The Canterbury Tales

Fragment VII

Sir Thopas' Tale

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Heere bigynneth Chaucers

Tale of Thopas.

The first Fit.

Listeth, lordes, in good entent,

And I wol telle verrayment

Of myrthe and of solas;

715

Al of a knyght was fair and gent

In bataille and in tourneyment,

His name was sire thopas.

Yborn he was in fer contree,

In flaundres, al biyonde the see,

720

At poperyng, in the place.

His fader was a man ful free,

And lord he was of that contree,

As it was goddes grace.

Sire thopas wax a doghty swayn;

725

Whit was his face as payndemayn,

His lippes rede as rose;

His rode is lyk scarlet in grayn,

And I yow telle in good certayn,

He hadde a semely nose.

730

His heer, his berd was lyk saffroun,

That to his girdel raughte adoun;

His shoon of cordewane.

Of brugges were his hosen broun,

His robe was of syklatoun,

735

That coste many a jane.

He koude hunte at wilde deer,

And ride an haukyng for river

With grey goshauk on honde;

Therto he was a good archeer;

740

Of wrastlyng was ther noon his peer,

Ther any ram shal stonde. Page 165

Ful many a mayde, bright in bour,

They moorne for hym paramour,

Whan hem were bet to slepe;

745

But he was chaast and no lechour,

And sweete as is the brembul flour

That bereth the rede hepe.

And so bifel upon a day,

For sothe, as I yow telle may,

750

Sire thopas wolde out ride.

He worth upon his steede gray,

And in his hand a launcegay,

A long swerd by his side.

He priketh thurgh a fair forest,

755

Therinne is many a wilde best,

Ye, bothe bukke and hare;

And as he priketh north and est,

I telle it yow, hym hadde almest

Bitid a sory care.

760

Ther spryngen herbes grete and smale,

The lycorys and the cetewale,

And many a clowe-gylofre;

And notemuge to putte in ale,

Wheither it be moyste or stale,

765

Or for to leye in cofre.

The briddes synge, it is no nay,

The sparhauk and the papejay,

That joye it was to heere;

The thrustelock made eek his lay,

770

The wodedowve upon the spray

She sang ful loude and cleere.

Sire thopas fil in love-longynge,

Al whan he herde the thrustel synge,

And pryked as he were wood.

775

His faire steede in his prikynge

So swatte that men myghte him wrynge;

His sydes were al blood.

Sire thopas eek so wery was

For prikyng on the softe gras,

780

So fiers was his corage,

That doun he leyde him in that plas

To make his steede som solas,

And yaf hym good forage.

O seinte marie, benedicite!

785

What eyleth this love at me

To bynde me so soore?

Me dremed al this nyght, pardee,

An elf-queene shal my lemman be

And slepe under my goore.

790

An elf-queene wol I love, ywis,

For in this world no womman is

Worthy to be my make

In towne;

Alle othere wommen I forsake,

795

And to an elf-queene I me take

By dale and eek by downe!

Into his sadel he clamb anon,

And priketh over stile and stoon

An elf-queene for t' espye,

800

Til he so longe hath riden and goon

That he foond, in a pryve woon,

The contree of fairye

So wilde;

For in that contree was ther noon

805

That to him durste ride or goon,

Neither wyf ne childe;

Til that ther cam a greet geaunt,

His name was sire olifaunt,

A perilus man of dede.

810

He seyde, child, by termagaunt!

But if thou prike out of myn haunt,

Anon I sle thy steede

With mace.

Heere is the queene of fayerye,

815

With harpe and pipe and symphonye,

Dwellynge in this place.

The child seyde, also moote I thee,

Tomorwe wol I meete with thee,

Whan I have myn armoure;

820

And yet I hope, par ma fay,

That thou shalt with this launcegay

Abyen it ful sowre.

Thy mawe

Shal I percen, if I may,

825

Er it be fully pryme of day,

For heere thow shalt be slawe.

Sire thopas drow abak ful faste;

This geant at hym stones caste

Out of a fel staf-slynge.

830

But faire escapeth child thopas,

And al it was thurgh goddes gras,

And thurgh his fair berynge.

The second Fit.

Yet listeth, lordes, to my tale

Murier than the nightyngale,

835

For now I wol yow rowne

How sir thopas, with sydes smale,

Prikyng over hill and dale,

Is comen agayn to towne. Page 166

His myrie men comanded he

840

To make hym bothe game and glee,

For nedes moste he fighte

With a geaunt with hevedes three,

For paramour and jolitee

Of oon that shoon ful brighte.

845

Do come, he seyde, my mynstrale,

And geestours for to tellen tales,

Anon in myn armynge,

Of romances that been roiales,

Of popes and of cardinales,

850

And eek of love-likynge.

They fette hym first the sweet wyn,

And mede eek in a mazelyn,

And roial spicerye

Of gyngebreed that was ful fyn,

855

And lycorys, and eek comyn,

With sugre that is trye.

He dide next his white leere,

Of cloth of lake fyn and cleere,

A breech and eek a sherte;

860

And next his sherte an aketoun,

And over that an haubergeoun

For percynge of his herte;

And over that a fyn hawberk,

Was al ywroght of jewes werk,

865

Ful strong it was of plate;

And over that his cote-armour

As whit as is a lilye flour,

In which he wol debate.

His sheeld was al of gold so reed,

870

And therinne was a bores heed,

A charbocle bisyde;

And there he swoor on ale and breed

How that the geaunt shal be deed,

Bityde what bityde!

875

His jambeux were of quyrboilly,

His swerdes shethe of ivory,

His helm of latoun bright;

His sadel was of rewel boon,

His brydel as the sonne shoon,

880

Or as the moone light.

His spere was of fyn ciprees,

That bodeth werre, and nothyng pees,

The heed ful sharpe ygrounde;

His steede was al dappull gray,

885

It gooth an ambil in the way

Ful softely and rounde

In londe.

Loo, lordes myne, heere is a fit!

If ye wol any moore of it,

890

To telle it wol I fonde.

The third Fit.

Now holde youre mouth, par charitee,

Bothe knyght and lady free,

And herkneth to my spelle;

Of bataille and of chivalry,

895

And of ladyes love-drury

Anon I wol yow telle.

Men speken of romances of prys,

Of horn child and of ypotys,

Of beves and sir gy,

900

Of sir lybeux and pleyndamour, –

But sir thopas, he bereth the flour

Of roial chivalry!

His goode steede al he bistrood,

And forth upon his wey he glood

905

As sparcle out of the bronde;

Upon his creest he bar a tour,

And therinne stiked a lilie flour, –

God shilde his cors for shonde!

And for he was a knyght auntrous,

910

He nolde slepen in noon hous,

But liggen in his hoode;

His brighte helm was his wonger,

And by hym baiteth his dextrer

Of herbes fyne and goode.

915

Hymself drank water of the well,

As dide the knyght sire percyvell

So worthy under wede,

Til on a day –