The Canterbury Tales

 The General Prologue

(In a Modern English translation on the left beside the Middle English version on the right.)

When April with his showers sweet with fruit

The drought of March has pierced unto the root

And bathed each vein with liquor that has power

To generate therein and sire the flower;

When Zephyr also has, with his sweet breath,

Quickened again, in every holt and heath,

The tender shoots and buds, and the young sun

Into the Ram one half his course has run,

And many little birds make melody

That sleep through all the night with open eye

(So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage)-

Then do folk long to go on pilgrimage,

And palmers to go seeking out strange strands,

To distant shrines well known in sundry lands.

And specially from every shire's end

Of England they to Canterbury wend,

The holy blessed martyr there to seek

Who helped them when they lay so ill and weak.


Befell that, in that season, on a day

In Southwark, at the Tabard, as I lay

Ready to start upon my pilgrimage

To Canterbury, full of devout homage,

There came at nightfall to that hostelry

Some nine and twenty in a company

Of sundry persons who had chanced to fall

In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all

That toward Canterbury town would ride.

The rooms and stables spacious were and wide,

And well we there were eased, and of the best.

And briefly, when the sun had gone to rest,

So had I spoken with them, every one,

That I was of their fellowship anon,

And made agreement that we'd early rise

To take the road, as you I will apprise.


But none the less, whilst I have time and space,

Before yet farther in this tale I pace,

It seems to me accordant with reason

To inform you of the state of every one

Of all of these, as it appeared to me,

And who they were, and what was their degree,

And even how arrayed there at the inn;

And with a knight thus will I first begin.


A knight there was, and he a worthy man,

Who, from the moment that he first began

To ride about the world, loved chivalry,

Truth, honour, freedom and all courtesy.

Full worthy was he in his liege-lord's war,

And therein had he ridden (none more far)

As well in Christendom as heathenesse,

And honoured everywhere for worthiness.

At Alexandria, he, when it was won;

Full oft the table's roster he'd begun

Above all nations' knights in Prussia.

In Latvia raided he, and Russia,

No christened man so oft of his degree.

In far Granada at the siege was he

Of Algeciras, and in Belmarie.

At Ayas was he and at Satalye

When they were won; and on the Middle Sea

At many a noble meeting chanced to be.

Of mortal battles he had fought fifteen,

And he'd fought for our faith at Tramissene

Three times in lists, and each time slain his foe.

This self-same worthy knight had been also

At one time with the lord of Palatye

Against another heathen in Turkey:

And always won he sovereign fame for prize.

Though so illustrious, he was very wise

And bore himself as meekly as a maid.

He never yet had any vileness said,

In all his life, to whatsoever wight.

He was a truly perfect, gentle knight.

But now, to tell you all of his array,

His steeds were good, but yet he was not gay.

Of simple fustian wore he a jupon

Sadly discoloured by his habergeon;

For he had lately come from his voyage

And now was going on this pilgrimage.


With him there was his son, a youthful squire,

A lover and a lusty bachelor,

With locks well curled, as if they'd laid in press.

Some twenty years of age he was, I guess.

In stature he was of an average length,

Wondrously active, aye, and great of strength.

He'd ridden sometime with the cavalry

In Flanders, in Artois, and Picardy,

And borne him well within that little space

In hope to win thereby his lady's grace.

Prinked out he was, as if he were a mead,

All full of fresh-cut flowers white and red.

Singing he was, or fluting, all the day;

He was as fresh as is the month of May.

Short was his gown, with sleeves long and wide.

Well could be sit on horse, and fairly ride.

He could make songs and words thereto indite,

Joust, and dance too, as well as sketch and write.

So hot he loved that, while night told her tale,

He slept no more than does a nightingale.

Courteous he, and humble, willing and able,

And carved before his father at the table.


A yeoman had he, nor more servants, no,

At that time, for he chose to travel so;

And he was clad in coat and hood of green.

A sheaf of peacock arrows bright and keen

Under his belt he bore right carefully

(Well could he keep his tackle yeomanly:

His arrows had no draggled feathers low),

And in his hand he bore a mighty bow.

A cropped head had he and a sun-browned face.

Of woodcraft knew he all the useful ways.

