"But we that knowen thilke name so
For vertuous, we may it not withseye."
Almache answered; "Chese on of thise two,
Do sacrifice, or Cristendom reneye,
That thou mow now escapen by that wey."
At which this holy blisful fayre maid
Gan for to laughe, and to the juge said:

"O juge confuse in thy nicetee,
Woldest thou that I reneye innocence ?
To maken me a wicked wight" (quod she)
"Lo, he dissimuleth bere in audience,
He stareth and wodeth in his advertence."
To whom Almachius said; "Unsely wretch,
Ne wost thou not how far my might may stretch?

"Han not our mighty princes to me yeven
Ya bothe power and eke auctoritee
To maken folk to dien or to liven?
Why spekest thou so proudly than to me?"
"I ne speke nought but stedfastly," quod she,
"Not proudely, for I say, as for my side,
We haten dedly thilke vice of pride.

"And if thou drede not a soth for to here,
Than wol I shewe al openly by right,
That thou hast made a ful gret lesing here.
Thou saist, thy princes han thee yeven might
Both for to slee and for to quiken a wight,
Thou that ne maist but only lif bereve,
Thou hast non other power ne no leve.

"But thou maist sayn, thy princes han thee maked
Ministre of deth; for if thou speke of mo,
Thou liest; for thy power is ful naked."
"Do way thy boldnesse," said Almachius tho,
"And sacrifice to our goddes, er thou go.
I recke not what wrong that thou me proffre,
For I can suffre it as a philosophre.

"But thilke wronges may I not endure,
That thou spekest of our goddes here," quod he.
Cecile answerd; "O nice creature,

Thou saidest no word sin thou spake to me,
That I ne knew therwith thy nicetee,
And that thou were in every maner wise
A lewed officer, a vain justice.

"Ther lacketh nothing to thin utter eyen

That thou n'art blind; for thing that we seen alle
That is a ston, that men may wel espien,
That ilke ston a god thou wolt it calle.
I rede thee let thin hond upon it falle,
And tast it wel, and ston thou shalt it find,
Sin that thou seest not with thin eyen blind.

"It is a shame that the peple shal
So scornen thee, and laugh at thy folie;
For comunly men wot it wel over al,
That mighty God is in his Hevens hie;
And thise images, wel maist thou espie,
To thee ne to hemself may not profite,
For in effect they be not worth a mite."

Thise and swiche other wordes saide she,
And he wex wroth, and bade men should hire lede
Home til hire house, "and in hire hous" (quod he)
"Brenne hire right in a bath, with flames rede."
And as he bade, right so was don the dede;
For in a bathe they gonne hire faste shetten,
And night and day gret fire they under betten.

CHANONES YEMANNES PROLOGUE, WHAN that tolde was the lif of Seinte Cecile, Er we had ridden fully five mile, At Boughton under Blee us gan atake A man, that clothed was in clothes blake, And undernethe he wered a white surplis. His bakeney, which that was al pomelee gris, So swatte, that it wonder was to see, It semed as he had priked miles three. The horse eke that his Yeman rode upon, So swatte, that unnethes might he gon. About the peytrel stood the fome ful hie, He was of fome as flecked as a pie. A male tweifold on his croper lay, It semed that he caried litel array, Al light for sommer rode this worthy man. And in my herte wondren I began What that he was, til that I understode, How that his cloke was sowed to his hode; For which whan I had long avised me, 1 demed him some chanon for to be. His hat heng at his back doun by a las, For he had ridden more than trat or pás, He had ay priked like as he were wode. A clote-lefe he had laid under his hode

To tellen all that longeth to that art;
But natheles, yet wol I tellen part;
Sin that my lord is gon, I wol not spare,
Swiche thing as that I know, I wol declare."

THE

CHANONES YEMANNES TALE.

WITH this Chanon I dwelt have seven yere,
And of his science am I never the nere:
All that I had, I have ylost therby,
And God wot, so han many mo than I.
Ther I was wont to be right fresh and gay
Of clothing, and of other good array,
Now may I were an hose upon min hed;
And wher my colour was both fresh and red,
Now is it wan, and of a leden hewe;
(Who so it useth, so shal he it rewe)
And of my swinke yet blered is min eye;
Lo which avantage is to multiplie !

