Chapter 6 Middle English – Outer History

Video Lecture

Figure 6.1: The Battle of Hastings from the Bayeux Tapestry

Source: Wikipedia

Attribution: Dan Koehl

License: CC BY-SA 3.0

Link: here

1066: A Critical Year in the History of English

One of the most important dates in English history and the history of the English language is 1066. Of course, this was the year of the Norman conquest, and the beginning of the end of Old English. It was an incredibly active year, so much happened, and if the events had not unfolded in just the way they did, English would be a completely different language today. It also shows how William the Bastard became known to history as William the Conqueror.

So, let's turn to the big event: the Norman Conquest. Many scholars consider the Norman Conquest to be the most important and significant event in the overall development of the English language. It may seem strange that a battle could so fundamentally change a language,

but it did, and if we want quick proof of that change, all we have to do is look at the words which we use for warfare. Since the Normans emerged victorious in battle, today, we tend to use their words when we're discussing the military. Almost all of the common English words for warfare, military personnel, strategy, and tactics come from French. That includes words like war, warrior, battle, military, army, navy, soldier, troop, division, rank, private, captain, corporal, lieutenant or lieutenant, infantry, cavalry, comrade, ally, enemy, invade, assail, advance, attack, defend, retreat, defeat, surrender, strategy, campaign, victory, and champion.

And there are many more, and they all came into English because William the Conqueror and his descendants gave us the language in which English warfare was conducted after 1066. In fact, you have to work to find military terms which survive from the defeated Anglo Saxons. Most of those words actually relate to the equipment they used, and they continue to exist in some form even to this day. The Anglo Saxons gave us words like sword, shield, axe, spear, helmet, bow, arrow, and weapon, but other than surviving tools and equipment names generally come from Norman French. And that's a good example of how the French conquerors changed the language of the Anglo-Saxons.

King Edward of England had become very sick late in the year 1065, and his condition got progressively worse. By late December, he was bedridden. As it turned out, his last illness coincided with the completion of his favorite project: the construction of Westminster Abbey, just upriver from London. Throughout his reign, Edward had supervised and overseen the construction of the church, and now, late in the year 1065, it was finally completed. The consecration and dedication of the church was set for December 28th. But despite the fact that it had been his lifelong passion, Edward the Confessor was too ill to attend the dedication ceremony. Rumors of Edwards' illness were probably widespread by this point and his failure to attend the Westminster dedication confirmed to everyone that he was likely in his final days.

Figure 6.2: King Edward the Confessor

Source: Wikipedia

License: Public Domain

Link: here

Edward held on for another week, so as we enter the first week of January 1066, Edward was still the king of England, but that reign was coming to an end. In his final days, Edward was surrounded by a small handful of retainers and close associates. One of those associates was the man who had been the effective ruler of England over the prior decade: Harold Godwinson, the Earl of Wessex and the son of the late Earl Godwin. Godwin the father had been a rival of the king, but his son Harold generally ruled as an ally.

It appears that Edward came to trust Harold over time, and now as Edward lay dying, he designated Harold as his successor. On his deathbed, the king told Harold that he wanted to be buried at Westminster, and he committed the kingdom to Harold's protection. Early in the morning of January 5th, Edward finally passed away. With Edward's death, he had to be buried, and a new king had to be chosen. Now under normal circumstances, the selection of a new king might take a few days or a few weeks, but as it turned out, the Witan (literally ‘wise men’ who advised the king) had already been summoned at Christmas time, and given Edward's dire condition, they were still in town waiting for the inevitable. As soon as Edward died, the Witan were gathered to select a new king, and they immediately selected Harold.

On the day after Edward died, two major events occurred. In the morning, Edward was laid to rest at Westminster, and in the afternoon, Harold was crowned as the new king. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle records the following:

King Edward died, or went forth, on Twelfth-mass eve,

se cyng Eadward forðferde on Twelfts mæsse æfen

And he was buried on Twelfth mass day

hine mann bebyrgede on Twelftan mæssedæg

In the newly hallowed, or consecrated church at Westminster

innan þære niwa halgodre circean on Westmyntre

And earl Harold succeeded to the Kingdom of England

Harold eorl feng to Englalandes cynerice

Thanks to these rapidly moving events, England now had a new king before most of

the country even knew the old King was dead. However, William of Normandy felt that he had been promised the throne by Edward and that Harold Godwinson had confirmed that promise by taking an oath to William. So as word spread that Edward the Confessor was terminally ill in England, William was probably planning a trip across the Channel to receive his new title. But that's not what happened.

For years, William had let it be known around Normandy that he was Edward's heir, that he would one day be the king of England. Now he had been made a liar and made to look like a fool. Some historical sources say that William tied and untied his cloak because buttons were not yet a fashion accessory, and I make this note because there's actually a linguistic connection between buttons and William's ultimate response to the news he received.

Figure 6.3: Statue of William the Conqueror

Source: Wikipedia

License: Public Domain

Link: here

The word button is, in fact, a French word, though it has Germanic and ultimately Indo-European roots. The Indo-European root word was bhau-, and it meant ‘to push or strike,’ and a button was a fastener which you had to push through a small opening, so that root word produced the word button. And that same sense of pushing or striking something also produced the Old English word beat, so beat and button are cognates. And you might beat something with a bat,

from the same root, and if you have beat someone with a bat, you might get charged with battery from the same root via French. And if you have an argument with someone you might butt heads, again via French. If your argument leads to a physical confrontation then you might engage in combat, from the same root. And if you gather supporters and face off against your opponent, then you might have a battle, again from the same root via French.

So, all of that means that beat, bat, butt, button, and battle are cognates; they come from the same root. And even though William might not have known anything of buttons, he definitely knew about battles, and the ultimate kingship of England was going to be determined by a battle.

In February of 1066, about a month after Edward died, William arranged a meeting of his closest allies and vassals. He told them that he planned to gather an army and invade England in the summer. Now this announcement was probably expected, but it was still met with a lot of skepticism. Many of William's allies and supporters weren't sure that he could pull off a successful invasion by sea. Yes, the Vikings had invaded England by sea, but they were skilled at sailing and boat-building. The Normans, on the other hand, were a land power, not a sea power. They didn't have the ships or the maritime skill to launch an invasion of England. Furthermore, when the Vikings invaded England, they fought on foot, just like the Anglo-Saxons did. But the Normans had a cavalry and they fought on horseback with chain mail and armor, so horses would also have to be transported across the channel, along with all of the knights' equipment. Beyond the logistics of building ships and gathering an army big enough to actually win, they would be completely dependent upon the wind to get there. Again, Viking ships could be rowed if the winds weren't favorable, but Norman ships relied solely upon the wind and sails. And the winds were unpredictable in the North Atlantic; no wind would leave them stranded, and too much wind in the wrong direction would send them off course, so the logistics were a nightmare, and assuming they actually made it across the Channel intact, the English army would certainly be waiting for them. It wasn't going to be a surprise attack like most of the Viking raids because everyone in England knew that William would be coming.

And England was larger and richer than Normandy, so England could muster large armies, while William could only fight with the number of troops he could actually bring across the Channel on boats. In order for William to launch a successful invasion of England, he was going to have to be either a miracle worker or a magician, but if he was successful, he would be remembered for working wonders and doing what no other man could do.

But more important for the history of English, he did something that ultimately contributed to the decline of Old English as a written language. Realizing that he needed support throughout France for his planned invasion, William decided to seek the approval of the one person who would give his mission legitimacy: the Pope. The Crusades were still about 30 years away, but the idea of papal support for a military mission wasn't new. If the Pope gave his blessing, all who died in support of the mission were deemed martyrs, and they would be guaranteed eternal salvation. So, it was a great way to drum up support for the expedition.

Figure 6.4: William the Conqueror with Papal Flag

Source: Wikipedia

License: Public Domain

Link: here

As it turned out, William had an inside connection to the Pope. The Pope was Alexander II. About 20 years earlier, as a young cleric, Alexander had studied at a monastery in Normandy.

And while there, one of his teachers was a monk named Lanfranc, and Lanfranc was now a bishop in Normandy. Lanfranc was not only a close ally of William, he was also a close friend of the Pope. So Lanfranc acted as a go-between. William was seen as a sympathetic figure in Rome;

he'd been a strong patron of the church in Normandy, and Pope Alexander remembered his time in Normandy with great fondness. But more importantly, William argued that the English Church was out of line with Rome's teachings, and that only he could bring it back into compliance. Furthermore, the English Church was so far away that Rome didn't always have a good sense of what was going on in England. That made it easy to convince the pope that the English Church was out of control, but the biggest problem for the English Church may have been the fact that much of its literature and pastoral work was being composed in English rather than Latin. Since the time of Alfred the Great, the English church had been translating parts of the Bible and other religious texts into English. And that was unusual at the time; the original Latin texts were considered sacred, and any attempt to render them into a local vernacular was viewed with suspicion in Rome.

The Roman cardinals and church officials didn't speak English, so they weren't exactly sure what was being taught to the English congregations. They suspected that the true meaning of the original texts were being lost in those translations. So here, we may find part of the answer for why Old English writing disappeared so quickly in the wake of the Norman Conquest. Certainly, the church scribes in England didn't stop speaking English, so why did so many of them immediately stop writing in English after 1066? Well, it appears that it was all part of William's agenda. He promised to reform the English Church in order to get papal support for

his invasion. And part of those reforms probably included a return to Latin and the relegation of the English language to a secondary role.

