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nydus/The Canterbury TalesPublic

A group of pilgrims trade tales as they travel through medieval England.

Page 278 of 465
Table of Contents

The Tale

He took his leave, and she astonish’d stood; In all her face was not one drop of blood: She never ween’d t’ have come in such a trap. “Alas!” quoth she, “that ever this should hap! For ween’d I ne’er, by possibility, That such a monster or marváil might be; It is against the process of natúre.” And home she went a sorrowful creatúre; For very fear unnethës may she go. She weeped, wailed, all a day or two, And swooned, that it ruthë was to see: But why it was, to no wight toldë she, For out of town was gone Arviragus. But to herself she spake, and saidë thus, With facë pale, and full sorrowful cheer, In her complaint, as ye shall after hear.

“Alas!” quoth she, “on thee, Fortúne, I plain, That unware hast me wrapped in thy chain, From which to scapë, wot I no succoúr, Save only death, or ellës dishonoúr; One of these two behoveth me to choose. But natheless, yet had I lever lose My life, than of my body havë shame, Or know myselfë false, or lose my name; And with my death I may be quit y-wis. Hath there not many a noble wife, ere this, And many a maiden, slain herself, alas! Rather than with her body do trespass? Yes, certes; lo, these stories bear witnéss. When thirty tyrants full of cursedness Had slain Phidon in Athens at the feast, They cómmanded his daughters to arrest, And bringë them before them, in despite, All naked, to fulfil 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 would lose their maidenhead, They privily be start into a well, And drowned themselves, as the bookës tell. They of Messenë let inquire and seek Of Lacedaemon fifty maidens eke, On which they wouldë do their lechery: But there was none of all that company That was not slain, and with a glad intent Chose rather for to die, than to assent To be oppressed of her maidenhead. Why should I then to dien be in dread? Lo, eke the tyrant Aristoclides, That lov’d a maiden hight Stimphalides, When that her father slain was on a night,

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