APDL Eductation Resources/APDL Eductation Resources.iso/text/books/cant_tales/PARDONER

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                     1380
               CANTERBURY TALES
     THE PROLOGUE TO THE PARDONER'S TALE
            by Geoffrey Chaucer
        Radix malorum est Cupiditas:
           Ad Thimotheum, sexto.

    "Masters," quoth he, "in churches, when I preach,
  I am at pains that all shall hear my speech,
  And ring it out as roundly as a bell,
  For I know all by heart the thing I tell.
  My theme is always one, and ever was:
  'Radix malorum est cupiditas.'
    "First I announce the place whence I have come,
  And then I show my pardons, all and some.
  Our liege-lord's seal on my patent perfect,
  I show that first, my safety to protect,
  And then no man's so bold, no priest nor clerk,
  As to disturb me in Christ's holy work;
  And after that my tales I marshal all.
  Indulgences of pope and cardinal,
  Of patriarch and bishop, these I do
  Show, and in Latin speak some words, a few,
  To spice therewith a bit my sermoning
  And stir men to devotion, marvelling.
  Then show I forth my hollow crystal-stones,
  Which are crammed full of rags, aye, and of bones;
  Relics are these, as they think, every one.
  Then I've in latten box a shoulder bone
  Which came out of a holy Hebrew's sheep.
  'Good men,' say I, 'my words in memory keep;
  If this bone shall be washed in any well,
  Then if a cow, calf, sheep, or ox should swell
  That's eaten snake, or been by serpent stung,
  Take water of that well and wash its tongue,
  And 'twill be well anon; and furthermore,
  Of pox and scab and every other sore
  Shall every sheep be healed that of this well
  Drinks but one draught; take heed of what I tell.
  And if the man that owns the beasts, I trow,
  Shall every week, and that before cock-crow,
  And before breakfast, drink thereof a draught,
  As that Jew taught of yore in his priestcraft,
  His beasts and all his store shall multiply.
  And, good sirs, it's a cure for jealousy;
  For though a man be fallen in jealous rage,
  Let one make of this water his pottage
  And nevermore shall he his wife mistrust,
  Though he may know the truth of all her lust,
  Even though she'd taken two priests, aye, or three.
    "'Here is a mitten, too, that you may see.
  Who puts his hand therein, I say again,
  He shall have increased harvest of his grain,
  After he's sown, be it of wheat or oats,
  Just so he offers pence or offers groats.
    "'Good men and women, one thing I warn you.
  If any man be here in church right now
  That's done a sin so horrible that he
  Dare not, for shame, of that sin shriven be,
  Or any woman, be she young or old,
  That's made her husband into a cuckold,
  Such folk shall have no power and no grace
  To offer to my relics in this place.
  But whoso finds himself without such blame,
  He will come up and offer, in God's name,
  And I'll absolve him by authority
  That has, by bull, been granted unto me.'
    "By this fraud have I won me, year by year,
  A hundred marks, since I've been pardoner.
  I stand up like a scholar in pulpit,
  And when the ignorant people all do sit,
  I preach, as you have heard me say before,
  And tell a hundred false japes, less or more.
  I am at pains, then, to stretch forth my neck,
  And east and west upon the folk I beck,
  As does a dove that's sitting on a barn.
  With hands and swift tongue, then, do I so yarn
  That it's a joy to see my busyness.
  Of avarice and of all such wickedness
  Is all my preaching, thus to make them free
  With offered pence, the which pence come to me.
  For my intent is only pence to win,
  And not at all for punishment of sin.
  When they are dead, for all I think thereon
  Their souls may well black-berrying have gone!
  For, certainly, there's many a sermon grows
  Ofttimes from evil purpose, as one knows;
  Some for folks' pleasure and for flattery,
  To be advanced by all hypocrisy,
  And some for vainglory, and some for hate.
  For, when I dare not otherwise debate,
  Then do I sharpen well my tongue and sting
  The man in sermons, and upon him fling
  My lying defamations, if but he
  Has wronged my brethren or- much worse- wronged me.
  For though I mention not his proper name,
  Men know whom I refer to, all the same,
  By signs I make and other circumstances.
  Thus I pay those who do us displeasances.
  Thus spit I out my venom under hue
  Of holiness, to seem both good and true.
    "But briefly my intention I'll express;
  I preach no sermon, save for covetousness.
  For at my theme is yet, and ever was,
  'Radix malorum est cupiditas.'
  Thus can I preach against that self-same vice
  Which I indulge, and that is avarice.