After the conquest, Latin once again became the primary language of the English Church and Old English writing began to disappear. Here we see some of the first linguistic consequences of the Norman Conquest; William's coronation ceremony was conducted in both Latin and English. And during the coronation a new element was introduced: a call for the people to consent to William's rule. The people assembled in the Abbey were questioned in both French and English as to whether they accepted William as their ruler. The congregation shouted, "Vivat Rex!" and then in English, "Long live the King!" but William's assembled knights outside of the Abbey misinterpreted the commotion inside. They heard the yelling and thought a revolt was under way, so they went on a rampage and set fire to the surrounding buildings and killed many of the Saxons who are assembled outside.

It was an ominous beginning to William's reign. The political and social changes were just beginning and so were the linguistic changes. Old English texts became much less common after Hastings. Latin and French would become the standard written languages going forward.

Excerpt from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales

Chaucer lived near the end of the ME period. But he wrote one of great works of this period, The Canterbury Tales. Chaucer (1343-1400) lived during the Middle English period (1066 - 1500). He was ten years old when the bubonic plague hit English (1348 - 1352).

This is a modern translation. Just so you are aware, The Canterbury Tales describes a group of twenty-nine travelers who are on religious pilgrimage to Canterbury. The travelers have a competition to see who can tell the most entertaining story. This is the prologue to one of the tales and the actual tale. Be aware the Chaucer used some very crude language and there are many allusions to sex and other bodily functions. But this is important to us because this shows how English, after the bubonic plague, made a comeback from being pushed aside by Latin and Norman French.

General Prologue

WHEN that Aprilis, with his showers swoot,

The drought of March hath pierced to the root,

And bathed every vein in such licour,

Of which virtue engender’d is the flower;

When Zephyrus eke with his swoote breath

Inspired hath in every holt and heath

The tender croppes and the younge sun

Hath in the Ram his halfe course y-run,

And smalle fowles make melody,

That sleepen all the night with open eye,

(So pricketh them nature in their corage);

Then longe folk to go on pilgrimages,

And palmers for to seeke strange strands,

To ferne hallows couth in sundry lands;

And specially, from every shire’s end

Of Engleland, to Canterbury they wend,

The holy blissful Martyr for to seek,

That them hath holpen, when that they were sick.

Befell that, in that season on a day,

In Southwark at the Tabard as I lay,

Ready to wenden on my pilgrimage

To Canterbury with devout corage,

At night was come into that hostelry

Well nine and twenty in a company

Of sundry folk, by aventure y-fall

In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all,

That toward Canterbury woulde ride.

The chamber, and the stables were wide,

And well we weren eased at the best.

And shortly, when the sunne was to rest,

So had I spoken with them every one,

That I was of their fellowship anon,

And made forword early for to rise,

To take our way there as I you devise.

But natheless, while I have time and space,

Ere that I farther in this tale pace,

Me thinketh it accordant to reason,

To tell you alle the condition

Of each of them, so as it seemed me,

And which they weren, and of what degree;

And eke in what array that they were in:

And at a Knight then will I first begin.

A KNIGHT there was, and that a worthy man,

That from the time that he first began

To riden out, he loved chivalry,

Truth and honour, freedom and courtesy.

Full worthy was he in his Lorde’s war,

And thereto had he ridden, no man farre,

As well in Christendom as in Heatheness,

And ever honour’d for his worthiness

At Alisandre he was when it was won.

Full often time he had the board begun

Above alle nations in Prusse.

In Lettowe had he reysed, and in Russe,

No Christian man so oft of his degree.

In Grenade at the siege eke had he be

Of Algesir, and ridden in Belmarie.

At Leyes was he, and at Satalie,

When they were won; and in the Greate Sea

At many a noble army had he be.

At mortal battles had he been fifteen,

And foughten for our faith at Tramissene.

In listes thries, and aye slain his foe.

This ilke worthy knight had been also

Some time with the lord of Palatie,

Against another heathen in Turkie:

And evermore he had a sovereign price.

And though that he was worthy he was wise,

And of his port as meek as is a maid.

He never yet no villainy ne said

In all his life, unto no manner wight.

He was a very perfect gentle knight.

But for to telle you of his array,

His horse was good, but yet he was not gay.

Of fustian he weared a gipon,

Alle besmotter’d with his habergeon,

For he was late y-come from his voyage,

And wente for to do his pilgrimage.

With him there was his son, a younge SQUIRE,

A lover, and a lusty bacheler,

With lockes crulle as they were laid in press.

Of twenty year of age he was I guess.

Of his stature he was of even length,

And wonderly deliver, and great of strength.

And he had been some time in chevachie,

In Flanders, in Artois, and Picardie,

And borne him well, as of so little space,

In hope to standen in his lady’s grace.

Embroider’d was he, as it were a mead

All full of freshe flowers, white and red.

Singing he was, or fluting all the day;

He was as fresh as is the month of May.

Short was his gown, with sleeves long and wide.

Well could he sit on horse, and faire ride.

He coulde songes make, and well indite,

Joust, and eke dance, and well pourtray and write.

So hot he loved, that by nightertale

He slept no more than doth the nightingale.

Courteous he was, lowly, and serviceable,

And carv’d before his father at the table.

A YEOMAN had he, and servants no mo’

At that time, for him list ride so

And he was clad in coat and hood of green.

A sheaf of peacock arrows bright and keen

Under his belt he bare full thriftily.

Well could he dress his tackle yeomanly:

His arrows drooped not with feathers low;

And in his hand he bare a mighty bow.

A nut-head had he, with a brown visiage:

Of wood-craft coud he well all the usage:

Upon his arm he bare a gay bracer,

And by his side a sword and a buckler,

And on that other side a gay daggere,

Harnessed well, and sharp as point of spear:

A Christopher on his breast of silver sheen.

An horn he bare, the baldric was of green:

A forester was he soothly as I guess.

There was also a Nun, a PRIORESS,

That of her smiling was full simple and coy;

Her greatest oathe was but by Saint Loy;

And she was cleped Madame Eglentine.

Full well she sang the service divine,

Entuned in her nose full seemly;

And French she spake full fair and fetisly

After the school of Stratford atte Bow,

For French of Paris was to her unknow.

At meate was she well y-taught withal;

She let no morsel from her lippes fall,

Nor wet her fingers in her sauce deep.

Well could she carry a morsel, and well keep,

That no droppe ne fell upon her breast.

In courtesy was set full much her lest.

Her over-lippe wiped she so clean,

That in her cup there was no farthing seen

Of grease, when she drunken had her draught;

Full seemely after her meat she raught:

And sickerly she was of great disport,

And full pleasant, and amiable of port,

And pained her to counterfeite cheer

Of court, and be estately of mannere,

And to be holden digne of reverence.

But for to speaken of her conscience,

She was so charitable and so pitous,

She woulde weep if that she saw a mouse

Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled.

Of smalle houndes had she, that she fed

With roasted flesh, and milk, and wastel bread.

But sore she wept if one of them were dead,

Or if men smote it with a yarde smart:

And all was conscience and tender heart.

Full seemly her wimple y-pinched was;

Her nose tretis; her eyen gray as glass;

Her mouth full small, and thereto soft and red;

But sickerly she had a fair forehead.

It was almost a spanne broad I trow;

For hardily she was not undergrow.

Full fetis was her cloak, as I was ware.

Of small coral about her arm she bare

A pair of beades, gauded all with green;

And thereon hung a brooch of gold full sheen,

On which was first y-written a crown’d A,

And after, Amor vincit omnia.

Another Nun also with her had she,

That was her chapelleine, and PRIESTES three.

A MONK there was, a fair for the mast’ry

An out-rider, that loved venery;

A manly man, to be an abbot able.

Full many a dainty horse had he in stable:

And when he rode, men might his bridle hear

Jingeling in a whistling wind as clear,

And eke as loud, as doth the chapel bell,

There as this lord was keeper of the cell.

The rule of Saint Maur and of Saint Benet,

Because that it was old and somedeal strait

This ilke monk let olde thinges pace,

And held after the newe world the trace.

He gave not of the text a pulled hen,

That saith, that hunters be not holy men:

Ne that a monk, when he is cloisterless;

Is like to a fish that is waterless;

This is to say, a monk out of his cloister.

This ilke text held he not worth an oyster;

And I say his opinion was good.

Why should he study, and make himselfe wood

Upon a book in cloister always pore,

Or swinken with his handes, and labour,

As Austin bid? how shall the world be served?

Let Austin have his swink to him reserved.

Therefore he was a prickasour aright:

Greyhounds he had as swift as fowl of flight;

Of pricking and of hunting for the hare

Was all his lust, for no cost would he spare.

I saw his sleeves purfil’d at the hand

With gris, and that the finest of the land.

And for to fasten his hood under his chin,

He had of gold y-wrought a curious pin;

A love-knot in the greater end there was.

His head was bald, and shone as any glass,

And eke his face, as it had been anoint;

He was a lord full fat and in good point;

His eyen steep, and rolling in his head,

That steamed as a furnace of a lead.

His bootes supple, his horse in great estate,

Now certainly he was a fair prelate;

He was not pale as a forpined gost:

A fat swan lov’d he best of any roast.

His palfrey was as brown as is a berry.

A FRIAR there was, a wanton and a merry,

A limitour a full solemne man.

In all the orders four is none that can

So much of dalliance and fair language.

He had y-made full many a marriage

Of younge women, at his owen cost.

Unto his order he was a noble post;

Full well belov’d, and familiar was he

With franklins over all in his country,

And eke with worthy women of the town:

For he had power of confession,

As said himselfe, more than a curate,

For of his order he was licentiate.

