Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other
spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

Italics are represented thus _italic_.





                        The Canterbury Pilgrims

                               _A COMEDY_




[Illustration]




The Canterbury Pilgrims

_A COMEDY_


BY

PERCY MACKAYE

[Illustration: THE TABARD INN]

                                New York
                         THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
                     LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
                                  1909

                         _All rights reserved_




                            COPYRIGHT, 1903,
                       BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

       Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1903. Reprinted
                   September, 1908; September, 1909.

                             Norwood Press
                 J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
                         Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.




                                   To

                             C. A. Sothern

                             In Friendship




    “O KINDLY Muse! let not my weak tongue falter
    In telling of this goodly company,
    Of their old piety and of their glee;
    But let a portion of ethereal dew
    Fall on my head, and presently unmew
    My soul; that I may dare, in wayfaring,
    To stammer where old Chaucer used to sing.”

                                                    [KEATS: _Endymion_.]




[Illustration]




DRAMATIS PERSONÆ


1. CHARACTERS BASED ON “THE CANTERBURY TALES.”

_MEN_

    GEOFFREY CHAUCER, Poet at King Richard’s Court, and Knight of the
          Shire for Kent.
    The KNIGHT (_Dan Roderigo d’Algezir_).
    The SQUIRE (_Aubrey_), his son.
    The YEOMAN, his servant.
    The MONK.
    The FRIAR (_Huberd_).
    The MERCHANT.
    The CLERK.
    The MAN-OF-LAW.
    The FRANKLIN.
    The HABERDASHER, }
    The CARPENTER,   }
    The WEAVER,      } Members of a Guild.
    The DYER,        }
    The TAPICER,     }
    The COOK (_Roger Hogge_).
    The SHIPMAN (_Jack_).
    The DOCTOR.
    The PARSON (_Jankin_).
    The PLOUGHMAN.
    The MILLER (_Bob_ or _Robin_).
    The MANCIPLE.
    The REEVE.
    The SUMMONER.
    The PARDONER.
    The HOST (_Herry Bailey_).
    The CANON’S YEOMAN.
    JOANNES, }
    MARCUS,  } The Prioress’s Priests.
    PAULUS,  }


_WOMEN_

    The WIFE OF BATH (_Alisoun_).
    The PRIORESS (_Madame Eglantine_).
    A NUN, her attendant.
    MISTRESS BAILEY, of the Tabard Inn.


II. CHARACTERS NOT BASED ON “THE CANTERBURY TALES.”

_MEN_

    RICHARD II, King of England.
    JOHN OF GAUNT, Duke of Lancaster, uncle of the King, brother-in-law
        of Chaucer, and patron of Wycliffe.
    The DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, his brother.
    DE VERE, Duke of Ireland, Richard’s favourite.
    The ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY.
    JOHN WYCLIFFE, the religious reformer, founder of the “Lollards.”
    BOTTLEJOHN, Host of the One Nine-pin inn, at Bob-up-and-down.
    HIS PRENTICES (_Ned_ and _Dick_).
    A KITCHEN-BOY.
    A VENDER OF RELICS.
    ANOTHER VENDER.
    A BLACK FRIAR.
    A GREY FRIAR.
    A PRIEST OF CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL.
    HERALDS.
    CHOIR-BOYS.

_WOMEN_

    JOHANNA, Marchioness of Kent.
    CANTERBURY BROOCH-GIRLS.
    SERVING-MAIDS.

        NOTE.--Those designated as Alisoun’s “Swains” are the
        Friar, Cook, Shipman, Miller, Manciple, Summoner, Pardoner.




ACT FIRST


    “BIFEL that, in that seson on a day,
    In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay
    Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage
    To Caunterbury, with ful devout corage,
    At night was come into that hostelrye
    Wel nyne and twenty in a companye
    Of sondry folk, by aventure y-falle
    In felawshipe, and pilgrims were they alle,
    That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde.”




ACT I

TIME: April 16th, 1387. Late afternoon.


SCENE: The Tabard Inn at Southwark, near London.


        _When the scene opens, about half of the PILGRIMS have
        arrived; the others come in during the first part of the
        act. Those already arrived are the MILLER, SHIPMAN, COOK,
        PARSON, PLOUGHMAN, FRANKLIN, DOCTOR, FRIAR, HABERDASHER,
        CARPENTER, WEAVER, DYER, TAPICER, CLERK, and CHAUCER._

        _At rise of curtain, the HOST is just moving to receive
        the KNIGHT, SQUIRE, and YEOMAN at the door, back. Chaucer
        sits with a big volume on his knee in the corner by the
        fireplace, left; right front, the Miller and the Cook are
        wrestling, while those near look on._

                                  COOK

    Now, masters, see a miller eat bran!

                                 MILLER

                                         Corpus!
    I’d liever wrastle with a butterfly.