That sliding science hath me made so bare,
That I have no good, wher that ever I fare;
And yet I am endetted so therby
Of gold, that I have borwed trewely,
That while I live, I shal it quiten never;
Let every man be ware by me for ever.
What maner man that casteth him therto,
If he continue, I hold his thrift ydo;
So help me God, therby shal he nat winne,
But empte his purse, and make his wittes thinne.
And whan be, thurgh his madnesse and folie,
Hath lost his owen good thurgh jupartie,
Than he exciteth other folk therto,

To lese hir good as he himself hath do,
For unto shrewes joye it is and ese
To have hir felawes in peine and disese.
Thus was I ones lerned of a clerk;

Of that no charge; I wol speke of our werk.
Whan we be ther as we shuln exercise
Our elvish craft, we semen wonder wise,
Our termes ben so clergial and queinte.
I blow the fire til that myn herte feinte.
What shuld I tellen eche proportion
Of thinges, whiche that we werchen upon,
As on five or six unces, may wel be,
Of silver, or som other quantitee?
And besie me to tellen you the names,
As orpiment, brent bones, yren squames,
That into poudre grounden ben ful smal?
And in an erthen pot how put is al,
And salt yput in, and also pepere,
Beforn thise poudres that I speke of here,
And wel ycovered with a lampe of glas?
And of moche other thing which that ther was?
And of the pottes and glasses engluting,
That of the aire might passen out no thing?
And of the esy fire, and smert also,

Which that was made? and of the care and wo,
That we had in our materes subliming,
And in amalgaming, and calcening
Of quiksilver, ycleped mercurie crude?
For all our sleightes we can not conclude.
Our orpiment, and sublimed mercurie,
Our grounden litarge eke on the porphurie,
Of eche of thise of unces a certain.
Not helpeth us, our labour is in vain.
Ne, neyther our spirites ascentioun,
Ne our materes that lien al fix adoun,

Mown in our werking nothing us availle;
For lost is all our labour and travaille,
And all the cost a twenty devil way
Is lost also, which we upon it lay.

Ther is also ful many another thing,
That is unto our craft apperteining,
Though I by ordre hem nat rehersen can,
Because that I am a lewed man,

Yet wol I telle hem, as they come to minde,
Though I ne cannot set hem in hir kinde,
As bole armoniak, verdegrese, boras;
And sondry vessels made of erthe and glas,
Our urinales, and our descensories,
Viols, croslettes, and sublimatories,
Cucuribtes, and alembikes eke,

And other swiche gere, dere ynough a leke,
What nedeth it for to reherse hem alle?
Wateres rubifying, and bolles galle,
Arsenik, sal armoniak, and brimston?
And herbes coude I tell eke many on,
As egremoine, valerian, and lunarie,
And other swiche, if that me list to tarie;
Our lampes brenning bothe night and day,'
To bring about our craft if that we may;
Our fourneis eke of calcination,

And of wateres albification,

Unslekked lime, chalk, and gleire of an ey,
Poudres divers, ashes, dong, pisse, and cley,
Sered pokettes, sal peter, and vitriole;
And divers fires made of wode and cole;
Sal tartre, alcaly, and salt preparat,
And combust materes, and coagulat;
Cley made with hors and mannes here, and oile
Of tartre, alum, glas, berme, wort, and argoile,
Rosalgar, and other materes enbibing;
And eke of our materes encorporing,
And of our silver citrination,
Our cementing, and fermentation,
Our ingottes, testes, and many thinges mo.
I wol you tell as was me taught also
The foure spirites, and the bodies sevene
By ordre, as oft I herd my lord hem nevene,
The firste spirit quiksilver cleped is;
The second orpiment; the thridde ywis
Sal armoniak, and the fourth brimston.

The bodies sevene eke, lo hem here anon.
Sol gold is, and Luna silver we threpe;
Mars iren, Mercurie quiksilver we clepe :
Saturnus led, and Jupiter is tin,
And Venus coper, by my fader kin.

This cursed craft who so wol exercise,
He shal no good have, that him may suffice,
For all the good he spendeth theraboute
He lesen shal, therof have I no doute.
Who so that listeth uttren his folie,
Let him come forth and lernen multiplie:
And every man that hath ought in his cofre,
Let him appere, and wex a philosophre,
Ascaunce that craft is so light to lere.
Nay, nay, God wot, al be he monk or frere,
Preest or chanon, or any other wight,
Though he sit at his book both day and night
In lerning of this elvish nice lore,
All is in vain, and parde mochel more
To lerne a lewed man this subtiltee;
Fie, speke not therof, for it wol not be.
And conne he letterure, or conne he non,
As in effect, he shal finde it all on;
For bothe two by my salvation
Concluden in multiplication

Ylike wel, whan they have all ydo;

This is to sain, they faillen bothe two.