Full sweetely heard he confession,

And pleasant was his absolution.

He was an easy man to give penance,

There as he wist to have a good pittance:

For unto a poor order for to give

Is signe that a man is well y-shrive.

For if he gave, he durste make avant,

He wiste that the man was repentant.

For many a man so hard is of his heart,

He may not weep although him sore smart.

Therefore instead of weeping and prayeres,

Men must give silver to the poore freres.

His tippet was aye farsed full of knives

And pinnes, for to give to faire wives;

And certainly he had a merry note:

Well could he sing and playen on a rote;

Of yeddings he bare utterly the prize.

His neck was white as is the fleur-de-lis.

Thereto he strong was as a champion,

And knew well the taverns in every town.

And every hosteler and gay tapstere,

Better than a lazar or a beggere,

For unto such a worthy man as he

Accordeth not, as by his faculty,

To have with such lazars acquaintance.

It is not honest, it may not advance,

As for to deale with no such pouraille

But all with rich, and sellers of vitaille.

And ov’r all there as profit should arise,

Courteous he was, and lowly of service;

There n’as no man nowhere so virtuous.

He was the beste beggar in all his house:

And gave a certain farme for the grant,

None of his bretheren came in his haunt.

For though a widow hadde but one shoe,

So pleasant was his In Principio

Yet would he have a farthing ere he went;

His purchase was well better than his rent.

And rage he could and play as any whelp,

In lovedays there could he muchel help.

For there was he not like a cloisterer,

With threadbare cope as is a poor scholer;

But he was like a master or a pope.

Of double worsted was his semicope,

That rounded was as a bell out of press.

Somewhat he lisped for his wantonness,

To make his English sweet upon his tongue;

And in his harping, when that he had sung,

His eyen twinkled in his head aright,

As do the starres in a frosty night.

This worthy limitour was call’d Huberd.

A MERCHANT was there with a forked beard,

In motley, and high on his horse he sat,

Upon his head a Flandrish beaver hat.

His bootes clasped fair and fetisly.

His reasons aye spake he full solemnly,

Sounding alway th’ increase of his winning.

He would the sea were kept for any thing

Betwixte Middleburg and Orewell

Well could he in exchange shieldes sell

This worthy man full well his wit beset;

There wiste no wight that he was in debt,

So estately was he of governance

With his bargains, and with his chevisance.

For sooth he was a worthy man withal,

But sooth to say, I n’ot how men him call.

A CLERK there was of Oxenford also,

That unto logic hadde long y-go.

As leane was his horse as is a rake,

And he was not right fat, I undertake;

But looked hollow, and thereto soberly.

Full threadbare was his overest courtepy,

For he had gotten him yet no benefice,

Ne was not worldly, to have an office.

For him was lever have at his bed’s head

Twenty bookes, clothed in black or red,

Of Aristotle, and his philosophy,

Than robes rich, or fiddle, or psalt’ry.

But all be that he was a philosopher,

Yet hadde he but little gold in coffer,

But all that he might of his friendes hent,

On bookes and on learning he it spent,

And busily gan for the soules pray

Of them that gave him wherewith to scholay

Of study took he moste care and heed.

Not one word spake he more than was need;

And that was said in form and reverence,

And short and quick, and full of high sentence.

Sounding in moral virtue was his speech,

And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach.

A SERGEANT OF THE LAW, wary and wise,

That often had y-been at the Parvis,

There was also, full rich of excellence.

Discreet he was, and of great reverence:

He seemed such, his wordes were so wise,

Justice he was full often in assize,

By patent, and by plein commission;

For his science, and for his high renown,

Of fees and robes had he many one.

So great a purchaser was nowhere none.

All was fee simple to him, in effect

His purchasing might not be in suspect

Nowhere so busy a man as he there was

And yet he seemed busier than he was

In termes had he case’ and doomes all

That from the time of King William were fall.

Thereto he could indite, and make a thing

There coulde no wight pinch at his writing.

And every statute coud he plain by rote

He rode but homely in a medley coat,

Girt with a seint of silk, with barres small;

Of his array tell I no longer tale.

A FRANKELIN was in this company;

White was his beard, as is the daisy.

Of his complexion he was sanguine.

Well lov’d he in the morn a sop in wine.

To liven in delight was ever his won,

For he was Epicurus’ owen son,

That held opinion, that plein delight

Was verily felicity perfite.

An householder, and that a great, was he;

Saint Julian he was in his country.

His bread, his ale, was alway after one;

A better envined man was nowhere none;

Withoute bake-meat never was his house,

Of fish and flesh, and that so plenteous,

It snowed in his house of meat and drink,

Of alle dainties that men coulde think.

After the sundry seasons of the year,

So changed he his meat and his soupere.

Full many a fat partridge had he in mew,

And many a bream, and many a luce in stew

Woe was his cook, but if his sauce were

Poignant and sharp, and ready all his gear.

His table dormant in his hall alway

Stood ready cover’d all the longe day.

At sessions there was he lord and sire.

Full often time he was knight of the shire

An anlace, and a gipciere all of silk,

Hung at his girdle, white as morning milk.

A sheriff had he been, and a countour

Was nowhere such a worthy vavasour

An HABERDASHER, and a CARPENTER,

A WEBBE, a DYER, and a TAPISER,

Were with us eke, cloth’d in one livery,

Of a solemn and great fraternity.

Full fresh and new their gear y-picked was.

Their knives were y-chaped not with brass,

But all with silver wrought full clean and well,

Their girdles and their pouches every deal.

Well seemed each of them a fair burgess,

To sitten in a guild-hall, on the dais.

Evereach, for the wisdom that he can,

Was shapely for to be an alderman.

For chattels hadde they enough and rent,

And eke their wives would it well assent:

And elles certain they had been to blame.

It is full fair to be y-clep’d madame,

And for to go to vigils all before,

And have a mantle royally y-bore.

A COOK they hadde with them for the nones,

To boil the chickens and the marrow bones,

And powder merchant tart and galingale.

Well could he know a draught of London ale.

He could roast, and stew, and broil, and fry,

Make mortrewes, and well bake a pie.

But great harm was it, as it thoughte me,

That, on his shin a mormal hadde he.

For blanc manger, that made he with the best

A SHIPMAN was there, wonned far by West:

For ought I wot, be was of Dartemouth.

He rode upon a rouncy, as he couth,

All in a gown of falding to the knee.

A dagger hanging by a lace had he

About his neck under his arm adown;

The hot summer had made his hue all brown;

And certainly he was a good fellaw.

Full many a draught of wine he had y-draw

From Bourdeaux-ward, while that the chapmen sleep;

Of nice conscience took he no keep.

If that he fought, and had the higher hand,

By water he sent them home to every land.

But of his craft to reckon well his tides,

His streames and his strandes him besides,

His herberow, his moon, and lodemanage,

There was none such, from Hull unto Carthage

Hardy he was, and wise, I undertake:

With many a tempest had his beard been shake.

He knew well all the havens, as they were,

From Scotland to the Cape of Finisterre,

And every creek in Bretagne and in Spain:

His barge y-cleped was the Magdelain.

With us there was a DOCTOR OF PHYSIC;

In all this worlde was there none him like

To speak of physic, and of surgery:

For he was grounded in astronomy.

He kept his patient a full great deal

In houres by his magic natural.

Well could he fortune the ascendent

Of his images for his patient.

He knew the cause of every malady,

Were it of cold, or hot, or moist, or dry,

And where engender’d, and of what humour.

He was a very perfect practisour

The cause y-know, and of his harm the root,

Anon he gave to the sick man his boot

Full ready had he his apothecaries,

To send his drugges and his lectuaries

For each of them made other for to win

Their friendship was not newe to begin

Well knew he the old Esculapius,

And Dioscorides, and eke Rufus;

Old Hippocras, Hali, and Gallien;

Serapion, Rasis, and Avicen;

Averrois, Damascene, and Constantin;

Bernard, and Gatisden, and Gilbertin.

Of his diet measurable was he,

For it was of no superfluity,

But of great nourishing, and digestible.

His study was but little on the Bible.

In sanguine and in perse he clad was all

Lined with taffeta, and with sendall.

And yet he was but easy of dispense:

He kept that he won in the pestilence.

For gold in physic is a cordial;

Therefore he loved gold in special.

A good WIFE was there OF beside BATH,

But she was somedeal deaf, and that was scath.

Of cloth-making she hadde such an haunt,

She passed them of Ypres, and of Gaunt.

In all the parish wife was there none,

That to the off’ring before her should gon,

And if there did, certain so wroth was she,

That she was out of alle charity

Her coverchiefs were full fine of ground

I durste swear, they weighede ten pound

That on the Sunday were upon her head.

Her hosen weren of fine scarlet red,

Full strait y-tied, and shoes full moist and new

Bold was her face, and fair and red of hue.

She was a worthy woman all her live,

Husbands at the church door had she had five,

Withouten other company in youth;

But thereof needeth not to speak as nouth.

And thrice had she been at Jerusalem;

She hadde passed many a strange stream

At Rome she had been, and at Bologne,

In Galice at Saint James, and at Cologne;

She coude much of wand’rng by the Way.

Gat-toothed was she, soothly for to say.

Upon an ambler easily she sat,

Y-wimpled well, and on her head an hat

As broad as is a buckler or a targe.

A foot-mantle about her hippes large,

And on her feet a pair of spurres sharp.

In fellowship well could she laugh and carp

Of remedies of love she knew perchance

For of that art she coud the olde dance.