                                SHIPMAN

    Tackle him aft.

                                FRANKLIN

                    Grip, mon.

                      [_They clutch each other._]

                             A SERVING-MAID

                          [_Aside to Friar._]

                               A diamond pin?

                                 FRIAR

                          [_Lisps slightly._]

    One of thy glances stickéd through my heart!

                        [_Offers her the pin._]

                              SERVING-MAID

    The Master is not looking now.

                                 FRIAR

                                   A bargain?

[_Maid nods, takes the pin, and hurries off to serve at table. Friar
follows._]

                                  HOST

    Welcome, Sir Knight!

                                 KNIGHT

                         Is this the Tabard Inn?

                                  HOST

         [_Points through the open door to his swinging sign._]

    Lo yonder, sir, is Herry Bailey’s shirt
    Flappeth in the wind; and this is Herry himself.

                 [_Claps his hands for a serving-boy._]

    Knave!

                                 WEAVER

        [_Pounds on the table with a jug, while Carpenter tosses
                                dice._]

           Ale, here! Ale!

                 [_A shout from the pilgrims, front._]

                                 MILLER

                         [_Throwing the Cook._]

                           Down!

                                SHIPMAN

                                 Jolly chuck!

                                  COOK

        [_Getting to his feet with a bloody nose and fisting._]

                                              ’Sblood! Thou--

                                FRANKLIN

    Hold, Master Cook, sith thou hast licked the platter,
    Go now and wash the gravy off thy nose.
    Look to him, doctor.

                                 DOCTOR

                         Here!

                                FRANKLIN

                           [_To the Miller._]

                               And thou shalt eat
    A sop of wine with me. By God, thy hand!

                                 PARSON

                  [_To Ploughman, drawing him away._]

    He sweareth like Sathanas. Come!

                               PLOUGHMAN

                                     Toot, brother!
    A little swearing saveth from the gallows.

                                 MILLER

                       [_Laughing at the Cook._]

    His nose is like a tart.

                                 CLERK

             [_To Chaucer, feasting his eyes on his book._]

                             Grant pardon, sir.
    In vanitate humanorum rerum,
    I’ the world’s uproar, ’tis sweet to find a scholar.

                                CHAUCER

    A book’s a mistress all the world may love
    And none be jilted.

                                 CLERK

                        Then am I in love.
    What is the book?

                                CHAUCER

                      A medley, like its master,
    Containing many divers characters,
    Bound in one hide. Whoso shall read it through
    He shall behold Troilus and Launcelot
    Sighing in Cæsar’s face, and Scaramouche
    Painting with grins the back of Aristotle.

                                 CLERK

                             [_Sparkling._]

    What!--Aristotle?

                                CHAUCER

                   [_Rising, hands him the volume._]

                      I prithee look it through.

                                 CLERK

    Grammercy--somewhat farther from the piping.

        [_Draws farther away from the Squire, who is beginning to
        play a few strains on his flute, in front of the fire._]

                               MAN OF LAW

                      [_Entering with_ MERCHANT.]

    For this recognisance--

                                MERCHANT

                            The ship was wrecked.

                               MAN OF LAW

    Depardieux! Then your property is flotsam
    And liable to salvage. Therefore you
    Will need me as your man-of-law.

                                 KNIGHT

                            [_To Chaucer._]

                                     I knew
    You were a soldier by your bearing, sir.
    You were at Cressy?

                                CHAUCER

                        Nay, Sir Knight, I played
    With tin swords then. Though I have often fought
    At Frenchmen’s heels, I was but six years old
    When our Black Edward won his spurs.

                                 KNIGHT

                                         Runs time
    So swiftly?--One and forty years ago!

                                  HOST

                         [_To a serving-maid._]

    Belive, wench!

                                 FRIAR

                     [_Stealing a kiss from her._]

                   In principio--

                                  HOST

                                  What’s here?

                                  MAID

    The gentle friar!

                                  HOST

                      Gentle flower-de-luce!

       [_Makes after Friar, who dodges behind_ MISTRESS BAILEY.]

                            MISTRESS BAILEY

                            [_Shrewishly._]

    Hold; goodman Herry! ’Tis a friend of mine.

                 [_Host retires; Friar mocks him._]

                                 KNIGHT

    I am returning from the Holy Land
    And go to pay my vows at Canterbury.
    This is my son.

                                CHAUCER

                    Go you to Canterbury
    As well, Sir Squire?

        [_The Squire, putting down his flute, sighs deeply._]

                                 KNIGHT

                         My son, the gentleman
    Accosts thee!

                                 SQUIRE

                  Noble gentleman--Ah me!

