ne
dooth
unto
an
oold
man
noon
harm
now,
Namoore
than
that
ye
wolde
men
did
to
yow
In
age,
if
that
ye
so
longe
abyde,
And
God
be
with
yow
where
ye
go
or
ryde.
I
moote
go
thider,
as
I
have
to
go."
"Nay,
olde
cherl,
by
God,
thou
shalt
nat
so,"
Seyde
this
oother
hasardour
anon.
"Thou
partest
nat
so
lightly,
by
Seint
John.
Thou
spak
right
now
of
thilke
traytour
Deeth,
That
in
this
contree
alle
oure
freendes
sleeth.
Have
heer
my
trouthe,
as
thou
art
his
espye,
Telle
where
he
is,
or
thou
shalt
it
abye,
By
God
and
by
the
hooly
sacrament,
For
soothly
thou
art
oon
of
his
assent
To
sleen
us
yonge
folk,
thou
false
theef?"
"Now,
sires,"
quod
he,
"if
that
ye
be
so
leef
To
fynde
Deeth,
turne
up
this
croked
wey,
For
in
that
grove
I
lafte
hym,
by
my
fey,
Under
a
tree,
and
there
he
wole
abyde.
Noght
for
your
boost
he
wole
him
nothyng
hyde,
Se
ye
that
ook?
right
ther
ye
shal
hym
fynde,
God
save
yow
that
boghte
agayn
mankynde,
And
yow
amende."
Thus
seyde
this
olde
man;
And
everich
of
thise
riotoures
ran
Til
he
cam
to
that
tree,
and
ther
they
founde
Of
floryns
fyne
of
gold
ycoyned
rounde
Wel
ny
an
eighte
busshels,
as
hem
thoughte.
No
lenger
thanne
after
Deeth
they
soughte,
But
ech
of
hem
so
glad
was
of
that
sighte,
For
that
the
floryns
been
so
faire
and
brighte,
That
doun
they
sette
hem
by
this
precious
hoord.
The
worste
of
hem,
he
spak
the
firste
word,
"Bretheren,"
quod
he,
"taak
kepe
what
I
seys;
My
wit
is
greet,
though
that
I
bourde
and
pleye.
This
tresor
hath
Fortune
unto
us
yeven,
In
myrthe
and
joliftee
oure
lyf
to
lyven.
And
lightly
as
it
comth,
so
wol
we
spende.
Ey,
Goddes
precious
dignitee,
who
wende
Today
that
we
sholde
han
so
fair
a
grace?
But
myghte
this
gold
be
caried
fro
this
place
Hoom
to
myn
hous
or
elles
unto
youres,
(For
wel
ye
woot
that
al
this
gold
is
oures)
Thanne
were
we
in
heigh
felicitee.
But
trewely,
by
daye
it
may
nat
bee;
Men
wolde
seyn
that
we
were
theves
stronge,
And
for
oure
owene
tresor
doon
us
honge.
This
tresor
moste
ycaried
be
by
nyghte,
As
wisely
and
as
slyly
as
it
myghte.
Wherfore
I
rede
that
cut
among
us
alle
Be
drawe,
and
lat
se
wher
the
cut
wol
falle,
And
he
that
hath
the
cut,
with
herte
blithe
Shal
renne
to
the
towne,
and
that
ful
seithe,
And
brynge
us
breed
and
wyn,
ful
prively;
And
two
of
us
shul
kepen
subtilly
This
tresor
wel,
and
if
he
wol
nat
tarie,
Whan
it
is
nyght,
we
wol
this
tresor
carie,
By
oon
assent,
where
as
us
thynketh
best."
That
oon
of
hem
the
cut
broghte
in
his
fest,
And
bad
hym
drawe,
and
looke
where
it
wol
falle;
And
it
fil
on
the
yongeste
of
hem
alle,
And
forth
toward
the
toun
he
wente
anon.
And
al
so
soone,
as
that
he
was
agon,
That
oon
of
hem
spak
thus
unto
that
oother,
"Thou
knowest
wel
thou
art
my
sworen
brother,
Thy
profit
wol
I
telle
thee
anon.
Thou
woost
wel,
that
oure
felawe
is
agon,
And
heere
is
gold,
and
that
ful
greet
plentee,
That
shal
departed
been
among
us
thre.
But
nathelees,
if
I
kan
shape
it
so
That
it
departed
were
among
us
two,
Hadde
I
nat
doon
a
freendes
torn
to
thee?"
That
oother
answerde,
"I
noot
hou
that
may
be;
He
woot
how
that
the
gold
is
with
us
tweye;
What
shal
we
doon?
what
shal
we
to
hym
seye?"