A good man there was of religion,

That was a poore PARSON of a town:

But rich he was of holy thought and werk.

He was also a learned man, a clerk,

That Christe’s gospel truly woulde preach.

His parishens devoutly would he teach.

Benign he was, and wonder diligent,

And in adversity full patient:

And such he was y-proved often sithes.

Full loth were him to curse for his tithes,

But rather would he given out of doubt,

Unto his poore parishens about,

Of his off’ring, and eke of his substance.

He could in little thing have suffisance.

Wide was his parish, and houses far asunder,

But he ne left not, for no rain nor thunder,

In sickness and in mischief to visit

The farthest in his parish, much and lit,

Upon his feet, and in his hand a staff.

This noble ensample to his sheep he gaf,

That first he wrought, and afterward he taught.

Out of the gospel he the wordes caught,

And this figure he added yet thereto,

That if gold ruste, what should iron do?

For if a priest be foul, on whom we trust,

No wonder is a lewed man to rust:

And shame it is, if that a priest take keep,

To see a shitten shepherd and clean sheep:

Well ought a priest ensample for to give,

By his own cleanness, how his sheep should live.

He sette not his benefice to hire,

And left his sheep eucumber’d in the mire,

And ran unto London, unto Saint Paul’s,

To seeke him a chantery for souls,

Or with a brotherhood to be withold:

But dwelt at home, and kepte well his fold,

So that the wolf ne made it not miscarry.

He was a shepherd, and no mercenary.

And though he holy were, and virtuous,

He was to sinful men not dispitous

Nor of his speeche dangerous nor dign

But in his teaching discreet and benign.

To drawen folk to heaven, with fairness,

By good ensample, was his business:

But it were any person obstinate,

What so he were of high or low estate,

Him would he snibbe sharply for the nones.

A better priest I trow that nowhere none is.

He waited after no pomp nor reverence,

Nor maked him a spiced conscience,

But Christe’s lore, and his apostles’ twelve,

He taught, and first he follow’d it himselve.

With him there was a PLOUGHMAN, was his brother,

That had y-laid of dung full many a fother.

A true swinker and a good was he,

Living in peace and perfect charity.

God loved he beste with all his heart

At alle times, were it gain or smart,

And then his neighebour right as himselve.

He woulde thresh, and thereto dike, and delve,

For Christe’s sake, for every poore wight,

Withouten hire, if it lay in his might.

His tithes payed he full fair and well,

Both of his proper swink, and his chattel

In a tabard he rode upon a mare.

There was also a Reeve, and a Millere,

A Sompnour, and a Pardoner also,

A Manciple, and myself, there were no mo’.

The MILLER was a stout carle for the nones,

Full big he was of brawn, and eke of bones;

That proved well, for ov’r all where he came,

At wrestling he would bear away the ram.

He was short-shouldered, broad, a thicke gnarr,

There was no door, that he n’old heave off bar,

Or break it at a running with his head.

His beard as any sow or fox was red,

And thereto broad, as though it were a spade.

Upon the cop right of his nose he had head

A wart, and thereon stood a tuft of hairs

Red as the bristles of a sowe’s ears.

His nose-thirles blacke were and wide.

A sword and buckler bare he by his side.

His mouth as wide was as a furnace.

He was a jangler, and a goliardais,

And that was most of sin and harlotries.

Well could he steale corn, and tolle thrice

And yet he had a thumb of gold, pardie.

A white coat and a blue hood weared he

A baggepipe well could he blow and soun’,

And therewithal he brought us out of town.

A gentle MANCIPLE was there of a temple,

Of which achatours mighte take ensample

For to be wise in buying of vitaille.

For whether that he paid, or took by taile,

Algate he waited so in his achate,

That he was aye before in good estate.

Now is not that of God a full fair grace

That such a lewed mannes wit shall pace

The wisdom of an heap of learned men?

Of masters had he more than thries ten,

That were of law expert and curious:

Of which there was a dozen in that house,

Worthy to be stewards of rent and land

Of any lord that is in Engleland,

To make him live by his proper good,

In honour debtless, but if he were wood,

Or live as scarcely as him list desire;

And able for to helpen all a shire

In any case that mighte fall or hap;

And yet this Manciple set their aller cap

The REEVE was a slender choleric man

His beard was shav’d as nigh as ever he can.

His hair was by his eares round y-shorn;

His top was docked like a priest beforn

Full longe were his legges, and full lean

Y-like a staff, there was no calf y-seen

Well could he keep a garner and a bin

There was no auditor could on him win

Well wist he by the drought, and by the rain,

The yielding of his seed and of his grain

His lorde’s sheep, his neat, and his dairy

His swine, his horse, his store, and his poultry,

Were wholly in this Reeve’s governing,

And by his cov’nant gave he reckoning,

Since that his lord was twenty year of age;

There could no man bring him in arrearage

There was no bailiff, herd, nor other hine

That he ne knew his sleight and his covine

They were adrad of him, as of the death

His wonnin was full fair upon an heath

With greene trees y-shadow’d was his place.

He coulde better than his lord purchase

Full rich he was y-stored privily

His lord well could he please subtilly,

To give and lend him of his owen good,

And have a thank, and yet a coat and hood.

In youth he learned had a good mistere

He was a well good wright, a carpentere

This Reeve sate upon a right good stot,

That was all pomel gray, and highte Scot.

A long surcoat of perse upon he had,

And by his side he bare a rusty blade.

Of Norfolk was this Reeve, of which I tell,

Beside a town men clepen Baldeswell,

Tucked he was, as is a friar, about,

And ever rode the hinderest of the rout.

A SOMPNOUR was there with us in that place,

That had a fire-red cherubinnes face,

For sausefleme he was, with eyen narrow.

As hot he was and lecherous as a sparrow,

With scalled browes black, and pilled beard:

Of his visage children were sore afeard.

There n’as quicksilver, litharge, nor brimstone,

Boras, ceruse, nor oil of tartar none,

Nor ointement that woulde cleanse or bite,

That him might helpen of his whelkes white,

Nor of the knobbes sitting on his cheeks.

Well lov’d he garlic, onions, and leeks,

And for to drink strong wine as red as blood.

Then would he speak, and cry as he were wood;

And when that he well drunken had the wine,

Then would he speake no word but Latin.

A fewe termes knew he, two or three,

That he had learned out of some decree;

No wonder is, he heard it all the day.

And eke ye knowen well, how that a jay

Can clepen “Wat,” as well as can the Pope.

But whoso would in other thing him grope

Then had he spent all his philosophy,

Aye, Questio quid juris, would he cry.

He was a gentle harlot and a kind;

A better fellow should a man not find.

He woulde suffer, for a quart of wine,

A good fellow to have his concubine

A twelvemonth, and excuse him at the full.

Full privily a finch eke could he pull.

And if he found owhere a good fellaw,

He woulde teache him to have none awe

In such a case of the archdeacon’s curse;

But if a manne’s soul were in his purse;

For in his purse he should y-punished be.

“Purse is the archedeacon’s hell,” said he.

But well I wot, he lied right indeed:

Of cursing ought each guilty man to dread,

For curse will slay right as assoiling saveth;

And also ’ware him of a significavit.

In danger had he at his owen guise

The younge girles of the diocese,

And knew their counsel, and was of their rede.

A garland had he set upon his head,

As great as it were for an alestake:

A buckler had he made him of a cake.

With him there rode a gentle PARDONERE

Of Ronceval, his friend and his compere,

That straight was comen from the court of Rome.

Full loud he sang, “Come hither, love, to me”

This Sompnour bare to him a stiff burdoun,

Was never trump of half so great a soun.

This Pardoner had hair as yellow as wax,

But smooth it hung, as doth a strike of flax:

By ounces hung his lockes that he had,

And therewith he his shoulders oversprad.

Full thin it lay, by culpons one and one,

But hood for jollity, he weared none,

For it was trussed up in his wallet.

Him thought he rode all of the newe get,

Dishevel, save his cap, he rode all bare.

Such glaring eyen had he, as an hare.

A vernicle had he sew’d upon his cap.

His wallet lay before him in his lap,

Bretful of pardon come from Rome all hot.

A voice he had as small as hath a goat.

No beard had he, nor ever one should have.

As smooth it was as it were new y-shave;

I trow he were a gelding or a mare.

But of his craft, from Berwick unto Ware,

Ne was there such another pardonere.

For in his mail he had a pillowbere,

Which, as he saide, was our Lady’s veil:

He said, he had a gobbet of the sail

That Sainte Peter had, when that he went

Upon the sea, till Jesus Christ him hent.

He had a cross of latoun full of stones,

And in a glass he hadde pigge’s bones.

But with these relics, whenne that he fond

A poore parson dwelling upon lond,

Upon a day he got him more money

Than that the parson got in moneths tway;

And thus with feigned flattering and japes,

He made the parson and the people his apes.

But truely to tellen at the last,

He was in church a noble ecclesiast.

Well could he read a lesson or a story,

But alderbest he sang an offertory:

For well he wiste, when that song was sung,

He muste preach, and well afile his tongue,

To winne silver, as he right well could:

Therefore he sang full merrily and loud.

Now have I told you shortly in a clause

Th’ estate, th’ array, the number, and eke the cause

Why that assembled was this company

In Southwark at this gentle hostelry,

That highte the Tabard, fast by the Bell.

But now is time to you for to tell

How that we baren us that ilke night,

When we were in that hostelry alight.

And after will I tell of our voyage,

And all the remnant of our pilgrimage.

But first I pray you of your courtesy,

That ye arette it not my villainy,

Though that I plainly speak in this mattere.