                           [_He turns away._]

                                CHAUCER

                            [_Follows him._]

    My dearest heart and best beloved foe,
    Why liketh you to do me all this woe?
    What have I done that grieveth you, or said,
    Save that I love and serve you, high and low?
    And whilst I live I will do ever so.
    Wherefore, my sweet, do not that I be dead;
    For good and fair and gentle as ye be,
    It were great wonder if but that ye had
    A thousand thousand servants, good and bad:
    The most unworthiest servant--I am he!

                                 SQUIRE

    Sir, by my lady’s grace, you are a poet
    And lover, like myself. We shall be brothers.
    But pardon, sir, those verses are not yours.
    Dan Chaucer wrote them. Ah, sir, know you Chaucer?

                                CHAUCER

    Twelve stone of him!

                                 SQUIRE

                         Would _I_ did! Is he not
    An amorous divinity? Looks he
    Like pale Leander, or some ancient god?

                                CHAUCER

    Sooth, he is like old Bacchus round the middle.

                                 SQUIRE

    How acts he when in love? What feathers wears he?
    Doth he sigh oft? What lady doth he serve?
    Oh!

        [_At a smile from Chaucer, he starts back and looks at him
        in awe; then hurries to the Knight. Chaucer walks among the
        pilgrims, talking with them severally._]

                                 MILLER

                            [_To Franklin._]

        Ten gallon ale? God’s arms! I take thee.

                               MAN OF LAW

                                                 What’s
    The wager?

                                FRANKLIN

               Yonder door; this miller here
    Shall break it, at a running, with his head.
    The door is oak. The stakes ten gallon ale.

                                SHIPMAN

    Ho, then, I bet the miller shall be drunk.

                                MERCHANT

    What bet?

                                SHIPMAN

              Twelve crown upon the miller.

                                MERCHANT

                                            Done.

        [_At the door appears the_ PRIORESS, _accompanied by a_ NUN
        _and her three_ PRIESTS, _one of whom_, JOANNES, _carries a
        little pup. The Host hurries up with a reverence._]

                                  HOST

    Welcome, my lady dear. Vouchsafe to enter
    Poor Herry Bailey’s inn.

                                PRIORESS

                             Merci.

                                  HOST

                         [_To a serving-boy._]

                                    Knave, show
    My lady Prioress to the blue chamber
    Where His Majesty, King Richard, slept.

                                PRIORESS

                                            Joannes,
    Mark, Paulus, stay! have you the little hound
    Safe?

                                JOANNES

          Yes, my lady.

                                PRIORESS

                        Carry him before,
    But carefully.

                                 MILLER

                             [_To Yeoman._]

                   Here, nut-head, hold my hood.

                                 YEOMAN

    Wilt try bareheaded?

                                 FRIAR

                         ’Mass!

                                FRANKLIN

                                Ho, for a skull!
    Miller, thou art as tough a knot as e’er
    The Devil tied. By God, mine ale is spilled.

        [_The priests and Prioress have just reached the door, left
        front, which the Miller is preparing to ram._]

                               PLOUGHMAN

    The door is locked.

                                JOANNES

                       But, sir, the Prioress--

                                SHIPMAN

    Heigh! Clear the decks!

     [_The Miller, with clenched fists, and head doubled over, runs
                            for the door._]

                                 YEOMAN

                            Harrow!

                                 PARSON

                                    Run, Robin.

                               GUILD-MEN

                       [_Rise from their dice._]

                                                Ho!

        [_With a crash, the Miller’s head strikes the door and
        splits it. At the shock, he rebounds against Joannes, and
        reaching to save himself from falling, seizes the puppy._]

                                 MILLER

    A twenty devils!

                               GUILD-MEN

           [_All but the Weaver, clambering over the table._]

                     Come on!

                               PLOUGHMAN

                           [_To the Miller._]

                              What aileth thee?

                                 MILLER

    The priest hath bit my hand.

                                JOANNES

                                 Sweet sir, the puppy--
    It was the puppy, sir.

                                 MILLER

                           Wring me its neck.

                                PRIORESS

    Alas, Joannes--help!

                                 MILLER

                         By Corpus bones!
    Give me the cur.

                                PRIORESS

                     St. Loy! Will no one help?

                                CHAUCER

    Madame, what may I do?

                                PRIORESS

                           My little hound--
    The churl--My little hound! The churl will hurt it.
    If you would fetch to me my little hound--

                                CHAUCER

    Madame, I’d fetch you Cerberus from hell.

                                 MILLER

    Lo, masters! See a dog’s neck wrung!

                                CHAUCER

    [_Breaking through the crowd, seizes the Miller by the throat._]

                                         Which dog’s?

                                 MILLER

    Leave go!--’Sdeath! Take the whelp, a devil’s name.

                                CHAUCER

    Kneel! Ask grace of this lady here.

                                 MILLER

                             [_Sullenly._]

                                        What lady?

                                CHAUCER

    Of her whom gentles call St. Charity
    In every place and time.--

                    [_Turns then towards Prioress._]

                               What other name
    This lady bears, I have not yet been honoured
    With knowing.--Kneel!