"Shal
it
be
conseil?"
seyde
the
firste
shrewe,
"And
I
shal
tellen,
in
a
wordes
fewe,
What
we
shal
doon,
and
bryngen
it
wel
aboute."
"I
graunte,"
quod
that
oother,
"out
of
doute,
That
by
my
trouthe
I
shal
thee
nat
biwreye."
"Now,"
quod
the
firste,
"thou
woost
wel
we
be
tweye,
And
two
of
us
shul
strenger
be
than
oon;
Looke
whan
that
he
is
set,
that
right
anoon
Arys,
as
though
thou
woldest
with
hym
pleye,
And
I
shal
ryve
hym
thurgh
the
sydes
tweye,
Whil
that
thou
strogelest
with
hym
as
in
game.
And
with
thy
daggere
looke
thou
do
the
same,
And
thanne
shal
al
this
gold
departed
be,
My
deere
freend,
bitwixen
me
and
thee.
Thanne
may
we
bothe
oure
lustes
all
fulfille,
And
pleye
at
dees
right
at
oure
owene
wille."
And
thus
acorded
been
thise
shrewes
tweye
To
sleen
the
thridde,
as
ye
han
herd
me
seye.
This
yongeste,
which
that
wente
unto
the
toun,
Ful
ofte
in
herte
he
rolleth
up
and
doun
The
beautee
of
thise
floryns
newe
and
brighte.
"O
lorde,"
quod
he,
"if
so
were
that
I
myghte
Have
al
this
tresor
to
my-self
allone,
Ther
is
no
man
that
lyveth
under
the
trone
Of
god,
that
sholde
lyve
so
murye
as
I."
And
atte
laste
the
feend,
oure
enemy,
Putte
in
his
thought
that
he
sholde
poyson
beye,
With
which
he
myghte
sleen
hise
felawes
tweye.
For
why,
the
feend
foond
hym
in
swich
lyvynge,
That
he
hadde
leve
hem
to
sorwe
brynge;
For
this
was
outrely
his
fulle
entente,
To
sleen
hem
bothe,
and
nevere
to
repente.
And
forth
he
gooth,
no
lenger
wolde
he
tarie,
Into
the
toun
unto
a
pothecarie
And
preyde
hym
that
he
hym
wolde
selle
Som
poysoun,
that
he
myghte
hise
rattes
quelle,
And
eek
ther
was
a
polcat
in
his
hawe,
That,
as
he
seyde,
hise
capouns
hadde
yslawe;
And
fayn
he
wolde
wreke
hym,
if
he
myghte,
On
vermyn
that
destroyed
hym
by
nyghte.
The
pothecarie
answerde,
"and
thou
shalt
have
A
thyng,
that
al
so
God
my
soule
save,
In
al
this
world
ther
is
no
creature
That
eten
or
dronken
hath
of
this
confiture
Noght
but
the
montance
of
a
corn
of
whete,
That
he
ne
shal
his
lif
anon
forlete;
Ye,
sterve
he
shal,
and
that
in
lasse
while
Than
thou
wolt
goon
a
paas
nat
but
a
mile,
This
poysoun
is
so
strong
and
violent."
This
cursed
man
hath
in
his
hond
yhent
This
poysoun
in
a
box,
and
sith
he
ran
Into
the
nexte
strete
unto
a
man
And
borwed
hym
of
large
botels
thre;
And
in
the
two
his
poyson
poured
he,
The
thridde
he
kepte
clene
for
his
owene
drynke,
For
al
the
nyght
he
shoop
hym
for
to
swynke
In
cariynge
of
the
gold
out
of
that
place.
And
whan
this
riotour,
with
sory
grace,
Hadde
filed
with
wyn
his
grete
botels
thre,
To
hise
felawes
agayn
repaireth
he.
What
nedeth
it
to
sermone
of
it
moore?
For
right
as
they
hadde
cast
his
deeth
bifoore
Right
so
they
han
him
slayn,
and
that
anon;
And
whan
that
this
was
doon,
thus
spak
that
oon,
"Now
lat
us
sitte
and
drynke,
and
make
us
merie,
And
afterward
we
wol
his
body
berie."
And
with
that
word
it
happed
hym,
par
cas,
To
take
the
botel
ther
the
poysoun
was,
And
drank,
and
yaf
his
felawe
drynke
also,
For
which
anon
they
storven
bothe
two.
But
certes,
I
suppose
that
Avycen
Wroot
nevere
in
no
canoun,
ne
in
no
fen,
Mo
wonder
signes
of
empoisonyng
Than
hadde
thise
wrecches
two,
er
hir
endyng.
Thus
ended
been
thise
homycides
two,
And
eek
the
false
empoysoner
also.