To tellen you their wordes and their cheer;

Not though I speak their wordes properly.

For this ye knowen all so well as I,

Whoso shall tell a tale after a man,

He must rehearse, as nigh as ever he can,

Every word, if it be in his charge,

All speak he ne’er so rudely and so large;

Or elles he must tell his tale untrue,

Or feigne things, or finde wordes new.

He may not spare, although he were his brother;

He must as well say one word as another.

Christ spake Himself full broad in Holy Writ,

And well ye wot no villainy is it.

Eke Plato saith, whoso that can him read,

The wordes must be cousin to the deed.

Also I pray you to forgive it me,

All have I not set folk in their degree,

Here in this tale, as that they shoulden stand:

My wit is short, ye may well understand.

Great cheere made our Host us every one,

And to the supper set he us anon:

And served us with victual of the best.

Strong was the wine, and well to drink us lest.

A seemly man Our Hoste was withal

For to have been a marshal in an hall.

A large man he was with eyen steep,

A fairer burgess is there none in Cheap:

Bold of his speech, and wise and well y-taught,

And of manhoode lacked him right naught.

Eke thereto was he right a merry man,

And after supper playen he began,

And spake of mirth amonges other things,

When that we hadde made our reckonings;

And saide thus; “Now, lordinges, truly

Ye be to me welcome right heartily:

For by my troth, if that I shall not lie,

I saw not this year such a company

At once in this herberow, am is now.

Fain would I do you mirth, an I wist how.

And of a mirth I am right now bethought.

To do you ease, and it shall coste nought.

Ye go to Canterbury; God you speed,

The blissful Martyr quite you your meed;

And well I wot, as ye go by the way,

Ye shapen you to talken and to play:

For truely comfort nor mirth is none

To ride by the way as dumb as stone:

And therefore would I make you disport,

As I said erst, and do you some comfort.

And if you liketh all by one assent

Now for to standen at my judgement,

And for to worken as I shall you say

To-morrow, when ye riden on the way,

Now by my father’s soule that is dead,

But ye be merry, smiteth off mine head.

Hold up your hands withoute more speech.”

Our counsel was not longe for to seech:

Us thought it was not worth to make it wise,

And granted him withoute more avise,

And bade him say his verdict, as him lest.

“Lordings (quoth he), now hearken for the best;

But take it not, I pray you, in disdain;

This is the point, to speak it plat and plain.

That each of you, to shorten with your way

In this voyage, shall tellen tales tway,

To Canterbury-ward, I mean it so,

And homeward he shall tellen other two,

Of aventures that whilom have befall.

And which of you that bear’th him best of all,

That is to say, that telleth in this case

Tales of best sentence and most solace,

Shall have a supper at your aller cost

Here in this place, sitting by this post,

When that ye come again from Canterbury.

And for to make you the more merry,

I will myselfe gladly with you ride,

Right at mine owen cost, and be your guide.

And whoso will my judgement withsay,

Shall pay for all we spenden by the way.

And if ye vouchesafe that it be so,

Tell me anon withoute wordes mo’,

And I will early shape me therefore.”

This thing was granted, and our oath we swore

With full glad heart, and prayed him also,

That he would vouchesafe for to do so,

And that he woulde be our governour,

And of our tales judge and reportour,

And set a supper at a certain price;

And we will ruled be at his device,

In high and low: and thus by one assent,

We be accorded to his judgement.

And thereupon the wine was fet anon.

We drunken, and to reste went each one,

Withouten any longer tarrying

A-morrow, when the day began to spring,

Up rose our host, and was our aller cock,

And gather’d us together in a flock,

And forth we ridden all a little space,

Unto the watering of Saint Thomas:

And there our host began his horse arrest,

And saide; “Lordes, hearken if you lest.

Ye weet your forword, and I it record.

If even-song and morning-song accord,

Let see now who shall telle the first tale.

As ever may I drinke wine or ale,

Whoso is rebel to my judgement,

Shall pay for all that by the way is spent.

Now draw ye cuts ere that ye farther twin.

He which that hath the shortest shall begin.”

“Sir Knight (quoth he), my master and my lord,

Now draw the cut, for that is mine accord.

Come near (quoth he), my Lady Prioress,

And ye, Sir Clerk, let be your shamefastness,

Nor study not: lay hand to, every man.”

Anon to drawen every wight began,

And shortly for to tellen as it was,

Were it by a venture, or sort, or cas,

The sooth is this, the cut fell to the Knight,

Of which full blithe and glad was every wight;

And tell he must his tale as was reason,

By forword, and by composition,

As ye have heard; what needeth wordes mo’?

And when this good man saw that it was so,

As he that wise was and obedient

To keep his forword by his free assent,

He said; “Sithen I shall begin this game,

Why, welcome be the cut in Godde’s name.

Now let us ride, and hearken what I say.”

And with that word we ridden forth our way;

And he began with right a merry cheer

His tale anon, and said as ye shall hear.

The Wife of Bath’s Tale

THE PROLOGUE

Experience, though none authority

Were in this world, is right enough for me

To speak of woe that is in marriage:

For, lordings, since I twelve year was of age,

(Thanked be God that is etern on live),

Husbands at the church door have I had five,

For I so often have y-wedded be,

And all were worthy men in their degree.

But me was told, not longe time gone is

That sithen Christe went never but ones since

To wedding, in the Cane of Galilee,

That by that ilk example taught he me,

That I not wedded shoulde be but once.

Lo, hearken eke a sharp word for the nonce,

Beside a welle Jesus, God and man,

Spake in reproof of the Samaritan:

“Thou hast y-had five husbandes,” said he;

“And thilke man, that now hath wedded thee,

Is not thine husband:” thus said he certain;

What that he meant thereby, I cannot sayn.

But that I aske, why the fifthe man

Was not husband to the Samaritan?

How many might she have in marriage?

Yet heard I never tellen in mine age in my life

Upon this number definitioun.

Men may divine, and glosen up and down;

But well I wot, express without a lie,

God bade us for to wax and multiply;

That gentle text can I well understand.

Eke well I wot, he said, that mine husband

Should leave father and mother, and take to me;

But of no number mention made he,

Of bigamy or of octogamy;

Why then should men speak of it villainy?

Lo here, the wise king Dan Solomon,

I trow that he had wives more than one;

As would to God it lawful were to me

To be refreshed half so oft as he!

What gift of God had he for all his wives?

No man hath such, that in this world alive is.

God wot, this noble king, as to my wit,

The first night had many a merry fit

With each of them, so well was him on live.

Blessed be God that I have wedded five!

Welcome the sixth whenever that he shall.

For since I will not keep me chaste in all,

When mine husband is from the world y-gone,

Some Christian man shall wedde me anon.

For then th’ apostle saith that I am free

To wed, a’ God’s half, where it liketh me.

He saith, that to be wedded is no sin;

Better is to be wedded than to brin. burn

What recketh me though folk say villainy

Of shrewed Lamech, and his bigamy?

I wot well Abraham was a holy man,

And Jacob eke, as far as ev’r I can.

And each of them had wives more than two;

And many another holy man also.

Where can ye see, in any manner age,

That highe God defended marriage

By word express? I pray you tell it me;

Or where commanded he virginity?

I wot as well as you, it is no dread,

Th’ apostle, when he spake of maidenhead,

He said, that precept thereof had he none:

Men may counsel a woman to be one,

But counseling is no commandement;

He put it in our owen judgement.

For, hadde God commanded maidenhead,

Then had he damned wedding out of dread;

And certes, if there were no seed y-sow,

Virginity then whereof should it grow?

Paul durste not commanden, at the least,

A thing of which his Master gave no hest.

The dart is set up for virginity;

Catch whoso may, who runneth best let see.

But this word is not ta’en of every wight,

But there as God will give it of his might.

I wot well that th’ apostle was a maid,

But natheless, although he wrote and said,

He would that every wight were such as he,

All is but counsel to virginity.

And, since to be a wife he gave me leave

Of indulgence, so is it no repreve

To wedde me, if that my make should die,

Without exception of bigamy;

All were it good no woman for to touch

(He meant as in his bed or in his couch),

For peril is both fire and tow t’assemble

Ye know what this example may resemble.

This is all and some, he held virginity

More profit than wedding in frailty:

(Frailty clepe I, but if that he and she frailty,

Would lead their lives all in chastity),

I grant it well, I have of none envy

Who maidenhead prefer to bigamy;

It liketh them t’ be clean in body and ghost;

Of mine estate I will not make a boast.

For, well ye know, a lord in his household

Hath not every vessel all of gold;

Some are of tree, and do their lord service.

God calleth folk to him in sundry wise,

And each one hath of God a proper gift,

Some this, some that, as liketh him to shift.

Virginity is great perfection,

And continence eke with devotion:

But Christ, that of perfection is the well,

Bade not every wight he should go sell

All that he had, and give it to the poor,

And in such wise follow him and his lore:

He spake to them that would live perfectly, —

And, lordings, by your leave, that am not I;

I will bestow the flower of mine age

In th’ acts and in the fruits of marriage.

Tell me also, to what conclusion

Were members made of generation,

And of so perfect wise a wight y-wrought?

Trust me right well, they were not made for nought.

Glose whoso will, and say both up and down,

That they were made for the purgatioun

Of urine, and of other thinges smale,

And eke to know a female from a male:

And for none other cause? say ye no?

Experience wot well it is not so.

So that the clerkes be not with me wroth,

I say this, that they were made for both,

That is to say, for office, and for ease

Of engendrure, there we God not displease.