  But though myself be guilty of that sin,
  Yet can I cause these other folk to win
  From avarice and really to repent.
  But that is not my principal intent.
  I preach no sermon, save for covetousness;
  This should suffice of that, though, as I guess.
    "Then do I cite examples, many a one,
  Out of old stories and of time long gone,
  For vulgar people all love stories old;
  Such things they can re-tell well and can hold.
  What? Think you that because I'm good at preaching
  And win me gold and silver by my teaching
  I'll live of my free will in poverty?
  No, no, that's never been my policy!
  For I will preach and beg in sundry lands;
  I will not work and labour with my hands,
  Nor baskets weave and try to live thereby,
  Because I will not beg in vain, say I.
  I will none of the apostles counterfeit;
  I will have money, wool, and cheese, and wheat,
  Though it be given by the poorest page,
  Or by the poorest widow in village,
  And though her children perish of famine.
  Nay! I will drink good liquor of the vine
  And have a pretty wench in every town.
  But hearken, masters, to conclusion shown:
  Your wish is that I tell you all a tale.
  Now that I've drunk a draught of musty ale,
  By God, I hope that I can tell something
  That shall, in reason, be to your liking.
  For though I am myself a vicious man,
  Yet I would tell a moral tale, and can,
  The which I'm wont to preach more gold to win.
  Now hold your peace! my tale I will begin."


            HERE ENDS THE PROLOGUE


             THE PARDONER'S TALE
             by Geoffrey Chaucer

  In Flanders, once, there was a company
  Of young companions given to folly,
  Riot and gambling, brothels and taverns;
  And, to the music of harps, lutes, gitterns,
  They danced and played at dice both day and night.
  And ate also and drank beyond their might,
  Whereby they made the devil's sacrifice
  Within that devil's temple, wicked wise,
  By superfluity both vile and vain.
  So damnable their oaths and so profane
  That it was terrible to hear them swear;
  Our Blessed Saviour's Body did they tear;
  They thought the Jews had rent Him not enough;
  And each of them at others' sins would laugh.
  Then entered dancing-girls of ill repute,
  Graceful and slim, and girls who peddled fruit,
  Harpers and bawds and women selling cake,
  Who do their office for the Devil's sake,
  To kindle and blow the fire of lechery,
  Which is so closely joined with gluttony;
  I call on holy writ, now, to witness
  That lust is in all wine and drunkenness.
    Lo, how the drunken Lot unnaturally
  Lay with his daughters two, unwittingly;
  So drunk he was he knew not what he wrought.
    Herod, as in his story's clearly taught,
  When full of wine and merry at a feast,
  Sitting at table idly gave behest
  To slay John Baptist, who was all guiltless.
    Seneca says a good word too, doubtless;
  He says there is no difference he can find
  Between a man that's quite out of his mind
  And one that's drunken, save perhaps in this
  That when a wretch in madness fallen is,
  The state lasts longer than does drunkenness.
  O gluttony; full of all wickedness,
  O first cause of confusion to us all,
  Beginning of damnation and our fall,
  Till Christ redeemed us with His blood again!
  Behold how dearly, to be brief and plain,
  Was purchased this accursed villainy;
  Corrupt was all this world with gluttony!
    Adam our father, and his wife also,
  From Paradise to labour and to woe
  Were driven for that vice, no doubt; indeed
  The while that Adam fasted, as I read,
  He was in Paradise; but then when he
  Ate of the fruit forbidden of the tree,
  Anon he was cast out to woe and pain.
  O gluttony, of you we may complain!
  Oh, knew a man how many maladies
  Follow on excess and on gluttonies,
  Surely he would be then more moderate
  In diet, and at table more sedate.
  Alas! The throat so short, the tender mouth,
  Causing that east and west and north and south,
  In earth, in air, in water men shall swink
  To get a glutton dainty meat and drink!
  Of this same matter Paul does wisely treat:
  "Meat for the belly and belly for the meat:
  And both shall God destroy," as Paul does say.
  Alas! A foul thing is it, by my fay,
  To speak this word, and fouler is the deed,
  When man so guzzles of the white and red
  That of his own throat makes he his privy,
  Because of this cursed superfluity.
    The apostle, weeping, says most piteously:
  "For many walk, of whom I've told you, aye,
  Weeping I tell you once again they're dross,
  For they are foes of Christ and of the Cross,
  Whose end is death, whose belly is their god."
  O gut! O belly! O you stinking cod,
  Filled full of dung, with all corruption found!