Yet forgate I to maken rehersaile

Of waters corosif, and of limaile,
And of bodies mollification,
And also of hir induration,
Oiles, ablusions, metal fusible,
To tellen all, wold passen any bible,
That o wher is; wherfore as for the best
Of all thise names now wol I me rest;
For as I trow, I have you told ynow
To reise a fend, al loke he never so row.
A, nay, let be; the philosophres ston,
Elixer cleped, we seken fast eche on,
For had we him, than were we siker ynow;
But unto God, of Heven I make avow,
For all our craft, whan we han all ydo,
And all our sleight, he wol not come us to.
He hath ymade us spenden mochel good,
For sorwe of which almost we waxen wood,
But that good hope crepeth in our herte,
Supposing ever, though we sore smerte,
To ben releved of him afterward.
Swiche supposing and hope is sharpe and hard.
I warne you wel it is to seken ever.
That future temps hath made men dissever,
In trust therof, from all that ever they had,
Yet of that art they conne not waxen sad,
For unto hem it is a bitter swete;

So semeth it; for ne had they, but a shete
Which that they might wrappen hem in a-night,
And a bratt to walken in by day-light,

li They wold hem sell, and spend it on this craft;
They conne not stinten, til no thing be laft.
And evermore, wher ever that they gon,
Men may hem kennen by smell of brimston;
For all the world they stinken as a gote;
Hir savour is so rammish and so hote,
That though a man a mile from hem be,
The savour wol enfect him, trusteth me.

Lo, thus by smelling and thred-bare array,
If that men list, this folk they knowen may.
And if a man wol axe hem prively,
Why they be clothed so unthriftily,
They right anon wol rounen in his ere,
And saien, if that they espied were,

Men wolde hem sle, because of hir science:
Lo, thus thise folk betraien innocence.

Passe over this, I go my tale unto.
Er that the pot be on the fire ydo
Of metals with a certain quantitee,

My lord hem tempereth, and no man but he;
(Now he is gon, I dare say boldely)
For as men sain, he can don craftily;
Algate I wote wel he hath swiche a name,
And yet ful oft he renneth in a blame;
And wete ye how? ful oft it falleth so,
The pot to-breketh, and farewel all is go.
Thise metales ben of so gret violence,
Our walles may not make hem resistence,
But if they weren wrought of lime and ston;
They percen so, that thurgh the wall they gon;
And som of hem sinke doun into the ground,
(Thus have we lost by times many a pound)
And som are scattered all the flore aboute;
Som lepen into the roof withouten doute.
Though that the fend not in our sight bim shewe,
I trow that he be with us, thilke shrewe,
In Helle, wher that he is lord and sire,
Ne is ther no more wo, rancour, ne ire.

Whan that our pot is broke, as I have sayde, Every man chit, and holt him evil apayde. Som sayd "it was long on the fire-making;" Som sayd, "nay, it was long on the blowing?" (Than was I ferd, for that was min office) "Straw," quod the thridde, " ye ben lewed and nice, It was not tempred as it ought to be."

Nay," quod the fourthe, "stint and herken me; Because our fire was not made of beche,

That is the cause, and other non, so the iche."

I can not tell wheron it was along,

But wel I wot gret strif is us among.

"What?" quod my lord, "ther n'is no more to don,. Of thise perils I wol beware eftsone.

I am right siker, that the pot was crased.
Be as be may, be ye no thing amased.
As usage is, let swepe the flore as swithe;
Plucke up your hertes and be glad and blithe."
The mullok on an hepe ysweped was,
And on the flore ycast a canevas,
And all this mullok in a sive ythrowe,
And sifted, and ypicked many a throwe.

Parde," quod on, "somwhat of our metall
Yet is ther here, though that we have not all.
And though this thing mishapped hath as now,
Another time it may be wel ynow.
We mosten put our good in aventure;
A marchant parde may not ay 'endure,
Trusteth me wel, in his prosperitee:
Somtime his good is drenched in the see,
And somtime cometh it sauf unto the lond."
"Pees," quod my lord, "the next time I wol fond
To bring our craft all in another plite,
And but I do, sires, let me have the wite:
Ther was defante in somwhat, wel I wote."
Another sayd, "the fire was over hote."
But be it hote or cold, I dare say this,
That we concluden ever more amis:
We faille alway of that which we wold have,
And in our madnesse evermore we rave.
And whan we be together everich on,
Every man semeth a Salomon.

But all thing, which that shineth as the gold,
Ne is no gold, as I have herd it told;
Ne every apple that is faire at eye,
Ne is not good, what so men clap or crie.
Right so, lo, fareth it amonges us.
He that semeth the wisest by Jesus
Is most fool, whan it cometh to the prefe;
And he that semeth trewest, is a thefe.
That shal ye know, or that I from you wende,
By that I of my tale have made an ende.

Ther was a chanon of religioun
Amonges us, wold enfect all a toun,
Though it as gret were as was Ninive,
Rome, Alisaundre, Troie, or other three.
His sleightes and his infinite falsenesse
Ther coude no man writen, as I gesse,
Though that he mighte live a thousand yere ;
In all this world of falsenesse n'is his pere.
For in his termes he wol him so winde,
And speke his wordes in so slie a kinde,
Whan he comunen shal with any wight,
That he wol make him doten anon right,
But it a fend be, as himselven is.
Ful many a man hath he begiled er this,
And wol, if that he may live any while:
And yet men gon and riden many a mile
Him for to seke, and have his acquaintance,
Not knowing of his false governance.