The years collected nor the separate years,
Nor his known roots, nor any other gears,
As, say, his centres and his argument,
And his proportionals convenient
In estimating truly his equations.
The eighth sphere showed him in his calculations
How far removed was Alnath, passing by,
From head of that fixed Aries on high,
That in the ninth great sphere considered is;
Right cleverly he calculated this.
When he the moon's first mansion thus had found,
The rest proportionally he could expound;
And knew the moon's arising-time right well,
And in what face and term, and all could tell;
This gave him then the mansion of the moon-
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He worked it out accordingly right soon,
And did the other necessary rites
To cause illusions and such evil sights
As heathen peoples practised in those days.
Therefore no longer suffered he delays,
But all the rocks by magic and his lore
Appeared to vanish for a week or more.
Aurelius, who yet was torn by this,
Whether he'd gain his love or fare amiss,
Awaited night and day this miracle;
And when he knew there was no obstacle,
That vanished were these black rocks, every one,
Down at the master's feet he fell anon
And said: "I, woeful wretch, Aurelius,
Thank you, my lord, and Lady mine Venus,
That have so saved me from my dreadful care."
And to the temple straightway did he fare,
Whereat he knew he should his lady see.
And when he saw his opportunity,
With fluttering heart and with an humble cheer
He greeted thus his sovereign lady dear.
"My own dear lady," said this woeful man,
"Whom I most fear and love best, as I can,
And whom, of all this world, I'd not displease,
Were it not that for you I've such unease
That I must die here at your feet anon,
I would not tell how I am woebegone;
But I must either die or else complain;
You slay me, for no crime, with utter pain.
But on my death, although you have no ruth,
Take heed now, ere you break your promised troth
Repent you, for die sake of God above,
Ere me you slay, because it's you I love.
For well you know your promise apposite;
Not that I challenge aught, of my own right,
In you, my sovereign lady, save your grace;
But in a garden, in a certain place,
You know right well what you did promise me;
And in my hand you plighted troth," said he,
"To love me best, God knows you promised so,
Howe'er I may unworthy be thereto.
Madam, I say it for your honour's vow
More than to save my heart's dear life right now;
I have done all that you commanded me;
And if you will, you may well go and see.
Do as you please, but hold your word in mind,
For quick or dead, as you do, me you'll find;
In you lies all, to make me live or die,
But well I know the rocks are vanished, aye!"
He took his leave, and she astounded stood,
In all her face there was no drop of blood;
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She never thought to have come in such a trap.
"Alas!" said she, "that ever this should hap!
For thought I never, by possibility,
That such prodigious marvel e'er might be!
It is against the way of all nature."
And home she went, a sorrowful creature.
For utter terror hardly could she go,
She wept, she wailed throughout a day or so,
And swooned so much 'twas pitiful, to see;
But why this was to not a soul told she;
For out of town was gone Arviragus.
But to her own heart spoke she, and said thus,
With her face pale and with a heavy cheer,
All her complaint, as you'll hereafter hear:
"Of thee," she cried, "O Fortune, I complain,
That, unaware, I'm bound within thy chain;
From which to go, I know of no succour
Save only death, or else my dishonour;
One of these two I am compelled to choose.
Nevertheless, I would far rather lose
My life than of my body come to shame,
Or know myself untrue, or lose my name;
By death I know it well, I may be freed;
Has there not many a noble wife, indeed,
And many a maiden slain herself- alas!-
Rather than with her body do trespass?
"Yes, truly, lo, these stories bear witness;
When Thirty Tyrants, full of wickedness,
Had Phido slain in Athens, at a feast,
They gave command his daughters to arrest,
And had them brought before them, for despite,
All naked, to fulfill their foul delight,
And in their father's blood they made them dance
Upon the pavement- God give them mischance!
For which these woeful maidens, full of dread,
Rather than they should lose their maidenhead,
Unseen they all leaped down into a well
And drowned themselves therein, as old books tell.
"They of Messina did require and seek
From Lacedaemon fifty maids to take,
On whom they would have done their lechery;
But there was none of all that company
Who was not slain, and who with good intent
Preferred not death rather than give consent
To be thus ravished of her maidenhead.
Why should I then hold dying in such dread?
"Lo, too, the tyrant Aristoclides,
Who loved a maiden called Stimphalides.
Whenas her father had been slain by night,
Unto Diana's temple she took flight
And grasped the image in her two hands so
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That from this image would she not let go.