  At either end of you foul is the sound.
  With how great cost and labour do they find
  Your food! These cooks, they pound and strain and grind;
  Substance to accident they turn with fire,
  All to fulfill your gluttonous desire!
  Out of the hard and riven bones knock they
  The marrow, for they throw nothing away
  That may go through the gullet soft and sweet;
  With spicery, with leaf, bark, root, replete
  Shall be the sauces made for your delight,
  To furnish you a sharper appetite.
  But truly, he that such delights entice
  Is dead while yet he wallows in this vice.
    A lecherous thing is wine, and drunkenness
  Is full of striving and of wretchedness.
  O drunken man, disfigured is your face,
  Sour is your breath, foul are you to embrace,
  And through your drunken nose there comes a sound
  As if you snored out "Samson, Samson" round;
  And yet God knows that Samson drank no wine.
  You fall down just as if you were stuck swine;
  Your tongue is loose, your honest care obscure;
  For drunkenness is very sepulture
  Of any mind a man may chance to own.
  In whom strong drink has domination shown
  He can no counsel keep for any dread.
  Now keep you from the white and from the red,
  And specially from the white wine grown at Lepe
  That is for sale in Fish Street or in Cheap.
  This wine of Spain, it mixes craftily
  With other wines that chance to be near by,
  From which there rise such fumes, as well may be,
  That when a man has drunk two draughts, or three,
  And thinks himself to be at home in Cheap,
  He finds that he's in Spain, and right at Lepe,-
  Not at Rochelle nor yet at Bordeaux town,
  And then will he snore out "Samson, Samson."
    But hearken, masters, one word more I pray:
  The greatest deeds of all, I'm bold to say,
  Of victories in the old testament,
  Through the True God, Who is omnipotent,
  Were gained by abstinence and after prayer:
  Look in the Bible, you may learn this there.
    Lo, Attila, the mighty conqueror,
  Died in his sleep, in shame and dishonour,
  And bleeding at the nose for drunkenness;
  A great captain should live in soberness.
  Above all this, advise yourself right well
  What was commanded unto Lemuel-
  Not Samuel, but Lemuel, say I-
  The Bible's words you cannot well deny:
  Drinking by magistrates is called a vice.
  No more of this, for it may well suffice.
    And now that I have told of gluttony,
  I'll take up gambling, showing you thereby
  The curse of chance, and all its evils treat;
  From it proceeds false swearing and deceit,
  Blaspheming, murder, and- what's more- the waste
  Of time and money; add to which, debased
  And shamed and lost to honour quite is he,
  Who once a common gambler's known to be.
  And ever the higher one is of estate,
  The more he's held disgraced and desolate.
  And if a prince plays similar hazardry
  In all his government and policy,
  He loses in the estimate of men
  His good repute, and finds it not again.
    Chilon, who was a wise ambassador,
  Was sent to Corinth, all in great honour,
  From Lacedaemon, to make alliance.
  And when he came, he noticed there, by chance,
  All of the greatest people of the land
  Playing at hazard there on every hand.
  Wherefore, and all as soon as it might be,
  He stole off home again to his country,
  And said: "I will not thus debase my name;
  Nor will I take upon me so great shame
  You to ally with common hazarders.
  Send, if you will, other ambassadors;
  For, my truth, I say I'd rather die
  Than you with gamblers like to them ally.
  For you that are so glorious in honours
  Shall never ally yourselves with hazarders
  By my consent, or treaty I have made."
  This wise philosopher, 'twas thus he said.
    Let us look, then, at King Demetrius.
  The king of Parthia, as the book tells us,
  Sent him a pair of golden dice, in scorn,
  Because the name of gambler he had borne;
  Wherefore he marked his reputation down
  As valueless despite his wide renown.
  Great lords may find sufficient other play
  Seemly enough to while the time away.
    Now will I speak of oaths both false and great
  A word or two, whereof the old books treat.
  Great swearing is a thing abominable,
  And vain oaths yet more reprehensible.
  The High God did forbid swearing at all,
  As witness Matthew; but in especial
  Of swearing says the holy Jeremiah,
  "Thou shalt not swear in vain, to be a liar,
  But swear in judgment and in righteousness";
  But idle swearing is a wickedness.
  Behold, in the first table of the Law,
  That should be honoured as High God's, sans flaw,
  This second one of His commandments plain:
  "Thou shalt not take the Lord God's name in vain."