Upon his arm he bore a bracer gay,

And at one side a sword and buckler, yea,

And at the other side a dagger bright,

Well sheathed and sharp as spear point in the light;

On breast a Christopher of silver sheen.

He bore a horn in baldric all of green;

A forester he truly was, I guess.




























































































































Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote

The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,

And bathed every veyne in swich licour

Of which vertu engendred is the flour,

Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne

Hath in the Ram his halve cours yronne,

And smale foweles maken melodye,

That slepen al the nyght with open ye

(so priketh hem Nature in hir corages),

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,

And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,

To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;

And specially from every shires ende

Of Engelond to Caunterbury they wende,

The hooly blisful martir for to seke,

That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.


Bifil that in that seson on a day,

In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay

Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage

To Caunterbury with ful devout corage,

At nyght was come into that hostelrye

Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye,

Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle

In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle,

That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde.

The chambres and the stables weren wyde,

And wel we weren esed atte beste.

And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste,

So hadde I spoken with hem everichon

That I was of hir felaweshipe anon,

And made forward erly for to ryse,

To take oure wey ther as I yow devyse.


But nathelees, whil I have tyme and space,

Er that I ferther in this tale pace,

Me thynketh it acordaunt to resoun

To telle yow al the condicioun

Of ech of hem, so as it semed me,

And whiche they weren, and of what degree,

And eek in what array that they were inne;

And at a knyght than wol I first bigynne.


A knyght ther was, and that a worthy man,

That fro the tyme that he first bigan

To riden out, he loved chivalrie,

Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie.

Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre,

And therto hadde he riden, no man ferre,

As wel in cristendom as in hethenesse,

And evere honoured for his worthynesse.

At Alisaundre he was whan it was wonne.

Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonne

Aboven alle nacions in Pruce;

In Lettow hadde he reysed and in Ruce,

No cristen man so ofte of his degree.

In Gernade at the seege eek hadde he be

Of Algezir, and riden in Belmarye.

At Lyeys was he and at Satalye,

Whan they were wonne; and in the Grete See

At many a noble armee hadde he be.

At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene,

And foughten for oure feith at Tramyssene

In lystes thries, and ay slayn his foo.

This ilke worthy knyght hadde been also

Somtyme with the lord of Palatye

Agayn another hethen in Turkye.

And everemoore he hadde a sovereyn prys;

And though that he were worthy, he was wys,

And of his port as meeke as is a mayde.

He nevere yet no vileynye ne sayde

In al his lyf unto no maner wight.

He was a verray, parfit gentil knyght.

But, for to tellen yow of his array,

His hors were goode, but he was nat gay.

Of fustian he wered a gypon

Al bismotered with his habergeon,

For he was late ycome from his viage,

And wente for to doon his pilgrymage.


With hym ther was his sone, a yong squier,

A lovyere and a lusty bacheler,

With lokkes crulle as they were leyd in presse.

Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse.

Of his stature he was of evene lengthe,

And wonderly delyvere, and of greet strengthe.

And he hadde been somtyme in chyvachie

In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Pycardie,

And born hym weel, as of so litel space,

In hope to stonden in his lady grace.

Embrouded was he, as it were a meede

Al ful of fresshe floures, whyte and reede.

Syngynge he was, or floytynge, al the day;

He was as fressh as is the month of May.

Short was his gowne, with sleves longe and wyde.

Wel koude he sitte on hors and faire ryde.

He koude songes make and wel endite,

Juste and eek daunce, and weel purtreye and write.

So hoote he lovede that by nyghtertale.

He sleep namoore than dooth a nyghtyngale.

Curteis he was, lowely, and servysable,

And carf biforn his fader at the table.


A yeman hadde he and servantz namo

At that tyme, for hym liste ride so,

And he was clad in cote and hood of grene.

A sheef of pecok arwes, bright and kene,

Under his belt he bar ful thriftily,

(wel koude he dresse his takel yemanly:

His arwes drouped noght with fetheres lowe)

And in his hand he baar a myghty bowe.

A not heed hadde he, with a broun visage.

Of wodecraft wel koude he al the usage.

Upon his arm he baar a gay bracer,

And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler,

And on that oother syde a gay daggere

Harneised wel and sharp as point of spere;

A Cristopher on his brest of silver sheene.

An horn he bar, the bawdryk was of grene;

A forster was he, soothly, as I gesse.


Lines 118-207