O
cursed
synne
ful
of
cursednesse!
O
traytours
homycide!
O
wikkednesse!
O
glotonye,
luxurie,
and
hasardrye!
Thou
blasphemour
of
Crist,
with
vileynye,
And
othes
grete,
of
usage
and
of
pride,
Allas,
mankynde!
how
may
it
bitide
That
to
thy
Creatour
which
that
the
wroghte,
And
with
His
precious
herte-blood
thee
boghte,
Thou
art
so
fals
and
so
unkynde,
allas!
Now,
goode
men,
God
foryeve
yow
youre
trespas,
And
ware
yow
fro
the
synne
of
avarice;
Myn
hooly
pardoun
may
yow
alle
warice,
So
that
ye
offre
nobles
or
sterlynges,
Or
elles
silver
broches,
spoones,
rynges;
Boweth
youre
heed
under
this
hooly
bulle,
Com
up,
ye
wyves,
offreth
of
youre
wolle;
Youre
names
I
entre
heer
in
my
rolle
anon,
Into
the
blisse
of
hevene
shul
ye
gon.
I
yow
assoille
by
myn
heigh
power,
Yow
that
wol
offre,
as
clene
and
eek
as
cleer
As
ye
were
born-and
lo,
sires,
thus
I
preche;
And
Jesu
Crist,
that
is
oure
soules
leche,
So
graunte
yow
his
pardoun
to
receyve,
For
that
is
best,
I
wol
yow
nat
deceyve.
But
sires,
o
word
forgat
I
in
my
tale,
I
have
relikes
and
pardoun
in
my
male
As
faire
as
any
man
in
Engelond,
Whiche
were
me
yeven
by
the
popes
hond.
If
any
of
yow
wole
of
devocioun
Offren
and
han
myn
absolucioun,
Com
forth
anon,
and
kneleth
heere
adoun,
And
mekely
receyveth
my
pardoun,
Or
elles
taketh
pardoun
as
ye
wende,
Al
newe
and
fressh
at
every
miles
ende,
So
that
ye
offren
alwey
newe
and
newe
Nobles
or
pens,
whiche
that
be
goode
and
trewe.
It
is
an
honour
to
everich
that
is
heer,
That
ye
mowe
have
a
suffisant
pardoneer
Tassoille
yow
in
contree
as
ye
ryde,
For
aventures
whiche
that
may
bityde.
Paraventure
ther
may
fallen
oon
or
two
Doun
of
his
hors,
and
breke
his
nekke
atwo.
Look,
which
a
seuretee
is
it
to
yow
alle
That
I
am
in
youre
felaweship
yfalle,
That
may
assoille
yow,
bothe
moore
and
lasse,
Whan
that
the
soule
shal
fro
the
body
passe.
I
rede
that
oure
Hoost
heere
shal
bigynne,
For
he
is
moost
envoluped
in
synne.
Com
forth,
sire
Hoost,
and
offre
first
anon,
And
thou
shalt
kisse
my
relikes
everychon,
Ye,
for
a
grote,
unbokele
anon
thy
purs.-
"Nay,
nay,"
quod
he,
"thanne
have
I
Cristes
curs!"
"Lat
be,"
quod
he,
"it
shal
nat
be,
so
theech,
Thou
woldest
make
me
kisse
thyn
olde
breech,
And
swere
it
were
a
relyk
of
a
seint,
Though
it
were
with
thy
fundement
depeint.
But
by
the
croys
which
that
seint
Eleyne
fond,
I
wolde
I
hadde
thy
coillons
in
myn
hond
In
stide
of
relikes
or
of
seintuarie.
Lat
kutte
hem
of,
I
wol
thee
helpe
hem
carie,
They
shul
be
shryned
in
an
hogges
toord."
This
Pardoner
answerde
nat
a
word;
So
wrooth
he
was,
no
word
ne
wolde
he
seye.
"Now,"
quod
oure
Hoost,
"I
wol
no
lenger
pleye
With
thee,
ne
with
noon
oother
angry
man."
But
right
anon
the
worthy
knyght
bigan,
Whan
that
he
saugh
that
al
the
peple
lough,
"Namoore
of
this,
for
it
is
right
ynough.
Sir
Pardoner,
be
glad
and
myrie
of
cheere;
And
ye,
sir
Hoost,
that
been
to
me
so
deere,
I
prey
yow,
that
ye
kisse
the
pardoner;
And
Pardoner,
I
prey
thee,
drawe
thee
neer,
And,
as
we
diden
lat
us
laughe
and
pley."
Anon
they
kiste,
and
ryden
forth
hir
weye.
Heere
is
ended
the
Pardoners
tale.