  Nay, sooner He forbids us such swearing
  Than homicide or many a wicked thing;
  I say that, as to order, thus it stands;
  'Tis known by him who His will understands
  That the great second law of God is that.
  Moreover, I will tell you full and flat,
  That retribution will not quit his house
  Who in his swearing is too outrageous.
  "By God's own precious heart, and by His nails,
  And by the blood of Christ that's now at Hales,
  Seven is my chance, and yours is five and trey!"
  "By God's good arms, if you do falsely play,
  This dagger through your heart I'll stick for you!"
  Such is the whelping of the bitched bones two:
  Perjury, anger, cheating, homicide.
  Now for the love of Christ, Who for us died,
  Forgo this swearing oaths, both great and small;
  But, sirs, now will I tell to you my tale.
    Now these three roisterers, whereof I tell,
  Long before prime was rung by any bell,
  Were sitting in a tavern for to drink;
  And as they sat they heard a small bell clink
  Before a corpse being carried to his grave;
  Whereat one of them called unto his knave:
  "Go run," said he, "and ask them civilly
  What corpse it is that's just now passing by,
  And see that you report the man's name well."
    "Sir," said the boy, "it needs not that they tell.
  I learned it, ere you came here, full two hours;
  He was, by gad, an old comrade of yours;
  And he was slain, all suddenly, last night,
  When drunk, as he sat on his bench upright;
  An unseen thief, called Death, came stalking by,
  Who hereabouts makes all the people die,
  And with his spear he clove his heart in two
  And went his way and made no more ado.
  He's slain a thousand with this pestilence;
  And, master, ere you come in his presence,
  It seems to me to be right necessary
  To be forewarned of such an adversary:
  Be ready to meet him for evermore.
  My mother taught me this, I say no more."
    "By holy Mary," said the innkeeper,
  "The boy speaks truth, for Death has slain, this year,
  A mile or more hence, in a large village,
  Both man and woman, child and hind and page.
  I think his habitation must be there;
  To be advised of him great wisdom 'twere,
  Before he did a man some dishonour."
    "Yea, by God's arms!" exclaimed this roisterer,
  "Is it such peril, then, this Death to meet?
  I'll seek him in the road and in the street,
  As I now vow to God's own noble bones!
  Hear, comrades, we're of one mind, as each owns;
  Let each of us hold up his hand to other
  And each of us become the other's brother,
  And we three will go slay this traitor Death;
  He shall be slain who's stopped so many a breath,
  By God's great dignity, ere it be night."
    Together did these three their pledges plight
  To live and die, each of them for the other,
  As if he were his very own blood brother.
  And up they started, drunken, in this rage,
  And forth they went, and towards that village
  Whereof the innkeeper had told before.
  And so, with many a grisly oath, they swore
  And Jesus' blessed body once more rent-
  "Death shall be dead if we find where he went."
    When they had gone not fully half a mile,
  Just as they would have trodden over a stile,
  An old man, and a poor, with them did meet.
  This ancient man full meekly them did greet,
  And said thus: "Now, lords, God keep you and see!'
    The one that was most insolent of these three
  Replied to him: "What? Churl of evil grace,
  Why are you all wrapped up, except your face?
  Why do you live so long in so great age?"
    This ancient man looked upon his visage
  And thus replied: "Because I cannot find
  A man, nay, though I walked from here to Ind,
  Either in town or country who'll engage
  To give his youth in barter for my age;
  And therefore must I keep my old age still,
  As long a time as it shall be God's will.
  Not even Death, alas! my life will take;
  Thus restless I my wretched way must make,
  And on the ground, which is my mother's gate,
  I knock with my staff early, aye, and late,
  And cry: 'O my dear mother, let me in!
  Lo, how I'm wasted, flesh and blood and skin!
  Alas! When shall my bones come to their rest?
  Mother, with you fain would I change my chest,
  That in my chamber so long time has been,
  Aye! For a haircloth rag to wrap me in!'
  But yet to me she will not show that grace,
  And thus all pale and withered is my face.
    "But, sirs, in you it is no courtesy
  To speak to an old man despitefully,
  Unless in word he trespass or in deed.
  In holy writ you may, yourselves, well read
  'Before an old man, hoar upon the head,
  You should arise.' Which I advise you read,
  Nor to an old man any injury do
  More than you would that men should do to you
  In age, if you so long time shall abide;
  And God be with you, whether you walk or ride.
  I must pass on now where I have to go."
    "Nay, ancient churl, by God it sha'n't be so,"
  Cried out this other hazarder, anon;
  "You sha'n't depart so easily, by Saint John!