                                 MILLER

                         [_Morosely; kneels._]

                          Lady, I axe your pardon.

                                CHAUCER

    Madame, your little hound is safe.

                                PRIORESS

        [_Nestles the little hound with tender effusiveness; then
        turns shyly to Chaucer._]

                                       Merci!
    My name is Madame Eglantine.

                         [_Hurries out, left._]

                                CHAUCER

                               [_Aside._]

                                 Hold, Geoffrey!
    Yon beastie’s quaking side thumped not as thine
    Thumps now. And wilt thou ape a little hound?
    Ah, Madame Eglantine, unless ye be
    To me, as well as him, St. Charity!

                                FRANKLIN

    Who is the man?

                                 MILLER

                    The Devil, by his eye.
    They say King Richard hath to court a wrastler
    Can grip ten men. I guess that he be him.

                                  COOK

    Ho! milksop of a miller!

                                 MILLER

                            [_Seizing him._]

                             Say it twice;
    What?

                                  COOK

          Nay, thou art a bull at bucking doors.

                                FRANKLIN

    Let ribs be hoops for twenty gallon ale
    And stop your wind-bags. Come.

                                 MILLER

                 [_With a grin, follows the Franklin._]

                                   By Corpus bones!

                                SHIPMAN

    Twelve crown.

                                MERCHANT

                  Twelve, say you? See my man-of-law.

                                 WEAVER

                        [_Springs to his feet._]

    The throw is mine!

                                  DYER

                       A lie! When we were away
    You changed the dice!

                                 WEAVER

                          My throw was cinq and three.

                                  DYER

    A lie! Have it in your gullet!

                    [_Draws his knife. They fight._]

                               CARPENTER

                                   Part them!

                                TAPICER

                                              Back!

                                  HOST

    Harrow! Dick Weaver, hold! Fie, Master Dyer,
    Here’s not a dyeing stablishment; we want
    No crimson cloth--Clap hands now: Knave, more ale.

                                CHAUCER

                           [_To the Doctor._]

    If then, as by hypothesis, this cook
    Hath broke his nose, it follows first that we
    Must calculate the ascendent of his image.

                                 DOCTOR

    Precisely! Pray proceed. I am fortunate
    To have met a fellow-doctor at this inn.

                                CHAUCER

    Next, treating him by magic natural,
    Provide him well with old authorities,
    As Esculapius, Diescorides,
    Damascien, Constantinus, Averrois,
    Hippocrates, Serapion, Razis,
    Bernardus, Galienus, Gilbertinus--

                                 DOCTOR

    But, sir, the fellow cannot read--

                                CHAUCER

                                       Why, true;
    Then there remains but one sure remedy,
    Thus: bid him, fasting, when the moon is wane,
    And Venus rises in the house of Pisces,
    To rub it nine times with a herring’s tail.

                                 DOCTOR

    Yea, Pisces is a fish.--I thank you, sir.

       [_He hurries off to the Cook, whose nose he has patched._]

                                  HOST

                     [_To the Reeve, who enters._]

    God save thee, Osewold! What’s o’clock? Thou look’st
    As puckered as a pear at Candlemas.

                                 REEVE

    There be too many folk i’ the world; and none
    Is ripe till he be rotten.

                           [_Sits at table._]

                               Penny’orth ale!

                                 SQUIRE

    My lord, father!

                                 KNIGHT

                     Well, son?

                                 SQUIRE

                        [_Looking at Chaucer._]

                                Sir, saw you ever
    So knightly, sweet, and sovereign a man,
    With eyes so glad and shrewdly innocent?
    O, when I laid my hand in his, and looked
    Into his eyes, meseemed I rode on horse
    Into the April open fields, and heard
    The larks upsinging in the sun. Sir, have
    You guessed who ’tis?

                                 KNIGHT

                          To judge him by his speech,
    Some valiant officer.

                                 SQUIRE

                              Nay, _I_ have guessed.

      [_A merry jingling of bells outside. Enter the Monk, holding
                           up a dead swan._]

                                  MONK

    Soft! Handle not the fat swan. Give it me.
    Bailey, I’ll learn thy cook to turn a spit.

                 [_Exit, right. Enter, left, Joannes._]

                                CHAUCER

                           [_To Ploughman._]

    Aye, man, but weather is the ploughman’s wife
    To take for worse or better. If thy loam
    Be thin, and little snow, which is the best
    Manure, then thou must dung thy furrows twice
    ’Twixt Michelmas and March.

                               PLOUGHMAN

                                Aye, but but--

                                JOANNES

                                               Sir Knight,
    This letter....

                                CHAUCER

                    What! from whom?

                               PLOUGHMAN

                                     Toot! Canst thou read, mon?

