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Sometimes we feign them, sometimes we arise
In bodies that are dead, in sundry wise,
And speak as reasonably and fair and well
As to the witch at En-dor Samuel.
And yet some men maintain it was not he;
I do not care for your theology.
But of one thing I warn, nor will I jape,
You shall in all ways learn our proper shape;
You shall hereafter come, my brother dear,
Where you'll not need to ask of me, as here.
For you shall, of your own experience,
In a red chair have much more evidence
Than Virgil ever did while yet alive,
Or ever Dante; now let's swiftly drive.
For I will hold with you my company
Till it shall come to pass you part from me."
"Nay," said the other, "that shall not betide;
"I am a bailiff, known both far and wide;
My promise will I keep in this one case.
For though you were the devil Sathanas,
My troth will I preserve to my dear brother,
As I have sworn, and each of us to other,
That we will be true brothers in this case;
And let us both about our business pace.
Take your own part, of what men will you give,
And I will mine; and thus may we both live.
And if that either of us gets more than other,
Let him be true and share it with his brother."
"Agreed, then," said the devil, "by my fay."
And with that word they rode upon their way.
As they drew near the town- it happened so-
To which this summoner had planned to go,
They saw a cart that loaded was with hay,
The which a carter drove along the way.
Deep was the mire; for which the cart now stood.
The carter whipped and cried as madman would,
"Hi, Badger, Scot! What care you for the stones?
The Fiend," he cried, "take body of you and bones,
As utterly as ever you were foaled!
More trouble you've caused me than can be told!
Devil take all, the horses, cart, and hay!"
This summoner thought, "Here shall be played a play."
And near the fiend he drew, as naught were there,
And unobserved he whispered in his ear:
"Listen, my brother, listen, by your faith;
Hear you not what the carter says in wrath?
Take all, at once, for he has given you
Both hay and cart, and this three horses too."
"Nay," said the devil, "God knows, never a bit.
It is not his intention, trust to it.
Ask him yourself, if you believe not me,
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Or else withhold a while, and you shall see."
This carter stroked his nags upon the croup,
And they began in collars low to stoop.
"Hi now!" cried he, "May Jesus Christ you bless
And all His creatures, greater, aye and less!
That was well pulled, old horse, my own grey boy!
I pray God save you, and good Saint Eloy!
Now is my cart out of the slough, by gad!"
"Lo, brother," said the fiend, "what said I, lad?
Here may you see, my very own dear brother,
The peasant said one thing, but thought another.
Let us go forth upon our travellers' way;
Here win I nothing I can take today."
When they had come a little out of town,
This summoner whispered, to his brother drawn,
"Brother," said he, "here lives an ancient crone
Who'd quite as gladly lose her neck as own
She must give up a penny, good or bad.
But I'll have twelvepence, though it drive her mad
Or I will summon her to our office;
And yet God knows I know of her no vice.
But since you cannot, in this strange country,
Make your expenses, here take note of me."
This summoner knocked on the widow's gate.
"Come out," cried he, "you old she-reprobate!
I think you've got some friar or priest there, eh?"
"Who knocks then?" said the widow. "Ben'cite!
God save you, master, what is your sweet will?"
"I have," said he, "a summons here, a bill;
On pain of excommunication be
Tomorrow morn at the archdeacon's knee
To answer to the court for certain things."
"Now, lord," said she, "Christ Jesus, King of kings,
So truly keep me as I cannot; nay,
I have been sick, and that for many a day.
I cannot walk so far," said she, "nor ride,
Save I were dead, such aches are in my side.
Will you not give a writ, sir summoner,
And let my proctor for me there appear
To meet this charge, whatever it may be?"
"Yes," said this summoner, "pay anon- let's see-
Twelvepence to me, and I'll have you acquitted.
Small profit there for me, be it admitted;
My master gets the profit, and not I.
Come then, and let me ride on, speedily;
Give me twelvepence, I may no longer tarry."
"Twelvepence!" cried she, "Our Lady Holy Mary
So truly keep me out of care and sin,
And though thereby I should the wide world win,
I have not twelvepence in my house all told.
You know right well that I am poor and old;
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Show mercy unto me, a poor old wretch!"
"Nay, then," said he, "the foul Fiend may me fetch
If I excuse you, though your life be spilt!"
"Alas!" cried she, "God knows I have no guilt!"
"Pay me," he cried, "or by the sweet Saint Anne
I'll take away with me your brand-new pan
For debt that you have owed to me of old,
When you did make your husband a cuckold;
I paid at home that fine to save citation."
"You lie," she cried then, "by my own salvation!