  You spoke just now of that same traitor Death,
  Who in this country stops our good friends' breath.
  Hear my true word, since you are his own spy,
  Tell where he is or you shall rue it, aye
  By God and by the holy Sacrament!
  Indeed you must be, with this Death, intent
  To slay all us young people, you false thief."
    "Now, sirs," said he, "if you're so keen, in brief,
  To find out Death, turn up this crooked way,
  For in that grove I left him, by my fay,
  Under a tree, and there he will abide;
  Nor for your boasts will he a moment hide.
  See you that oak? Right there you shall him find.
  God save you, Who redeemed all humankind,
  And mend your ways!"- thus said this ancient man.
    And every one of these three roisterers ran
  Till he came to that tree; and there they found,
  Of florins of fine gold, new-minted, round,
  Well-nigh eight bushels full, or so they thought.
  No longer, then, after this Death they sought,
  But each of them so glad was of that sight,
  Because the florins were so fair and bright,
  That down they all sat by this precious hoard.
  The worst of them was first to speak a word.
    "Brothers," said he, "take heed to what I say;
  My wits are keen, although I mock and play.
  This treasure here Fortune to us has given
  That mirth and jollity our lives may liven,
  And easily as it's come, so will we spend.
  Eh! By God's precious dignity! Who'd pretend,
  Today, that we should have so fair a grace?
  But might this gold be carried from this place
  Home to my house, or if you will, to yours-
  For well we know that all this gold is ours-
  Then were we all in high felicity.
  But certainly by day this may not be;
  For men would say that we were robbers strong,
  And we'd, for our own treasure, hang ere long.
  This treasure must be carried home by night
  All prudently and slyly, out of sight.
  So I propose that cuts among us all
  Be drawn, and let's see where the cut will fall;
  And he that gets the short cut, blithe of heart
  Shall run to town at once, and to the mart,
  And fetch us bread and wine here, privately.
  And two of us shall guard, right cunningly,
  This treasure well; and if he does not tarry,
  When it is night we'll all the treasure carry
  Where, by agreement, we may think it best."
    That one of them the cuts brought in his fist
  And bade them draw to see where it might fall;
  And it fell on the youngest of them all;
  And so, forth toward the town he went anon.
  And just as soon as he had turned and gone,
  That one of them spoke thus unto the other:
    "You know well that you are my own sworn brother,
  So to your profit I will speak anon.
  You know well how our comrade is just gone;
  And here is gold, and that in great plenty,
  That's to be parted here among us three.
  Nevertheless, if I can shape it so
  That it be parted only by us two,
  Shall I not do a turn that is friendly?"
    The other said: "Well, now, how can that be?
  He knows well that the gold is with us two.
  What shall we say to him? What shall we do?"
    "Shall it be secret?" asked the first rogue, then,
  "And I will tell you in eight words, or ten,
  What we must do, and how bring it about."
    "Agreed," replied the other, "Never doubt,
  That, on my word, I nothing will betray."
    "Now," said the first, "we're two, and I dare say
  The two of us are stronger than is one.
  Watch when he sits, and soon as that is done
  Arise and make as if with him to play;
  And I will thrust him through the two sides, yea,
  The while you romp with him as in a game,
  And with your dagger see you do the same;
  And then shall all this gold divided be,
  My right dear friend, just between you and me;
  Then may we both our every wish fulfill
  And play at dice all at our own sweet will."
  And thus agreed were these two rogues, that day,
  To slay the third, as you have heard me say.
    This youngest rogue who'd gone into the town,
  Often in fancy rolled he up and down
  The beauty of those florins new and bright.
  "O Lord," thought he, "if so be that I might
  Have all this treasure to myself alone,
  There is no man who lives beneath the throne
  Of God that should be then so merry as I."
    And at the last the Fiend, our enemy,
  Put in his thought that he should poison buy
  With which he might kill both his fellows; aye,
  The Devil found him in such wicked state,
  He had full leave his grief to consummate;
  For it was utterly the man's intent
  To kill them both and never to repent.
  And on he strode, no longer would he tarry,
  Into the town, to an apothecary,
  And prayed of him that he'd prepare and sell
  Some poison for his rats, and some as well
  For a polecat that in his yard had lain,
  The which, he said, his capons there had slain,
  And fain he was to rid him, if he might,
  Of vermin that thus damaged him by night.