Why should men elles in their bookes set,

That man shall yield unto his wife her debt?

Now wherewith should he make his payement,

If he us’d not his silly instrument?

Then were they made upon a creature

To purge urine, and eke for engendrure.

But I say not that every wight is hold,

That hath such harness as I to you told,

To go and use them in engendrure;

Then should men take of chastity no cure.

Christ was a maid, and shapen as a man,

And many a saint, since that this world began,

Yet ever liv’d in perfect chastity.

I will not vie with no virginity.

Let them with bread of pured wheat be fed,

And let us wives eat our barley bread.

And yet with barley bread, Mark tell us can,

Our Lord Jesus refreshed many a man.

In such estate as God hath cleped us,

I’ll persevere, I am not precious,

In wifehood I will use mine instrument

As freely as my Maker hath it sent.

If I be dangerous God give me sorrow;

Mine husband shall it have, both eve and morrow,

When that him list come forth and pay his debt.

A husband will I have, I will no let,

Which shall be both my debtor and my thrall,

And have his tribulation withal

Upon his flesh, while that I am his wife.

I have the power during all my life

Upon his proper body, and not he;

Right thus th’ apostle told it unto me,

And bade our husbands for to love us well;

All this sentence me liketh every deal.

Up start the Pardoner, and that anon;

“Now, Dame,” quoth he, “by God and by Saint John,

Ye are a noble preacher in this case.

I was about to wed a wife, alas!

What? should I bie it on my flesh so dear?

Yet had I lever wed no wife this year.”

“Abide,” quoth she; “my tale is not begun

Nay, thou shalt drinken of another tun

Ere that I go, shall savour worse than ale.

And when that I have told thee forth my tale

Of tribulation in marriage,

Of which I am expert in all mine age,

(This is to say, myself hath been the whip),

Then mayest thou choose whether thou wilt sip

Of thilke tunne, that I now shall broach.

Beware of it, ere thou too nigh approach,

For I shall tell examples more than ten:

Whoso will not beware by other men,

By him shall other men corrected be:

These same wordes writeth Ptolemy;

Read in his Almagest, and take it there.”

“Dame, I would pray you, if your will it were,”

Saide this Pardoner, “as ye began,

Tell forth your tale, and spare for no man,

And teach us younge men of your practique.”

“Gladly,” quoth she, “since that it may you like.

But that I pray to all this company,

If that I speak after my fantasy,

To take nought agrief what I may say;

For mine intent is only for to play.

Now, Sirs, then will I tell you forth my tale.

As ever may I drinke wine or ale

I shall say sooth; the husbands that I had

Three of them were good, and two were bad

The three were goode men, and rich, and old

Unnethes mighte they the statute hold

In which that they were bounden unto me.

Yet wot well what I mean of this, pardie.

As God me help, I laugh when that I think

How piteously at night I made them swink,

But, by my fay, I told of it no store:

They had me giv’n their land and their treasor,

Me needed not do longer diligence

To win their love, or do them reverence.

They loved me so well, by God above,

That I tolde no dainty of their love.

A wise woman will busy her ever-in-one

To get their love, where that she hath none.

But, since I had them wholly in my hand,

And that they had me given all their land,

Why should I take keep them for to please,

But it were for my profit, or mine ease?

I set them so a-worke, by my fay,

That many a night they sange, well-away!

The bacon was not fetched for them, I trow,

That some men have in Essex at Dunmow.

I govern’d them so well after my law,

That each of them full blissful was and fawe

To bringe me gay thinges from the fair.

They were full glad when that I spake them fair,

For, God it wot, I chid them spiteously.

Now hearken how I bare me properly.

Ye wise wives, that can understand,

Thus should ye speak, and bear them wrong on hand,

For half so boldely can there no man

Swearen and lien as a woman can.

(I say not this by wives that be wise,

But if it be when they them misadvise.)

A wise wife, if that she can her good,

Shall beare them on hand the cow is wood,

And take witness of her owen maid

Of their assent: but hearken how I said.

“Sir olde kaynard, is this thine array?

Why is my neigheboure’s wife so gay?

She is honour’d over all where she go’th,

I sit at home, I have no thrifty cloth.

What dost thou at my neigheboure’s house?

Is she so fair? art thou so amorous?

What rown’st thou with our maid? benedicite,

Sir olde lechour, let thy japes be.

And if I have a gossip, or a friend

(Withoute guilt), thou chidest as a fiend,

If that I walk or play unto his house.

Thou comest home as drunken as a mouse,

And preachest on thy bench, with evil prefe:

Thou say’st to me, it is a great mischief

To wed a poore woman, for costage:

And if that she be rich, of high parage;

Then say’st thou, that it is a tormentry

To suffer her pride and melancholy.

And if that she be fair, thou very knave,

Thou say’st that every holour will her have;

She may no while in chastity abide,

That is assailed upon every side.

Thou say’st some folk desire us for richess,

Some for our shape, and some for our fairness,

And some, for she can either sing or dance,

And some for gentiless and dalliance,

Some for her handes and her armes smale:

Thus goes all to the devil, by thy tale;

Thou say’st, men may not keep a castle wall

That may be so assailed over all.

And if that she be foul, thou say’st that she

Coveteth every man that she may see;

For as a spaniel she will on him leap,

Till she may finde some man her to cheap;

And none so grey goose goes there in the lake,

(So say’st thou) that will be without a make.

And say’st, it is a hard thing for to weld wield,

A thing that no man will, his thankes, held.

Thus say’st thou, lorel, when thou go’st to bed,

And that no wise man needeth for to wed,

Nor no man that intendeth unto heaven.

With wilde thunder dint and fiery leven

Mote thy wicked necke be to-broke.

Thou say’st, that dropping houses, and eke smoke,

And chiding wives, make men to flee

Out of their owne house; ah! ben’dicite,

What aileth such an old man for to chide?

Thou say’st, we wives will our vices hide,

Till we be fast, and then we will them shew.

Well may that be a proverb of a shrew.

Thou say’st, that oxen, asses, horses, hounds,

They be assayed at diverse stounds,

Basons and lavers, ere that men them buy,

Spoones, stooles, and all such husbandry,

And so be pots, and clothes, and array,

But folk of wives make none assay,

Till they be wedded, — olde dotard shrew! —

And then, say’st thou, we will our vices shew.

Thou say’st also, that it displeaseth me,

But if that thou wilt praise my beauty,

And but thou pore alway upon my face,

And call me faire dame in every place;

And but thou make a feast on thilke day

That I was born, and make me fresh and gay;

And but thou do to my norice honour,

And to my chamberere within my bow’r,

And to my father’s folk, and mine allies;

Thus sayest thou, old barrel full of lies.

And yet also of our prentice Jenkin,

For his crisp hair, shining as gold so fine,

And for he squireth me both up and down,

Yet hast thou caught a false suspicioun:

I will him not, though thou wert dead to-morrow.

But tell me this, why hidest thou, with sorrow,

The keyes of thy chest away from me?

It is my good as well as thine, pardie.

What, think’st to make an idiot of our dame?

Now, by that lord that called is Saint Jame,

Thou shalt not both, although that thou wert wood,

Be master of my body, and my good,

The one thou shalt forego, maugre thine eyen.

What helpeth it of me t’inquire and spyen?

I trow thou wouldest lock me in thy chest.

Thou shouldest say, ‘Fair wife, go where thee lest;

Take your disport; I will believe no tales;

I know you for a true wife, Dame Ales.’ Alice

We love no man, that taketh keep or charge care

Where that we go; we will be at our large.

Of alle men most blessed may he be,

The wise astrologer Dan Ptolemy,

That saith this proverb in his Almagest:

‘Of alle men his wisdom is highest,

That recketh not who hath the world in hand.

By this proverb thou shalt well understand,

Have thou enough, what thar thee reck or care

How merrily that other folkes fare?

For certes, olde dotard, by your leave,

Ye shall have [pleasure] right enough at eve.

He is too great a niggard that will werne

A man to light a candle at his lantern;

He shall have never the less light, pardie.

Have thou enough, thee thar not plaine thee

Thou say’st also, if that we make us gay

With clothing and with precious array,

That it is peril of our chastity.

And yet, — with sorrow! — thou enforcest thee,

And say’st these words in the apostle’s name:

‘In habit made with chastity and shame

Ye women shall apparel you,’ quoth he

‘And not in tressed hair and gay perrie,

As pearles, nor with gold, nor clothes rich.’

After thy text nor after thy rubrich

I will not work as muchel as a gnat.

Thou say’st also, I walk out like a cat;

For whoso woulde singe the catte’s skin

Then will the catte well dwell in her inn;

And if the catte’s skin be sleek and gay,

She will not dwell in house half a day,

But forth she will, ere any day be daw’d,

To shew her skin, and go a caterwaw’d.

This is to say, if I be gay, sir shrew,

I will run out, my borel for to shew.

Sir olde fool, what helpeth thee to spyen?

Though thou pray Argus with his hundred eyen

To be my wardecorps, as he can best

In faith he shall not keep me, but me lest:

Yet could I make his beard, so may I the.

“Thou sayest eke, that there be thinges three,

Which thinges greatly trouble all this earth,

And that no wighte may endure the ferth:

O lefe sir shrew, may Jesus short thy life.

Yet preachest thou, and say’st, a hateful wife

Y-reckon’d is for one of these mischances.

Be there none other manner resemblances

That ye may liken your parables unto,

But if a silly wife be one of tho?

Thou likenest a woman’s love to hell;

To barren land where water may not dwell.

