The Works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 12. John Dryden

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      The Works of John Dryden, Now First Collected in Eighteen Volumes; Vol. 12 (of 18)

      APPENDIX TO THE FABLES

      This Appendix contains the Original Tales of Chaucer, which Dryden has modernized. The Novels of Boccacio are subjoined to the several Poetical English Versions.

      THE KNIGHTES TALE,

BY GEOFFREY CHAUCER

      Whilom, as old stories tellen us,

      There was a duk that highte Theseus;

      Of Athenes he was lord and governour,

      And in his time swiche a conquerour,

      That greter was ther non under the sonne;

      Ful many a riche contree had he wonne.

      What with his wisdom and his chevalrie,

      He conquerd all the regne of Feminie,

      That whilom was ycleped Scythia,

      And wedded the fresshe Quene Ipolita,

      And brought hire home with him to his contree

      With mochel glorie and solempnitee,

      And eke hire yonge suster Emelie.

      And thus with victorie and with melodie

      Let I this worthy duk to Athenes ride,

      And all his host in armes him beside.

      And certes, if it n'ere to long to here,

      I wolde have told you fully the manere

      How wonnen was the regne of Feminie

      By Theseus, and by his chevalrie:

      And of the grete bataille for the nones

      Betwix Athenes and Amasones:

      And how asseged was Ipolita,

      The faire hardie quene of Scythia;

      And of the feste, that was at hire wedding,

      And of the temple at hire home coming:

      But all this thing I moste as now forbere;

      I have, God wot, a large feld to ere,

      And weke ben the oxen in my plowe:

      The remenent of my tale is long ynow.

      I wil not letten eke non of this route;

      Let every felaw telle his tale aboute,

      And let se now who shal the souper winne,

      There as I left, I will agen beginne.

      This duk, of whom I made mentioun,

      Whan he was comen almost to the toun,

      In all his wele and his moste pride,

      He was ware, as he cast his eye aside,

      Wher that ther kneled in the highe wey

      A compagnie of ladies, twey and twey,

      Eche after other, clad in clothes blake;

      But swiche a crie and swiche a wo they make,

      That in this world n'is creature living

      That ever heard swiche another waimenting;

      And of this crie ne wolde never stenten,

      Till they the reines of his bridel henten.

      What folk be ye that at min home coming

      Perturben so my feste with crying?

      Quod Theseus; have ye so grete envie

      Of min honour, that thus complaine and crie?

      Or who hath you misboden, or offended?

      Do telle me, if that it may be amended,

      And why ye be thus clothed all in blake?

      The oldest lady of hem all than spake,

      Whan she had swouned with a dedly chere,

      That it was reuthe for to seen and here.

      She sayde, Lord, to whom Fortune hath yeven

      Victorie, and as a conqueror to liven,

      Nought greveth us your glorie and your honour,

      But we beseke you of mercie and socour:

      Have mercie on our wo and our distresse:

      Some drope of pitee thrugh thy gentillesse

      Upon us wretched wimmen let now fall;

      For certes, lord, there n'is non of us alle

      That she n'hath ben a duchesse or a quene;

      Now be we caitives, as it is wel sene:

      Thanked be Fortune, and hire false whele,

      That non estat ensureth to be wele.

      And certes, lord, to abiden your presence,

      Here in this temple of the goddesse Clemence,

      We han ben waiting all this fourtenight:

      Now help us, lord, sin it lieth in thy might.

      I wretched wight, that wepe and waile thus,

      Was whilom wif to King Capaneus,

      That starfe at Thebes, cursed be that day,

      And alle we that ben in this aray,

      And maken all this lamentation,

      We losten all our husbondes at that toun,

      While that the siege therabouten lay:

      And yet now the old Creon, wala wa!

      That lord is now of Thebes the citee,

      Fulfilled of ire and of iniquittee,

      He for despit, and for his tyrannie,

      To don the ded bodies a vilanie,

      Of alle our lordes, which that ben yslawe,

      Hath alle the bodies on an hepe ydrawe,

      And will not suffren hem by non assent

      Neyther to ben yberied, ne ybrent,

      But maketh houndes ete hem in despite.

      And with that word, withouten more respite,

      They fallen groff, and crien pitously,

      Have on us wretched wimmen som mercy,

      And let our sorwe sinken in thin herte.

      This gentil duk doun from his courser sterte,

      With herte piteous, whan he herd hem speke.

      Him thoughte that his herte wold all to-breke

      When he saw hem so pitous and so mate

      That whilom weren of so gret estate,

      And in his armes, he hem all up hente,

      And hem comforted in ful good entente,

      And swore his oth, as he was trewe knight,

      He wolde don so ferforthly his might

      Upon the tyrant Creon hem to wreke,

      That all the peple of Grece shulde speke

      How Creon was of Theseus yserved;

      As he that hath his deth ful wel deserved.

      And right anon, withouten more abode,

      His banner he displaide, and forth he rode

      To Thebes ward, and all his host beside:

      No ner Athenes n'olde he go ne ride,

      Ne take his ese fully half a day,

      But onward on his way that night he lay,

      And sent anon Ipolita the quene

      And Emeli hire yonge sister shene,

      Unto the toun of Athenes for to dwell;

      And forth he rit; ther n'is no more to tell.

      The