    The apothecary said: "And you shall have
  A thing of which, so God my spirit save,
  In all this world there is no live creature
  That's eaten or has drunk of this mixture
  As much as equals but a grain of wheat,
  That shall not sudden death thereafter meet;
  Yea, die he shall, and in a shorter while
  Than you require to walk but one short mile;
  This poison is so violent and strong."
    This wicked man the poison took along
  With him boxed up, and then he straightway ran
  Into the street adjoining, to a man,
  And of him borrowed generous bottles three;
  And into two his poison then poured he;
  The third one he kept clean for his own drink.
  For all that night he was resolved to swink
  In carrying the florins from that place.
  And when this roisterer, with evil grace,
  Had filled with wine his mighty bottles three,
  Then to his comrades forth again went he.
    What is the need to tell about it more?
  For just as they had planned his death before,
  Just so they murdered him, and that anon.
  And when the thing was done, then spoke the one:
  "Now let us sit and drink and so be merry,
  And afterward we will his body bury."
    And as he spoke, one bottle of the three
  He took wherein the poison chanced to be
  And drank and gave his comrade drink also,
  For which, and that anon, lay dead these two.
    I feel quite sure that Doctor Avicena
  Within the sections of his Canon never
  Set down more certain signs of poisoning
  Than showed these wretches two at their ending.
  Thus ended these two homicides in woe;
  Died thus the treacherous poisoner also.
    O cursed sin, full of abominableness!
  O treacherous homicide! O wickedness!
  O gluttony, lechery, and hazardry!
  O blasphemer of Christ with villainy,
  And with great oaths, habitual for pride!
  Alas! Mankind, how may this thing betide
  That to thy dear Creator, Who thee wrought,
  And with His precious blood salvation bought,
  Thou art so false and so unkind, alas!
    Now, good men, God forgive you each trespass,
  And keep you from the sin of avarice.
  My holy pardon cures and will suffice,
  So that it brings me gold, or silver brings,
  Or else, I care not- brooches, spoons or rings.
  Bow down your heads before this holy bull!
  Come up, you wives, and offer of your wool!
  Your names I'll enter on my roll, anon,
  And into Heaven's bliss you'll go, each one.
  For I'll absolve you, by my special power,
  You that make offering, as clean this hour
  As you were born.
                    And lo, sirs, thus I preach.
  And Jesus Christ, who is our souls' great leech,
  So grant you each his pardon to receive;
  For that is best; I will not you deceive.
    But, sirs, one word forgot I in my tale;
  I've relics in my pouch that cannot fail,
  As good as England ever saw, I hope,
  The which I got by kindness of the pope.
  If gifts your change of heart and mind reveal,
  You'll get my absolution while you kneel.
  Come forth, and kneel down here before, anon,
  And humbly you'll receive my full pardon;
  Or else receive a pardon as you wend,
  All new and fresh as every mile shall end,
  So that you offer me each time, anew,
  More gold and silver, all good coins and true.
  It is an honour to each one that's here
  That you may have a competent pardoner
  To give you absolution as you ride,
  For all adventures that may still betide.
  Perchance from horse may fall down one or two,
  Breaking his neck, and it might well be you.
  See what insurance, then, it is for all
  That I within your fellowship did fall,
  Who may absolve you, both the great and less,
  When soul from body passes, as I guess.
  I think our host might just as well begin,
  For he is most-enveloped in all sin.
  Come forth, sir host, and offer first anon,
  And you shall kiss the relics, every one,
  Aye, for a groat! Unbuckle now your purse."
    "Nay, nay," said he, "then may I have Christ's curse!
  It sha'n't be," said he, "as I've hope for riches,
  Why, you would have me kissing your old breeches,
  And swear they were the relics of a saint,
  Though with your excrement 'twere dabbed like paint.
  By cross Saint Helen found in Holy Land,
  I would I had your ballocks in my hand
  Instead of relics in a reliquary;
  Let's cut them off, and them I'll help you carry;
  They shall be shrined within a hog's fat turd."
    This pardoner, he answered not a word;
  So wrathy was he no word would he say.
    "Now," said our host, "I will no longer play
  With you, nor any other angry man."
    But at this point the worthy knight began,
  When that he saw how all the folk did laugh:
  "No more of this, for it's gone far enough;
  Sir pardoner, be glad and merry here;
  And you, sir host, who are to me so dear,
  I pray you that you kiss the pardoner.
  And, pardoner, I pray you to draw near,
  And as we did before, let's laugh and play."
  And then they kissed and rode forth on their way.


         HERE IS ENDED THE PARDONER'S TALE