Thou likenest it also to wild fire;

The more it burns, the more it hath desire

To consume every thing that burnt will be.

Thou sayest, right as wormes shend a tree,

Right so a wife destroyeth her husbond;

This know they well that be to wives bond.”

Lordings, right thus, as ye have understand,

Bare I stiffly mine old husbands on hand,

That thus they saiden in their drunkenness;

And all was false, but that I took witness

On Jenkin, and upon my niece also.

O Lord! the pain I did them, and the woe,

‘Full guilteless, by Godde’s sweete pine;

For as a horse I coulde bite and whine;

I coulde plain, an’ I was in the guilt,

Or elles oftentime I had been spilt

Whoso first cometh to the nilll, first grint;

I plained first, so was our war y-stint.

They were full glad to excuse them full blive

Of things that they never aguilt their live.

Of wenches would I beare them on hand,

When that for sickness scarcely might they stand,

Yet tickled I his hearte for that he

Ween’d that I had of him so great cherte:

I swore that all my walking out by night

Was for to espy wenches that he dight:

Under that colour had I many a mirth.

For all such wit is given us at birth;

Deceit, weeping, and spinning, God doth give

To women kindly, while that they may live.

And thus of one thing I may vaunte me,

At th’ end I had the better in each degree,

By sleight, or force, or by some manner thing,

As by continual murmur or grudging, complaining

Namely a-bed, there hadde they mischance,

There would I chide, and do them no pleasance:

I would no longer in the bed abide,

If that I felt his arm over my side,

Till he had made his ransom unto me,

Then would I suffer him do his nicety.

And therefore every man this tale I tell,

Win whoso may, for all is for to sell;

With empty hand men may no hawkes lure;

For winning would I all his will endure,

And make me a feigned appetite,

And yet in bacon had I never delight:

That made me that I ever would them chide.

For, though the Pope had sitten them beside,

I would not spare them at their owen board,

For, by my troth, I quit them word for word

As help me very God omnipotent,

Though I right now should make my testament

I owe them not a word, that is not quit

I brought it so aboute by my wit,

That they must give it up, as for the best

Or elles had we never been in rest.

For, though he looked as a wood lion,

Yet should he fail of his conclusion.

Then would I say, “Now, goode lefe tak keep

How meekly looketh Wilken oure sheep!

Come near, my spouse, and let me ba thy cheek

Ye shoulde be all patient and meek,

And have a sweet y-spiced conscience,

Since ye so preach of Jobe’s patience.

Suffer alway, since ye so well can preach,

And but ye do, certain we shall you teach

That it is fair to have a wife in peace.

One of us two must bowe doubteless:

And since a man is more reasonable

Than woman is, ye must be suff’rable.

What aileth you to grudge thus and groan?

Is it for ye would have my [love] alone?

Why, take it all: lo, have it every deal, whit

Peter! shrew you but ye love it

For if I woulde sell my belle chose,

I coulde walk as fresh as is a rose,

But I will keep it for your owen tooth.

Ye be to blame, by God, I say you sooth.”

Such manner wordes hadde we on hand.

Now will I speaken of my fourth husband.

My fourthe husband was a revellour;

This is to say, he had a paramour,

And I was young and full of ragerie,

Stubborn and strong, and jolly as a pie.

Then could I dance to a harpe smale,

And sing, y-wis, as any nightingale,

When I had drunk a draught of sweete wine.

Metellius, the foule churl, the swine,

That with a staff bereft his wife of life

For she drank wine, though I had been his wife,

Never should he have daunted me from drink:

And, after wine, of Venus most I think.

For all so sure as cold engenders hail,

A liquorish mouth must have a liquorish tail.

In woman vinolent is no defence,

This knowe lechours by experience.

But, lord Christ, when that it rememb’reth me

Upon my youth, and on my jollity,

It tickleth me about mine hearte-root;

Unto this day it doth mine hearte boot,

That I have had my world as in my time.

But age, alas! that all will envenime,

Hath me bereft my beauty and my pith:

Let go; farewell; the devil go therewith.

The flour is gon, there is no more to tell,

The bran, as I best may, now must I sell.

But yet to be right merry will I fand.

Now forth to tell you of my fourth husband,

I say, I in my heart had great despite,

That he of any other had delight;

But he was quit, by God and by Saint Joce:

I made for him of the same wood a cross;

Not of my body in no foul mannere,

But certainly I made folk such cheer,

That in his owen grease I made him fry

For anger, and for very jealousy.

By God, in earth I was his purgatory,

For which I hope his soul may be in glory.

For, God it wot, he sat full oft and sung,

When that his shoe full bitterly him wrung.

There was no wight, save God and he, that wist

In many wise how sore I did him twist.

He died when I came from Jerusalem,

And lies in grave under the roode beam:

Although his tomb is not so curious

As was the sepulchre of Darius,

Which that Apelles wrought so subtlely.

It is but waste to bury them preciously.

Let him fare well, God give his soule rest,

He is now in his grave and in his chest.

Now of my fifthe husband will I tell:

God let his soul never come into hell.

And yet was he to me the moste shrew;

That feel I on my ribbes all by rew,

And ever shall, until mine ending day.

But in our bed he was so fresh and gay,

And therewithal so well he could me glose,

When that he woulde have my belle chose,

Though he had beaten me on every bone,

Yet could he win again my love anon.

I trow, I lov’d him better, for that he

Was of his love so dangerous to me.

We women have, if that I shall not lie,

In this matter a quainte fantasy.

Whatever thing we may not lightly have,

Thereafter will we cry all day and crave.

Forbid us thing, and that desire we;

Press on us fast, and thenne will we flee.

With danger utter we all our chaffare;

Great press at market maketh deare ware,

And too great cheap is held at little price;

This knoweth every woman that is wise.

My fifthe husband, God his soule bless,

Which that I took for love and no richess,

He some time was a clerk of Oxenford,

And had left school, and went at home to board

With my gossip, dwelling in oure town:

God have her soul, her name was Alisoun.

She knew my heart, and all my privity,

Bet than our parish priest, so may I the.

To her betrayed I my counsel all;

For had my husband pissed on a wall,

Or done a thing that should have cost his life,

To her, and to another worthy wife,

And to my niece, which that I loved well,

I would have told his counsel every deal.

And so I did full often, God it wot,

That made his face full often red and hot

For very shame, and blam’d himself, for he

Had told to me so great a privity.

And so befell that ones in a Lent

(So oftentimes I to my gossip went,

For ever yet I loved to be gay,

And for to walk in March, April, and May

From house to house, to heare sundry tales),

That Jenkin clerk, and my gossip, Dame Ales,

And I myself, into the fieldes went.

Mine husband was at London all that Lent;

I had the better leisure for to play,

And for to see, and eke for to be sey

Of lusty folk; what wist I where my grace

Was shapen for to be, or in what place?

Therefore made I my visitations

To vigilies, and to processions,

To preachings eke, and to these pilgrimages,

To plays of miracles, and marriages,

And weared upon me gay scarlet gites.

These wormes, nor these mothes, nor these mites

On my apparel frett them never a deal

And know’st thou why? for they were used well.

Now will I telle forth what happen’d me:

I say, that in the fieldes walked we,

Till truely we had such dalliance,

This clerk and I, that of my purveyance

I spake to him, and told him how that he,

If I were widow, shoulde wedde me.

For certainly, I say for no bobance,

Yet was I never without purveyance

Of marriage, nor of other thinges eke:

I hold a mouse’s wit not worth a leek,

That hath but one hole for to starte to,

And if that faile, then is all y-do.

[I bare him on hand he had enchanted me

(My dame taughte me that subtilty);

And eke I said, I mette of him all night,

He would have slain me, as I lay upright,

And all my bed was full of very blood;

But yet I hop’d that he should do me good;

For blood betoken’d gold, as me was taught.

And all was false, I dream’d of him right naught,

But as I follow’d aye my dame’s lore,

As well of that as of other things more.]

But now, sir, let me see, what shall I sayn?

Aha! by God, I have my tale again.

When that my fourthe husband was on bier,

I wept algate and made a sorry cheer,

As wives must, for it is the usage;

And with my kerchief covered my visage;

But, for I was provided with a make,

I wept but little, that I undertake

To churche was mine husband borne a-morrow

With neighebours that for him made sorrow,

And Jenkin, oure clerk, was one of tho:

As help me God, when that I saw him go

After the bier, methought he had a pair

Of legges and of feet so clean and fair,

That all my heart I gave unto his hold.

He was, I trow, a twenty winter old,

And I was forty, if I shall say sooth,

But yet I had always a colte’s tooth.

Gat-toothed I was, and that became me well,

I had the print of Sainte Venus’ seal.

[As help me God, I was a lusty one,

And fair, and rich, and young, and well begone:

For certes I am all venerian

In feeling, and my heart is martian;

Venus me gave my lust and liquorishness,

And Mars gave me my sturdy hardiness

Mine ascendant was Taure, and Mars therein:

Alas, alas, that ever love was sin!

I follow’d aye mine inclination

By virtue of my constellation:

That made me that I coulde not withdraw

My chamber of Venus from a good fellaw.

[Yet have I Marte’s mark upon my face,

And also in another privy place.

For God so wisly be my salvation,

I loved never by discretion,

But ever follow’d mine own appetite,

All were he short, or long, or black, or white,

I took no keep, so that he liked me,

How poor he was, neither of what degree.]

What should I say? but that at the month’s end

This jolly clerk Jenkin, that was so hend,

Had wedded me with great solemnity,

And to him gave I all the land and fee

That ever was me given therebefore:

But afterward repented me full sore.