Never was I, till now, widow or wife,
Summoned unto your court in all my life;
Nor ever of my body was I untrue!
Unto the Devil rough and black of hue
Give I your body and my pan also!"
And when the devil heard her cursing so
Upon her knees, he said to her just here:
"Now, Mabely, my own old mother dear,
Is this your will, in earnest, that you say?"
"The Devil," said she, "take him alive today,
And pan and all, unless he will repent!"
"Nay, you old heifer, it's not my intent,"
The summoner said, "for pardon now to sue
Because of aught that I have had from you;
I would I had your smock and all your clo'es."
"Nay, brother," said the devil, "easy goes;
Your body and this pan are mine by right.
And you shall come to Hell with me tonight,
Where you shall learn more of our privity
Than any doctor of divinity."
And with that word this foul fiend to him bent;
Body and soul he with the devil went
Where summoners have their rightful heritage.
And God, Who made after His own image
Mankind, now save and guide us, all and some;
And grant that summoners good men become!
Masters, I could have told you, said this friar,
Were I not pestered by this summoner dire,
After the texts of Christ and Paul and John,
And of our other doctors, many a one,
Such torments that your hearts would shake with dread,
Albeit by no tongue can half be said,
Although I might a thousand winters tell,
Of pains in that same cursed house of Hell.
But all to keep us from that horrid place,
Watch, and pray Jesus for His holy grace,
And so reject the tempter Sathanas.
Hearken this word, be warned by this one case;
The lion lies in wait by night and day
To slay the innocent, if he but may.
Dispose your hearts in grace, that you withstand
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The Fiend, who'd make you thrall among his band.
He cannot tempt more than beyond your might;
For Christ will be your champion and knight.
And pray that all these summoners repent
Of their misdeeds, before the Fiend torment.
HERE ENDS THE FRIAR'S TALE
THE SUMMONER'S PROLOGUE
High in his stirrups, then, the summoner stood;
Against the friar his heart, as madman's would,
Shook like very aspen leaf, for ire.
"Masters," said he, "but one thing I desire;
I beg of you that, of your courtesy,
Since you have heard this treacherous friar lie,
You suffer it that I my tale may tell!
This friar he boasts he knows somewhat of Hell,
And God He knows that it is little wonder;
Friars and fiends are never far asunder.
For, by gad, you have oftentimes heard tell
How such a friar was snatched down into Hell
In spirit, once, and by a vision blown;
And as an angel led him up and down
To show the pains and torments that there were,
In all the place he saw no friar there.
Of other folk he saw enough in woe;
And to the angel then he questioned so:
"'Now, sir,' said he, 'have friars such a grace
That none of them shall come into this place?'
"'Nay,' said the angel, 'millions here are thrown!'
And unto Sathanas he led him down.
"'And now has Sathanas,' said he, 'a tail
Broader than of a galleon is the sail.
Hold up thy tail, thou Sathanas!' said he,
"'Show forth thine arse and let the friar see
Where is the nest of friars in this place!'
And ere one might go half a furlong's space,
Just as the bees come swarming from a hive,
Out of the Devil's arse-hole there did drive
Full twenty thousand friars in a rout,
And through all Hell they swarmed and ran about.
And came again, as fast as they could run,
And in his arse they crept back, every one.
He clapped his tail to and then lay right still.
This friar, when he'd looked at length his fill
Upon the torments of that sorry place,
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His spirit God restored, of His high grace,
Into his body, and he did awake;
Nevertheless for terror did he quake
So was the Devil's arse-hole in his mind,
Which is his future home, and like in kind.
God save all but this cursed friar here;
My prologue ends thus; to my tale give ear.
HERE ENDS THE PROLOGUE OF THE SUMMONER'S TALE
THE SUMMONER'S TALE
Masters, there is in Yorkshire, as I guess,
A marshy region that's called Holderness,
Wherein there went a limiter about
To preach, and to beg too, beyond a doubt.
And so befell that on a day this friar
Had preached in church in his own manner dire,
And specially, and above everything,
Incited he the people, by preaching,
To trentals, and to give, for God's own sake,
The means wherewith men might new churches make,
That there the services of God might flower,
And not to them who waste and wealth devour,
Nor where there's no necessity to give,
As to the monks, who easily may live-
Thanks be to God!- and need no wealth to gain.
"Trentals," said he, "deliver from their pain
The souls of friends who're dead, the old and young,
Yea, even when they have been hastily sung;
Not that I hold as frivolous and gay,
A priest who only sings one mass a day.
"Act quickly now," said he, "their souls redeem,
For hard it is, with spikes and hooks, I deem,
To be so torn, aye, or to burn or bake;
Now speed you all to this, for Christ's own sake!"
