Collection 2: "The Wife of Bath's Tale" by Geoffrey Chaucer

“Well, Ma’am,” he said, “as God may send me bliss,
This is a long preamble to a tale!”

But when the Summoner heard the Friar rail,
“Just look!” he cried, “by the two arms of God!
These meddling friars are always on the prod!
Don’t we all know a friar and a fly
Go prod and buzz in every dish and pie!"

Our Host called out, “Be quiet, that’s enough!
Shut up, and let the woman tell her tale.
You must be drunk, you’ve taken too much ale.
Now, Ma’am, you go ahead and no demur.”

They search the countryside through field and stream
As thick as motes that speckle a sun-beam

Wherever there was wont to walk an elf
Today there walks the holy friar himself
As evening falls or when the daylight springs,
Saying his matins and his holy things,
Walking his limit round from town to town.

Women can now go safely up and down
By every bush or under every tree;
There is no other incubus but he,
So there is really no one else to hurt you
And he will do no more than take your virtue.

Women can now go safely up and down
By every bush or under every tree;
There is no other incubus but he,
So there is really no one else to hurt you
And he will do no more than take your virtue.

I shall take gages from you to extort
Surrender of your body to the court.

Some said that women wanted wealth and treasure,
“Honor,” said some, some “Jollity and pleasure,”
Some “Gorgeous clothes” and others “Fun in bed,”
“To be oft widowed and remarried,” said
Others again, and some that what most mattered
Was that we should be cosseted and flattered.

Some say the things we most desire are these:
Freedom to do exactly as we please,
With no one to reprove our faults and lies,
Rather to have one call us good and wise.

Others assert we women find it sweet
When we are thought dependable, discreet
And secret, firm of purpose and controlled,
Never betraying things that we are told.

Her heart was all on fire
And, as a bittern bumbles in the mire,
She whispered to the water, near the ground,
“Betray me not, O water, with thy sound!"

“Then,” said the crone, “I dare to guarantee
Your life is safe; I shall make good my claim..."

There sat the noble matrons and the heady
Young girls, and widows too, that have the grace
Of wisdom, all assembled in that place,
And there the queen herself was throned to hear
And judge his answer.

“My liege and lady, in general,” said he,
“A woman wants the self-same sovereignty
Over her husband as over her lover,
And master him; he must not be above her.
That is your greatest wish, whether you kill
Or spare me; please yourself. I wait your will.”

“Alas!” he said, “Old lady, by the Lord
I know indeed that such was my behest,
But for God’s love think of a new request,
Take all my goods, but leave my body free.”

Great was the anguish churning in his head
When he and she were piloted to bed;
He wallowed back and forth in desperate style.

Are these the laws of good King Arthur’s house?
Are knights of his all so contemptuous?

Christ wills we take our gentleness from Him,
Not from a wealth of ancestry long dim,
Though they bequeath their whole establishment
By which we claim to be of high descent.

For of our parents nothing can we claim
Save temporal things, and these may hurt and maim.

He who accepts his poverty unhurt
I’d say is rich although he lacked a shirt.
But truly poor are they who whine and fret
And covet what they cannot hope to get.

And he that, having nothing, covets not,
Is rich, though you may think he is a sot.

Poverty is, though wanting in estate,
A kind of wealth that none calumniate.

And since it’s no offense, let me be plain;
Do not rebuke my poverty again.

You say I’m old and fouler than a fen.
You need not fear to be a cuckold, then.
Filth and old age, I’m sure you will agree,
Are powerful wardens over chastity.