                                JOANNES

    This letter, sir, my Lady Prioress--

                                CHAUCER

    From Madame Eglantine? Waits she an answer?

                                JOANNES

    So please you, sir.

                                CHAUCER

                        Sweet saints!

                 [_Takes the letter and reads, aside._]

                               PLOUGHMAN

                     [_Watches Chaucer curiously._]

                                      Aye, ’e can read it.

        [_Outside, is heard the distant voice of the Wife of Bath_
        (ALISOUN), _joined in chorus by the_ PARDONER, MANCIPLE,
        _and_ SUMMONER, _singing_.]

                                ALISOUN

    When folk o’ Faerie
      Are laughing in the laund,
      And the nix pipes low in the miller’s pond,
    Come hither, love, to me.

                              [_Chorus._]

      With doe and with dove,
      Come back to your love.
    Come hither, love, to me.

                                CHAUCER

 [_Reading the Prioress’s letter, as the song outside sounds nearer._]

        “Monsieur l’inconnu Chevalier--

        These greetings shall apprise you that the little hound
        is convalescent, and now suffereth from nothing save a
        sore necessity for nourishment. Wherefore, being cast in
        holy pilgrimage upon this revelous inn, I appeal once
        more, gentil monsieur, to your honourable chivalry, of
        which I beseech you this favour, to wit; that you shall
        see prepared and delivered into the hands of Joannes, my
        priest, a recipe as follows:--

            One ounce of wastel-bread, toasted a pleasant brown;
            One little cup of fresh milk;
            Soak the former in the latter, till the sand-glass shall be
                run half out;
            Then sprinkle sparingly with sweet root of beet, rubbed fine.
            Serve neatly.

                                                  MADAME EGLANTINE.”

                                SHIPMAN

[_At the door, to Friar, who is starting to flirt with a third
serving-maid._]

    Hist! Who’s yon jolly Nancy riding here,
    With them three tapsters tooting up behind?

                                 FRIAR

    By sweet St. Cuthbert!

                                SHIPMAN

                           Ha! ye ken the wench.

                                 FRIAR

    The wench? Oho! Thou sayest well. List, sir;
    List, gentle Mariner! Thy wench hath been
    A five times wedded and five hundred woo’d;
    Hath rode alone to sweet Jerusalem
    And back more oft than Dick-the-Lion’s-Heart;
    And in her right ear she is deaf as stone,
    Because, she saith, that once with her right ear
    She listened to a lusty Saracen.
    She was not born a-yesterday, yet, by
    The merry mass, when she comes in the door,
    She maketh sweet-sixteen as stale as dough.

                                SHIPMAN

    She looks a jolly Malkin. What’s her name?

                                 FRIAR

    Dame Alisoun, a cloth-maker of Bath.

                                CHAUCER

                              [_Reading._]

        “P.S. Let not the under-side be toasted as brown as the
        upper.

        P.P.S. The milk should not be skimmed.”

                         [_Laughs to himself._]

    “A little cup of milk and wastel-bread!”
    Haha!--A gentle heroine for a tale!
    My heart is lost.

            [_To Joannes, who is trembling at the Miller._]

                      What, fellow, art thou scared?
    Come with me to the kitchen.

                                JOANNES

                          [_Follows timidly._]

                                 Ben’cite!      [_Exeunt._]

        [_Outside the song, “Come hither, Love,” bursts into
        chorus. Enter the_ WIFE OF BATH, _astride a small white
        ass, which is fancifully caparisoned like a fairy creature.
        Spurs jingle on the Wife’s boots, and on her head is a
        great round hat. Followed by the_ SUMMONER, PARDONER, _and_
        MANCIPLE, _she rides into the middle of the floor and reins
        up._]

                                ALISOUN

    Whoa-oop!--God save this merry company!

                            [_A commotion._]

    By God, I ween ye ken not what I am:
    I am the jolly elf-queen, and this is
    My milk-white doe, whereon I ride as light
    As Robin Good-boy on a bumble-bee;

                     [_Indicating the ass’s ears._]

    These be his wings.--
                          And lo--my retinue!
    These here be choir-boys from Fairy-land.
    Come, Pardoner, toot up my praise anon.

                     PARDONER AND ALISOUN [_sing_]

    When sap runs in the tree,
      And the huntsman sings “Halloo!”
      And the greenwood saith: “Peewit! Cuckoo!”
    Come hither, love, to me.

                           SWAINS AND ALISOUN

          With turtle and plover,
          Come back to your lover.
        Come hither, love, to me.

                                ALISOUN

    Now, lads, the chorus!

      [_The Swains and Alisoun, joined by several other pilgrims,
                            repeat chorus._]

                                 MILLER

                           Nails and blood! Again!

                                 FRIAR

    Encore!

                                ALISOUN

            Nay lads, the song hath dried my whistle.
    The first that fetches me a merry jug
    Shall kiss my lily-white hand.

