The prologe of the Somnours Tale.
This Somnour in his stiropes hye stood; Up-on this Frere his herte was so wood, That lyk an aspen leef he quook for yre.
'Lordinges,' quod he, 'but o thing I desyre; I yow biseke that, of your curteisye, Sin ye han herd this false Frere lye, As suffereth me I may my tale telle! This Frere bosteth that he knoweth helle, And god it woot, that it is litel wonder; Freres and feendes been but lyte a-sonder. For pardee, ye han ofte tyme herd telle, How that a frere ravisshed was to helle In spirit ones by a visioun; And as an angel ladde him up and doun, To shewen him the peynes that ther were, In al the place saugh he nat a frere; Of other folk he saugh y-nowe in wo. Un-to this angel spak the frere tho:
"Now, sir," quod he, "han freres swich a grace
That noon of hem shal come to this place?"
"Yis," quod this angel, "many a millioun!" And un-to Sathanas he ladde him doun. "And now hath Sathanas," seith he, "a tayl Brodder than of a carrik is the sayl. Hold up thy tayl, thou Sathanas!" quod he, "Shewe forth thyn ers, and lat the frere see Wher is the nest of freres in this place!" And, er that half a furlong-wey of space, Right so as bees out swarmen from an hyve, Out of the develes ers ther gonne dryve Twenty thousand freres in a route, And thurgh-out helle swarmeden aboute; And comen agayn, as faste as they may gon, And in his ers they crepten everichon. He clapte his tayl agayn, and lay ful stille. This frere, whan he loked hadde his fille Upon the torments of this sory place, His spirit god restored of his grace Un-to his body agayn, and he awook; But natheles, for fere yet he quook, So was the develes ers ay in his minde, That is his heritage of verray kinde. God save yow alle, save this cursed Frere; My prologe wol I ende in this manere.'
Here endeth the Prologe of the Somnours Tale.
Here biginneth the Somonour his Tale.
Lordinges, ther is in Yorkshire, as I gesse, A mersshy contree called Holdernesse, In which ther wente a limitour aboute, To preche, and eek to begge, it is no doute. And so bifel, that on a day this frere Had preched at a chirche in his manere, And specially, aboven every thing, Excited he the peple in his preching, To trentals, and to yeve, for goddes sake, Wher-with men mighten holy houses make, Ther as divyne service is honoured, Nat ther as it is wasted and devoured, Ne ther it nedeth nat for to be yive, As to possessioners, that mowen live, Thanked be god, in wele and habundaunce. 'Trentals,' seyde he, 'deliveren fro penaunce Hir freendes soules, as wel olde as yonge, Ye, whan that they been hastily y-songe; Nat for to holde a preest Ioly and gay, He singeth nat but o masse in a day; Delivereth out,' quod he, 'anon the soules; Ful hard it is with fleshhook or with oules To been y-clawed, or to brenne or bake; Now spede yow hastily, for Cristes sake.' And whan this frere had seyd al his entente, With qui cum patre forth his wey he wente.
Whan folk in chirche had yeve him what hem leste, He wente his wey, no lenger wolde he reste, With scrippe and tipped staf, y-tukked hye; In every hous he gan to poure and prye, And beggeth mele, and chese, or elles corn. His felawe hadde a staf tipped with horn, A peyre of tables al of yvory, And a poyntel polisshed fetisly, And wroot the names alwey, as he stood, Of alle folk that yaf him any good, Ascaunces that he wolde for hem preye. 'Yeve us a busshel whete, malt, or reye, A goddes kechil, or a trip of chese, Or elles what yow list, we may nat chese; A goddes halfpeny or a masse-peny, Or yeve us of your brawn, if ye have eny; A dagon of your blanket, leve dame, Our suster dere, lo! here I write your name; Bacon or beef, or swich thing as ye finde.'
A sturdy harlot wente ay hem bihinde, That was hir hostes man, and bar a sak, And what men yaf hem, leyde it on his bak. And whan that he was out at dore anon, He planed awey the names everichon That he biforn had writen in his tables; He served hem with nyfles and with fables.
'Nay, ther thou lixt, thou Somnour,' quod the Frere. 'Pees,' quod our Host, 'for Cristes moder dere; Tel forth thy tale and spare it nat at al.' So thryve I, quod this Somnour, so I shal.—