No one could tear her hands from that embrace
Till she was slaughtered in that self-same place.
Now since these maidens showed such scorn outright
Of being defiled to make man's foul delight,
Well ought a wife rather herself to slay
Than be defiled, I think, and so I say.
"What shall I say of Hasdrubal's fair wife,
Who in Carthage bereft herself of life?
For when she saw that Romans won the town,
She took her children all and leaped right down
Into the fire, choosing thus to die
Before a Roman did her villainy.
"Did not Lucretia slay herself- alas!-
At Rome, when she so violated was
By Tarquin? For she thought it was a shame
Merely to live when she had lost her name.
"The seven maidens of Miletus, too,
Did slay themselves, for very dread and woe,
Rather than men of Gaul should on them press.
More than a thousand stories, as I guess,
Could I repeat now of this matter here.
"With Abradates slain, his wife so dear
Herself slew, and she let her red blood glide
In Abradates' wounds so deep and wide,
And said: 'My body, at the least, I say,
No man shall now defile,' and passed away.
"Why should I of more instances, be fain?
Since that so many have their bodies slain
Rather than that they should dishonoured be?
I will conclude it better is for me
To slay myself than be dishonoured thus.
I will be true unto Arviragus,
Or else I'll slay myself in some manner,
As did Demotion's virgin daughter dear
Because she would not violated be.
"O Cedasus, it rouses great pity
To read of how your daughters died, alas!
That slew themselves in such another case.
"As great a pity was it, aye and more,
That a fair Theban maid, for Nicanor,
Did slay herself in such a kind of woe.
"Another Theban maiden did also;
For one of Macedonia her had pressed,
And she, by death, her maidenhead redressed.
"What shall I say of Nicerates' wife,
Who, for like cause, bereft herself of life?
"How true, too, was to Alcibiades
His love, who chose to drain death to the lees
And would not let his corpse unburied be!
Lo, what a wife was Alcestis," said she.
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"What says Homer of good Penelope?
The whole of Hellas knew her chastity.
"Pardieu, of Laodamia they wrote thus,
That when at Troy was slain Protesilaus,
No longer would she live after his day.
"The same of noble Portia may I say;
Without her Brutus could she no wise live,
To whom in youth her whole heart she did give.
"The perfect wifehood of Artemisia
Was honoured throughout all old Caria.
"O Teuta, queen! Your wifely chastity,
To all wives may a very mirror be.
The same thing may I say of Bilia,
Of Rhodogune and of Valeria."
Thus Dorigen went on a day or so,
Purposing ever that to death she'd go.
But notwithstanding, upon the third night
Home came Arviragus, this worthy knight,
And asked her why it was she wept so sore.
And thereat she began to weep the more.
"Alas!" cried she, "that ever I was born!
Thus have I said," quoth she, "thus have I sworn"-
And told him all, as you have heard before;
It needs not to re-tell it to you more.
This husband, with glad cheer, in friendly wise,
Answered and said as I shall you apprise:
"Is there naught else, my Dorigen, than this?"
"Nay, nay," said she, "God help me, as it is
This is too much, though it were God's own will."
"Yea, wife," said he, "let sleep what's lying still;
It may be well with us, perchance, today.
But you your word shall hold to, by my fay!
As God may truly mercy have on me,
Wounded to death right now I'd rather be,
For sake of this great love of you I have,
Than you should not your true word keep and save.
Truth is the highest thing that man may keep."
But with that word began he then to weep,
And said: "I you forbid, on pain of death,
That ever, while to you last life and breath,
To anyone you tell this adventure.
As I best may, I will my woe endure,
Nor show a countenance of heaviness,
That folk no harm may think of you, or guess."
And then he called a squire and a maid:
"Go forth anon with Dorigen," he said,
"And bring her to a certain place anon."
They took their leave and on their way were gone.
But nothing knew of why she thither went
Nor would he to a soul tell his intent.
Perhaps a lot of you will certainly
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Hold him a wicked man that wilfully
Put his wife's honour thus in jeopardy;
Hearken the tale, ere you upon her cry.
She may have better luck than you suppose;
And when you've heard all, let your judgment close.
This squire I've told you of, Aurelius,
Of Dorigen he being so amorous,
Chanced, as it seems, his lady fair to meet
In middle town, right in the busiest street,
As she was going forth, as you have heard,
Toward the garden where she'd pledged her word.
And he was going gardenward also;
For he was always watching when she'd go
Out of her house to any kind of place.