   [_The Swains, with a shout, scramble to get ale of the tapster._]

                                 SWAINS

                                   Here, ale here! ale!

                                  HOST

    Slow, masters! Turtle wins the rabbit race.

                                 MILLER

                    [_Offers his tankard, tipsily._]

    Give’s thy hand, girl.

                                ALISOUN

                           Thou art drunk! ’Tis empty.

                                 MILLER

    Well, ’tis a jug. Ye said “a merry jug.”

                                ALISOUN

    Pardee! I’ll keep my word.

                                 MILLER

                 [_Grinning, raises his face to her._]

                               A kiss?

                                ALISOUN

                                       A smack!

                  [_Flings the tankard at his head._]

                                 MILLER

                            [_Dodging it._]

    Harrow!

                            THE OTHER SWAINS

                             [_Pell-mell._]

            Here! here! Take mine!

                                 FRIAR

                                   Drink, sweet Queen Mab!

         [_Re-enter Chaucer and Joannes. Chaucer carries in his
                            hand a crock._]

                                ALISOUN

                           [_To the Friar._]

    What, Huberd, are ye there? Ye are too late,
    All o’ ye! The elf-queen spies her Oberon.

               [_Wheeling the ass to confront Chaucer._]

    By God, sir, you’re the figure of a man
    For me.--Give me thy name.

                                CHAUCER

                               Your Majesty,
    This is most sudden. Dare I hope you would
    Have me bestow my humble name upon you?

                                ALISOUN

    Make it a swap, mon. Mine is Alisoun,
    And lads they ken me as the Wife of Bath!

                                CHAUCER

    My name is Geoffrey. When the moon is full,
    I am an elf and skip upon the green;
    By my circumference fairy-rings are drawn,
    And lasses ken me as the Elvish Knight.

                                 SQUIRE

                               [_Aside._]

    Father, ’tis he--the poet laureate!

                                 KNIGHT

    Brother-in-law to John of Gaunt?

                                 SQUIRE

                                     The same.

                                SHIPMAN

                       [_Offers his mug again._]

    Take this, old girl.

                                ALISOUN

                         The devil take a tar.

              [_Snatches the crock from Chaucer’s hand._]

    I’ll take a swig from Geoffrey’s.--Holy Virgin!
    What pap is this here? Milk and wastel-bread?

                                CHAUCER

    Nay, ’tis a kind of brew concocted from
    The milky way, to nurse unmarried maids.

                                ALISOUN

                       [_Hands it back quickly._]

    Saints! None o’ that for me.

                                CHAUCER

                         [_Aside to Joannes._]

                                 Bear it to your mistress.

                                ALISOUN

                               [_Aside._]

    Mistress? Aha!--A woman in the case.

                               [_Aloud._]

    Give us your hand, Sir Knight o’ the Wastel-bread,
    And help me light adown.--
                               What! Are ye afeared
    To take me in your arms?

                                CHAUCER

                             Sweet Alisoun,
    Thou art a vision of the ruddy Venus
    Bright pommelled on the unspotted Pegasus,
    And I am Ganymede, thy stable boy.

                      [_He helps her to alight._]

                                ALISOUN

    Well swung! What think ye of my jolly heft?

                                CHAUCER

    Thou art a very dandelion seed
    And I thy zephyr.

                                 MILLER

                           [_To the Swains._]

                      ’Sblood! He steals our wench.

                                 SQUIRE

     [_Approaching Chaucer diffidently, speaks under his breath._]

    Great Master Chaucer.

                                CHAUCER

                          Hush! Speak not my name.

                      [_Takes the Squire aside._]

                                ALISOUN

    Halloa! what’s struck this jolly company?
    Ye’re flat as stale ale. Master Summoner, what’s
    The matter now? Ye should be glad at heart
    To wear so merry a bonfire in your face.

                                SUMMONER

    Was it for this I sang, “Come hither, Love”?

                                  COOK

    Aye, was it for this?

                                ALISOUN

                          What, Roger Hogge, yourself?
    How long, bird, have you worn a gallows-warrant
    Upon your nose?

                          [_The others hoot._]

                                  COOK

                    As long, Dame Alisoun,
    As you have had a hogshead for a sweetheart.

                                ALISOUN

    Geoffrey, ye mean? Ho! Are ye jealous there?

                          [_To the Shipman._]

    Jack, too, and hast a wife to home at Dartmouth?
    Hark, lads! This Jealousy is but a ninny;
    For though there be a nine-and-twenty stars,
    Yet Jealousy stares only at the moon.
    Lo! I myself have made a vow ’twixt here
    And holy Thomas’ shrine to twig a husband;
    But if I like this fellow Geoffrey, can’t
    I like ye all? By God, give me your fists;
    And I will tip ye a secret.

