The Canterbury Tales [133]
all Though that my daughter and my son be slain At your commandement; that is to sayn, I have not had no part of children twain, But first sickness, and after woe and pain.
"Ye be my lord, do with your owen thing Right as you list, and ask no rede of me: For, as I left at home all my clothing When I came first to you, right so," quoth she, "Left I my will and all my liberty, And took your clothing: wherefore I you pray, Do your pleasance, I will your lust* obey. *will
"And, certes, if I hadde prescience Your will to know, ere ye your lust* me told, *will I would it do withoute negligence: But, now I know your lust, and what ye wo'ld, All your pleasance firm and stable I hold; For, wist I that my death might do you ease, Right gladly would I dien you to please.
"Death may not make no comparisoun Unto your love." And when this marquis say* *saw The constance of his wife, he cast adown His eyen two, and wonder'd how she may In patience suffer all this array; And forth he went with dreary countenance; But to his heart it was full great pleasance.
This ugly sergeant, in the same wise That he her daughter caught, right so hath he (Or worse, if men can any worse devise,) Y-hent* her son, that full was of beauty: *seized And ever-in-one* so patient was she, *unvaryingly That she no cheere made of heaviness, But kiss'd her son, and after gan him bless.
Save this she prayed him, if that he might, Her little son he would in earthe grave,* *bury His tender limbes, delicate to sight, From fowles and from beastes for to save. But she none answer of him mighte have; He went his way, as him nothing ne raught,* *cared But to Bologna tenderly it brought.
The marquis wonder'd ever longer more Upon her patience; and, if that he Not hadde soothly knowen therebefore That perfectly her children loved she, He would have ween'd* that of some subtilty, *thought And of malice, or for cruel corage,* *disposition She hadde suffer'd this with sad* visage. *steadfast, unmoved
But well he knew, that, next himself, certain She lov'd her children best in every wise. But now of women would I aske fain, If these assayes mighte not suffice? What could a sturdy* husband more devise *stern To prove her wifehood and her steadfastness, And he continuing ev'r in sturdiness?
But there be folk of such condition, That, when they have a certain purpose take, Thiey cannot stint* of their intention, *cease But, right as they were bound unto a stake, They will not of their firste purpose slake:* *slacken, abate Right so this marquis fully hath purpos'd To tempt his wife, as he was first dispos'd.
He waited, if by word or countenance That she to him was changed of corage:* *spirit But never could he finde variance, She was aye one in heart and in visage, And aye the farther that she was in age, The more true (if that it were possible) She was to him in love, and more penible.* *painstaking in devotion
For which it seemed thus, that of them two There was but one will; for, as Walter lest,* *pleased The same pleasance was her lust* also; *pleasure And, God be thanked, all fell for the best. She shewed well, for no worldly unrest, A wife as of herself no thinge should Will, in effect, but as her husbaud would.
The sland'r of Walter wondrous wide sprad, That of a cruel heart he wickedly, For* he a poore woman wedded had, *because Had murder'd both his children privily: Such murmur was among them commonly. No wonder is: for to the people's ear There came no word, but that they murder'd were.
For which, whereas his people therebefore Had lov'd him well, the sland'r of his diffame* *infamy Made them that they him hated therefore. To be a murd'rer is a
"Ye be my lord, do with your owen thing Right as you list, and ask no rede of me: For, as I left at home all my clothing When I came first to you, right so," quoth she, "Left I my will and all my liberty, And took your clothing: wherefore I you pray, Do your pleasance, I will your lust* obey. *will
"And, certes, if I hadde prescience Your will to know, ere ye your lust* me told, *will I would it do withoute negligence: But, now I know your lust, and what ye wo'ld, All your pleasance firm and stable I hold; For, wist I that my death might do you ease, Right gladly would I dien you to please.
"Death may not make no comparisoun Unto your love." And when this marquis say* *saw The constance of his wife, he cast adown His eyen two, and wonder'd how she may In patience suffer all this array; And forth he went with dreary countenance; But to his heart it was full great pleasance.
This ugly sergeant, in the same wise That he her daughter caught, right so hath he (Or worse, if men can any worse devise,) Y-hent* her son, that full was of beauty: *seized And ever-in-one* so patient was she, *unvaryingly That she no cheere made of heaviness, But kiss'd her son, and after gan him bless.
Save this she prayed him, if that he might, Her little son he would in earthe grave,* *bury His tender limbes, delicate to sight, From fowles and from beastes for to save. But she none answer of him mighte have; He went his way, as him nothing ne raught,* *cared But to Bologna tenderly it brought.
The marquis wonder'd ever longer more Upon her patience; and, if that he Not hadde soothly knowen therebefore That perfectly her children loved she, He would have ween'd* that of some subtilty, *thought And of malice, or for cruel corage,* *disposition She hadde suffer'd this with sad* visage. *steadfast, unmoved
But well he knew, that, next himself, certain She lov'd her children best in every wise. But now of women would I aske fain, If these assayes mighte not suffice? What could a sturdy* husband more devise *stern To prove her wifehood and her steadfastness, And he continuing ev'r in sturdiness?
But there be folk of such condition, That, when they have a certain purpose take, Thiey cannot stint* of their intention, *cease But, right as they were bound unto a stake, They will not of their firste purpose slake:* *slacken, abate Right so this marquis fully hath purpos'd To tempt his wife, as he was first dispos'd.
He waited, if by word or countenance That she to him was changed of corage:* *spirit But never could he finde variance, She was aye one in heart and in visage, And aye the farther that she was in age, The more true (if that it were possible) She was to him in love, and more penible.* *painstaking in devotion
For which it seemed thus, that of them two There was but one will; for, as Walter lest,* *pleased The same pleasance was her lust* also; *pleasure And, God be thanked, all fell for the best. She shewed well, for no worldly unrest, A wife as of herself no thinge should Will, in effect, but as her husbaud would.
The sland'r of Walter wondrous wide sprad, That of a cruel heart he wickedly, For* he a poore woman wedded had, *because Had murder'd both his children privily: Such murmur was among them commonly. No wonder is: for to the people's ear There came no word, but that they murder'd were.
For which, whereas his people therebefore Had lov'd him well, the sland'r of his diffame* *infamy Made them that they him hated therefore. To be a murd'rer is a