But thus they met, by chance perhaps or grace;
And he saluted her with good intent,
And asked her, now, whither it was she went.
And she replied, as if she were half mad:
"Unto the garden, as my husband bade,
My promise there to keep, alas, alast"
Aurelius then pondered on this case,
And in his heart he had compassion great
On her and her lamenting and her state,
And on Arviragus, the noble knight,
Who'd bidden her keep promise, as she might,
Being so loath his wife should break with truth;
And in his heart he gained, from this, great ruth,
Considering the best on every side,
That from possession rather he'd abide
Than do so great a churlish grievousness
Against free hearts and all high nobleness;
For which, and in few words, he told her thus:
"Madam, say to your lord Arviragus
That since I see his noble gentleness
To you, and since I see well your distress,
That he'd have rather shame (and that were ruth)
Than you to me should break your word of truth,
I would myself far rather suffer woe
Than break apart the love between you two.
So I release, madam, into your hand,
And do return, discharged, each surety and
Each bond that you have given and have sworn,
Even from the very time that you were born.
My word I pledge, I'll ne'er seek to retrieve
A single promise, and I take my leave
As of the truest and of the best wife
That ever yet I've known in all my life.
Let every wife of promises take care,
Remember Dorigen, and so beware!
Thus can a squire perform a gentle deed
As well as can a knight, of that take heed."
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Upon her bare knees did she thank him there,
And home unto her husband did she fare,
And told him all, as you have heard it said;
And be assured, he was so pleased and glad
That 'twere impossible of it to write.
What should I further of this case indite?
Arviragus and Dorigen his wife
In sovereign happiness led forth their life.
Never did any anger come between;
He cherished her as if she were a queen;
And she to him was true for evermore.
Of these two folk you get from me no more.
Aurelius, whose wealth was now forlorn,
He cursed the time that ever he was born;
"Alas!" cried he, "Alas! that I did state
I'd pay fine gold a thousand pounds by weight
To this philosopher! What shall I do?
I see no better than I'm ruined too.
All of my heritage I needs must sell
And be a beggar; here I cannot dwell
And shame all of my kindred in this place,
Unless I gain of him some better grace.
And so I'll go to him and try, today,
On certain dates, from year to year, to pay,
And thank him for his princely courtesy;
For I will keep my word, and I'll not lie."
With sore heart he went then to his coffer,
And took gold unto this philosopher,
The value of five hundred pounds, I guess,
And so besought him, of his nobleness,
To grant him dates for payment of the rest,
And said: "Dear master, I may well protest
I've never failed to keep my word, as yet;
For certainly I'll pay my entire debt
To you, however after I may fare,
Even to begging, save for kirtle, bare.
But if you'd grant, on good security,
Two years or three of respite unto me,
Then all were well; otherwise must I sell
My heritage; there is no more to tell."
Then this philosopher soberly answered
And spoke in. this wise, when these words he'd heard:
"Have I not fairly earned my promised fee?"
"Yes, truly, you have done so, sir," said he.
"Have you not bad the lady at your will?"
"No, no," said he, and sighed, and then was still.
"What was the reason? Tell me if you can."
Aurelius his tale anon began,
And told him all, as you have heard before;
It needs not I repeat it to you more.
He said: "Arviragus, of nobleness,
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Had rather die in sorrow and distress
Than that his wife were to her promise false."
He told of Dorigen's grief, too, and how else
She had been loath to live a wicked wife
And rather would that day have lost her life,
And that her troth she swore through ignorance:
"She'd ne'er before heard of such simulance;
Which made me have for her such great pity.
And just as freely as he sent her me,
As freely sent I her to him again.
This is the sum, there's no more to explain."
Then answered this philosopher: "Dear brother,
Each one of you has nobly dealt with other.
You are a squire, true, and he is a knight,
But God forbid, what of His blessed might,
A clerk should never do a gentle deed
As well as any of you. Of this take heed!
"Sir, I release to you your thousand pound,
As if, right now, you'd crept out of the ground
And never, before now, had known of me.
For, sir, I'll take of you not one penny
For all my art and all my long travail.
You have paid well for all my meat and ale;
It is enough, so farewell, have good day!"
And took his horse and went forth on his way.
Masters, this question would I ask you now:
Which was most generous, do you think, and how.
Pray tell me this before you farther wend.
I can no more, my tale is at an end.
HERE IS ENDED THE FRANKLIN'S TALE