                           [_Mysteriously._]

                                I am deef!
    Ye ken all great folks have some great defect:
    Cupid is blind and Alisoun is deef;
    But Cupid--he can wink the t’other eye,
    And Alis--she can ope the t’other ear.

                                 FRIAR

    Sweet Alis, which is deaf?

                                ALISOUN

                               I said, the t’other.

                                 FRIAR

    Nay, but which ear, the right or left?

                                ALISOUN

                                           Love, if
    Ye guess the right ye won’t be left: how’s that?
    So, fellows, ye can knock at either door;
    And while Tom standeth scraping the front mat,
    By God then, Dick, go rap at the side porch;
    The t’other door is locked; I say not which.

        [_Laughing and boxing their ears as they try, in turn, to
        whisper to her, she leads them to the ale-barrel, where
        they drink._]

                                 FRIAR

    Sweet brethren, drink with me to t’other ear!

                                ALISOUN

    Here’s pot-luck to you all, lads!

                               PARDONER.

     [_Who has spread out his relics in another part of the room._]

                                      Pardons! pardons!
    Offer your nobles now; spoons, brooches, rings:
    Radix malorum est cupiditas.

                                CHAUCER

                          [_Aside to Squire._]

    Pray, speak no word of who I am. I ride
    To Canterbury now, to bid farewell
    My kinsman, John of Gaunt. But on the road,
    I travel here incognito.

                                 SQUIRE

                             But, sir,
    At least, beseech you, let me guard your person;
    So mean an inn, such raw folk, must offend
    King Richard’s royal poet.

                                CHAUCER

                                Not so, lad.
    To live a king with kings, a clod with clods,
    To be at heart a bird of every feather,
    A fellow of the finch as well as the lark,
    The equal of each, brother of every man:
    _That_ is to be a poet, and to blow
    Apollo’s pipe with every breath you breathe.
    Therefore, sweet boy, don’t label me again
    In this good company.

                                 SQUIRE

                          I will not, sir--

                               [_Aside._]

    A god! A very god!

                                PARDONER

                       Here’s relics! pardons!
    Offer your nobles now; spoons, brooches, rings!
    Lordings, step up! Pardons from Rome all hot.

                     [_A crowd gathers round him._]

                                 PARSON

                          [_Lifting a relic._]

    What’s this?

                                PARDONER

                 That, master, is the shoulder-bone
    Of a sheep once slaughtered by a holy Jew.
    Take heed, lordings, take heed! What man is here
    That hath to home a well?

                                SEVERAL

                              I! I!

                                PARDONER

                                    Pay heed!
    Let any man take this same shoulder-bone
    And chuck it in his well, and if he own
    A cow, or calf, or ass, which hath the pox,
    Take water from that well, and wash its tongue.
    Presto! It shall be well again.

                               PLOUGHMAN

                           [_To the Parson._]

                                    By Mary,
    I’ll try it on Mol.

                                PARDONER

                        Hark, lordings, what I say!
    If also the goodman that owns the beasts
    Shall, fasting, before cock-crow, drink three draughts
    Of that same well, his store shall multiply.

                                 PARSON

    My word!

                                FRANKLIN

             Nay, that’s worth while.

                                PARDONER

                                      List what I say!
    Also, if any wife shall boil a broth
    Of this same bone, it healeth jealousy.

                                ALISOUN

    Ho! give it me! And every fellow here
    Shall suck the marrow-bone.

                                PARDONER

                                What will you offer?

                                ALISOUN

                           [_Throws a kiss._]

    That’s all ye get o’ me.

                                 PARSON

                             I’ll give a florin.

                                PARDONER

    Done, Master Parson. Listen, lordings, list!
    This is a piece o’ the sail St. Peter had
    When he walked on the sea; and lo! this cloth--

                                ALISOUN

    A pillow-case!

                                PARDONER

                   This is the Virgin’s veil.
    And in this crystal glass behold--

                                ALISOUN

                                       Pig’s bones!

                   [_Slaps Chaucer on the shoulder._]

    What, Geoffrey lad! Which will ye liever kiss,
    A dead saint’s bones, or a live lass--her lips?

                      [_Enter, L., the Prioress._]

                                CHAUCER

    Why, Alisoun, I say all flesh is grave-clothes,
    And lips the flowers that blossom o’er our bones;
    God planted ’em to bloom in laughter’s sunshine
    And April kissing-showers.

        [_Laughing, he kisses Alisoun and faces the Prioress._]

                               St. Charity!

                                ALISOUN

    Haha! That time I had thee on the rump.

                   [_She calls the Friar aside, R._]

                                PRIORESS

                          [_Starting to go._]

    Je vous demande pardong, Monsieur.

                                CHAUCER

                                       Madame,
    Qu’est ce que je puis faire pour elle?

                                PRIORESS

                                           Rien, rien.