He woulde suffer nothing of my list.

By God, he smote me ones with his fist,

For that I rent out of his book a leaf,

That of the stroke mine eare wax’d all deaf.

Stubborn I was, as is a lioness,

And of my tongue a very jangleress,

And walk I would, as I had done beforn,

From house to house, although he had it sworn:

For which he oftentimes woulde preach

And me of olde Roman gestes teach

How that Sulpitius Gallus left his wife

And her forsook for term of all his lif

For nought but open-headed he her say

Looking out at his door upon a day.

Another Roman told he me by name,

That, for his wife was at a summer game

Without his knowing, he forsook her eke.

And then would he upon his Bible seek

That ilke proverb of Ecclesiast,

Where he commandeth, and forbiddeth fast,

Man shall not suffer his wife go roll about.

Then would he say right thus withoute doubt:

“Whoso that buildeth his house all of sallows,

And pricketh his blind horse over the fallows,

And suff’reth his wife to go seeke hallows,

Is worthy to be hanged on the gallows.”

But all for nought; I sette not a haw

Of his proverbs, nor of his olde saw;

Nor would I not of him corrected be.

I hate them that my vices telle me,

And so do more of us (God wot) than I.

This made him wood with me all utterly;

I woulde not forbear him in no case.

Now will I say you sooth, by Saint Thomas,

Why that I rent out of his book a leaf,

For which he smote me, so that I was deaf.

He had a book, that gladly night and day

For his disport he would it read alway;

He call’d it Valerie, and Theophrast,

And with that book he laugh’d alway full fast.

And eke there was a clerk sometime at Rome,

A cardinal, that highte Saint Jerome,

That made a book against Jovinian,

Which book was there; and eke Tertullian,

Chrysippus, Trotula, and Heloise,

That was an abbess not far from Paris;

And eke the Parables of Solomon,

Ovide’s Art, and bourdes many one;

And alle these were bound in one volume.

And every night and day was his custume

(When he had leisure and vacation

From other worldly occupation)

To readen in this book of wicked wives.

He knew of them more legends and more lives

Than be of goodde wives in the Bible.

For, trust me well, it is an impossible

That any clerk will speake good of wives,

(But if it be of holy saintes’ lives)

Nor of none other woman never the mo’.

Who painted the lion, tell it me, who?

By God, if women haddde written stories,

As clerkes have within their oratories,

They would have writ of men more wickedness

Than all the mark of Adam may redress

The children of Mercury and of Venus,

Be in their working full contrarious.

Mercury loveth wisdom and science,

And Venus loveth riot and dispence.

And for their diverse disposition,

Each falls in other’s exaltation.

As thus, God wot, Mercury is desolate

In Pisces, where Venus is exaltate,

And Venus falls where Mercury is raised.

Therefore no woman by no clerk is praised.

The clerk, when he is old, and may not do

Of Venus’ works not worth his olde shoe,

Then sits he down, and writes in his dotage,

That women cannot keep their marriage.

But now to purpose, why I tolde thee

That I was beaten for a book, pardie.

Upon a night Jenkin, that was our sire,

Read on his book, as he sat by the fire,

Of Eva first, that for her wickedness

Was all mankind brought into wretchedness,

For which that Jesus Christ himself was slain,

That bought us with his hearte-blood again.

Lo here express of women may ye find

That woman was the loss of all mankind.

Then read he me how Samson lost his hairs

Sleeping, his leman cut them with her shears,

Through whiche treason lost he both his eyen.

Then read he me, if that I shall not lien,

Of Hercules, and of his Dejanire,

That caused him to set himself on fire.

Nothing forgot he of the care and woe

That Socrates had with his wives two;

How Xantippe cast piss upon his head.

This silly man sat still, as he were dead,

He wip’d his head, and no more durst he sayn,

But, “Ere the thunder stint there cometh rain.”

Of Phasiphae, that was queen of Crete,

For shrewedness he thought the tale sweet.

Fy, speak no more, it is a grisly thing,

Of her horrible lust and her liking.

Of Clytemnestra, for her lechery

That falsely made her husband for to die,

He read it with full good devotion.

He told me eke, for what occasion

Amphiorax at Thebes lost his life:

My husband had a legend of his wife

Eryphile, that for an ouche of gold

Had privily unto the Greekes told,

Where that her husband hid him in a place,

For which he had at Thebes sorry grace.

Of Luna told he me, and of Lucie;

They bothe made their husbands for to die,

That one for love, that other was for hate.

Luna her husband on an ev’ning late

Empoison’d had, for that she was his foe:

Lucia liquorish lov’d her husband so,

That, for he should always upon her think,

She gave him such a manner love-drink,

That he was dead before it were the morrow:

And thus algates husbands hadde sorrow.

Then told he me how one Latumeus

Complained to his fellow Arius

That in his garden growed such a tree,

On which he said how that his wives three

Hanged themselves for heart dispiteous.

“O leve brother,” quoth this Arius,

“Give me a plant of thilke blessed tree,

And in my garden planted shall it be.”

Of later date of wives hath he read,

That some have slain their husbands in their bed,

And let their lechour dight them all the night,

While that the corpse lay on the floor upright:

And some have driven nails into their brain,

While that they slept, and thus they have them slain:

Some have them given poison in their drink:

He spake more harm than hearte may bethink.

And therewithal he knew of more proverbs,

Than in this world there groweth grass or herbs.

“Better (quoth he) thine habitation

Be with a lion, or a foul dragon,

Than with a woman using for to chide.

Better (quoth he) high in the roof abide,

Than with an angry woman in the house,

They be so wicked and contrarious:

They hate that their husbands loven aye.”

He said, “A woman cast her shame away

When she cast off her smock;” and farthermo’,

“A fair woman, but she be chaste also,

Is like a gold ring in a sowe’s nose.

Who coulde ween, or who coulde suppose

The woe that in mine heart was, and the pine?

And when I saw that he would never fine

To readen on this cursed book all night,

All suddenly three leaves have I plight

Out of his book, right as he read, and eke

I with my fist so took him on the cheek,

That in our fire he backward fell adown.

And he up start, as doth a wood lion,

And with his fist he smote me on the head,

That on the floor I lay as I were dead.

And when he saw how still that there I lay,

He was aghast, and would have fled away,

Till at the last out of my swoon I braid,

“Oh, hast thou slain me, thou false thief?” I said

“And for my land thus hast thou murder’d me?

Ere I be dead, yet will I kisse thee.”

And near he came, and kneeled fair adown,

And saide”, “Deare sister Alisoun,

As help me God, I shall thee never smite:

That I have done it is thyself to wite,

Forgive it me, and that I thee beseek.”

And yet eftsoons I hit him on the cheek,

And saidde, “Thief, thus much am I awreak.

Now will I die, I may no longer speak.”

But at the last, with muche care and woe

We fell accorded by ourselves two:

He gave me all the bridle in mine hand

To have the governance of house and land,

And of his tongue, and of his hand also.

I made him burn his book anon right tho.

And when that I had gotten unto me

By mast’ry all the sovereignety,

And that he said, “Mine owen true wife,

Do as thee list, the term of all thy life,

Keep thine honour, and eke keep mine estate;

After that day we never had debate.

God help me so, I was to him as kind

As any wife from Denmark unto Ind,

And also true, and so was he to me:

I pray to God that sits in majesty

So bless his soule, for his mercy dear.

Now will I say my tale, if ye will hear. —

The Friar laugh’d when he had heard all this:

“Now, Dame,” quoth he, “so have I joy and bliss,

This is a long preamble of a tale.”

And when the Sompnour heard the Friar gale,

“Lo,” quoth this Sompnour, “Godde’s armes two,

A friar will intermete him evermo’:

Lo, goode men, a fly and eke a frere

Will fall in ev’ry dish and eke mattere.

What speak’st thou of perambulation?

What? amble or trot; or peace, or go sit down:

Thou lettest our disport in this mattere.”

“Yea, wilt thou so, Sir Sompnour?” quoth the Frere;

“Now by my faith I shall, ere that I go,

Tell of a Sompnour such a tale or two,

That all the folk shall laughen in this place.”

“Now do, else, Friar, I beshrew thy face,”

Quoth this Sompnour; “and I beshrewe me,

But if I telle tales two or three

Of friars, ere I come to Sittingbourne,

That I shall make thine hearte for to mourn:

For well I wot thy patience is gone.”

Our Hoste cried, “Peace, and that anon;”

And saide, “Let the woman tell her tale.

Ye fare as folk that drunken be of ale.

Do, Dame, tell forth your tale, and that is best.”

“All ready, sir,” quoth she, “right as you lest,

If I have licence of this worthy Frere.”

“Yes, Dame,” quoth he, “tell forth, and I will hear.”

Key Concepts from Chapter 6:

• The Normans invaded and conquered England beginning in the year 1066.
• William the Conqueror claimed to be the rightful ruler of England.
• Papal support went to the Normans.
• Many French words came into English after the Norman conquest.

Key Terms and People from Chapter 6:

• Canterbury Tales
• Chaucer
• Edward the Confessor
• Harold Godwinson
• Norman Conquest
• Pope Alexander II
• The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle
• William the Conqueror

Materials for Chapter 6 adapted from the following:

Stroud, Kevin. The History of English Podcast. Episode 67: 1066 The Year that Changes

English. (Material was used and adapted with permission.)

Robinson, B. & Getty, L. British Literature: Middle Ages to the Eighteenth Century and Neoclassicism. University of North Georgia Press. CC By