And when this friar had said all that he meant,
With cui cum patre on his way he went.
When folk in church had given at his behest,
He went his way, no longer would he rest,
With scrip and ferruled staff and skirts tucked high;
In every house he went to peer and pry,
And beg for flour and cheese, or else for corn.
His fellow had a staff was tipped with horn,
A set of tablets all of ivory,
And stylus that was polished elegantly,
And wrote the names down always as he stood,
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Of those that gave him anything of good,
As if for them he later meant to pray.
"Give us of wheat or malt or rye," he'd say,
"A bushel; or a God's cake; or some cheese;
We may not choose, so give us what you please;
Give us God's halfpenny or a mass-penny,
Or give us of your brawn, if you have any;
A small piece of your blanket, my dear dame,
Our sister dear, lo, here I write your name;
Bacon or beef, or such thing as you find."
A sturdy menial went these two behind-
The servant of their host- and bore a sack,
And what men gave them, laid it on his back.
And when they'd left the house, why, then anon
He planed away the names of folk, each one,
That he before had written on his tables;
And thus he served them mockeries and fables.
("Nay, there you lie, you summoner!" cried the friar.
"Peace, for Christ's Mother's sake, call no one liar!"
Our host said. "Tell your tale, nor spare at all."
"So thrive I," said this summoner, "that I shall.")
Along he went from house to house, till he
Came to a house where he was wont to be
Refreshed more than in hundred places round.
And sick the goodman of the place he found;
Bedridden on a couch he prostrate lay.
"Deus hic," said he. "Thomas, my friend, good day,"
Said he, this friar, courteously and soft.
"Thomas," said he, "may God repay you! Oft
Have I sat on this bench and fared right well.
Here have I eaten many a merry meal."
And from the bench he drove away the cat,
And laid down there his steel-tipped staff and hat
And his scrip, too, and sat him softly down.
His fellow had gone walking into town,
With the said menial, to a hostelry
Wherein he thought that very night to lie.
"O my dear master," whispered this sick man,
"How have you fared since this month March began?
"I've seen you not this fortnight, aye or more."
"God knows," said he, "that I have toiled full sore;
And very specially for your salvation
Have I said precious prayers, and at each station,
And for our other friends, whom may God bless!
I have today been to your church, at Mass,
And preached a sermon after my poor wit,
Not wholly from the text of holy writ,
For that is hard and baffling in the main;
And therefore all its meaning I'll explain.
Glosing's a glorious thing, and that's certain,
For letters kill, as scholars say with pain.
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Thus have I taught them to be charitable,
And spend their money reasonably, as well.
And there I saw your dame- ah, where is she?"
"Yonder within the yard I think she'll be,"
Said this sick man, "and she will come anon."
"Eh, master! Welcome be you, by Saint John!"
Exclaimed the wife. "How fare you, heartily?"
The friar arose, and that full courteously,
And her embraced within his two arms narrow,
And kissed her sweetly, chirping like a sparrow
With his two lips. "Ah, dame," said he, "right well
As one that is your servant, let me tell,
Thanks be to God Who gave you soul and life,
For saw I not this day so fair a wife
In all the congregation, God save me!"
"Yea, God correct all faults, sir," answered she,
"But you are always welcome, by my fay!"
"Many thanks, dame, this have I found alway.
But of your innate goodness, by your leave,
I'd beg of you, be cross or grieve
If I with Thomas speak a little now.
These curates are right negligent and slow
In searching tenderly into conscience.
To preach confession is my diligence,
And I do study Peter's words and Paul's.
I walk and fish for Christian persons' souls
To yield to Jesus Christ His increment;
To spread His gospel is my whole intent."
"Now, by your leave, O my dear sir," said she,
"Berate him well, for Holy Trinity.
He is as crabbed as an old pismire,
Though he has everything he can desire.
Though him I cover at night, and make him warm,
And lay my leg across him, or my arm,
He grunts and groans like our old boar in sty
And other sport- just none from him have I.
I cannot please him, no, in any case."
"O Thomas, je vous dis, Thomas, Thomas!
This is the Fiend's work, this must be amended,
Anger's a thing that makes High God offended,
And thereof will I speak a word or two."
"Now, master," said the wife, "before I go,
What will you eat? I will about it scoot."
"Now, dame," said he then, "je vous dis, sans doute,
Had I of a fat capon but the liver,
And of your soft white bread naught but a sliver,
And after that a pig's head well roasted
(Save that I would no beast for me were dead),
Then had I with you plain sufficiency.
I am a man of little gluttony.
My spirit has its nourishment in the Bible.
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