                                CHAUCER

    Madame, mais si vous saviez comme je meurs
    De vous servir--

                                PRIORESS

                      You speak patois,
    Monsieur; _I_ studied French in Stratford-at-the-Bowe.

                                CHAUCER

    Your accent is adorably--unique.

                                PRIORESS

                [_Is about to melt, but sees Alisoun._]

    And you a gentilhomme--at least I thought so
    Whenas you saved my little hound--Ah, sir!

                                CHAUCER

    Adam was our first father: I’m her brother.

                                PRIORESS

    You meant no more?

                                CHAUCER

                       Her brother and your servant,
    Madame. And for the rest, I ride to Canterbury:
    I will absolve me at St. Thomas’ shrine.

                                PRIORESS

                              [_Eagerly._]

    Go you to Canterbury?

                                CHAUCER

                          With the rest.

                                PRIORESS

    Oh! I am glad--that is, I came to ask you.
    Know you, Monsieur, where lies upon the way
    A little thorp men call Bob-up-and-down?

                                CHAUCER

    Right well--we pass it on the road.

                                PRIORESS

                                        We do?
    Merci.

                                [_Going._]

                                 MILLER

                  [_Amid uproar, drinks to Alisoun._]

    Lend me thy t’other ear.

       [_Startled, the Prioress returns to Chaucer. Behind them,
        the Friar, at a sign from Alisoun, listens unobserved._]

                                PRIORESS

                             You see--
    I expect to meet my brother on the road.
    He is returning from the Holy Land;
    I am to meet him at the One Nine-pin,
    A tavern at Bob-up-and-down. But--

                                CHAUCER

                                       But?

                                PRIORESS

    I have not seen him since I was a child.
    I have forgotten how he looks.

                                CHAUCER

                                   He is
    Returning from the Holy Land?

                                PRIORESS

                                  And has
    His son with him, for squire. He is a knight.

                                CHAUCER

              [_Aside, looking at the Knight and Squire._]

    A son--his squire? Good Lord!

                                PRIORESS

                                  And so, Monsieur,
    I’m boldened by your courtesy to ask
    Your help to find him at Bob-up-and-down,
    Till which--your kind protection on the road.

                          [_More uproar, R._]

                                CHAUCER

    But--

                                PRIORESS

          Have I asked too much?

                                CHAUCER

                                 Madame, I am honoured.

                           [_Hesitatingly._]

    How, then, am I to recognise your brother?

                                PRIORESS

    He wears a ring, on which is charactered
    The letter “A,” and after, writ, in Latin,
    The same inscription as is fashioned here
    Upon my brooch. I may not take it off,
    For I did promise him to wear it always.
    But look, sir, here’s the motto. Can you read it?

      [_She extends her hand, from the bracelet of which dangles a
                   brooch. The Friar draws nearer._]

                                CHAUCER

    I thank you.

                               [_Reads._]

                 “Amor vincit omnia.”

                          [_Looking at her._]

    “Love conquers all.”

                                PRIORESS

                         C’est juste, Monsieur. Adieu!

                              [_Exit, L._]

                                 FRIAR

                       [_Making off to Alisoun._]

    Hist! “Amor vincit omnia,” Sweet Alis!

       [_After talking aside with Alisoun he goes to the Knight._]

                                CHAUCER

              [_Aside, looking at the Knight and Squire._]

    A morning’s canter to Bob-up-and-down!
    “Till which--my kind protection on the road.”
    When last they met, she was a little child;
    Besides, I will make verses for his son.
    A morning’s canter--time, the month of April--
    Place, Merry England--Why not Lord Protector
    Geoffrey? Her brother! What’s a suit of armor?
    Nay! “Amor vincit omnia.”

                            [_Turns away._]

                                 FRIAR

           [_To the Knight, whose finger-ring he examines._]

                              How quaint, sir!
    A crownèd “A” and underneath a motto.

                                 KNIGHT

    Quite so.

                                 FRIAR

              Merci!

                    [_Returns quickly to Alisoun._]

                                ALISOUN

                     Her brother--the One Nine-pin?

                                 FRIAR

    To-morrow.

                                ALISOUN

               Good.

                                 FRIAR

                     Sweet Alisoun--my pay?

                                ALISOUN

    Saith holy Brother Huberd? Love’s reward
    Is service.

               [_Aside, eyeing Chaucer, who passes her._]

                Corpus Venus! What a figure!
    I’ll woo him. Ay; but first to rid me of
    These other fellows.

                            [_To the Friar._]

                         Hist!
                               In Peggy’s stall--
    Peggy’s my milk-white doe--in Peggy’s stall,
    Thou’lt find another jolly beggar, waits
    To dun me.

                                 FRIAR

               Ho! A rendezvous?

                                ALISOUN

                                 A trysting.
    Go, for my love, and play the wench for me,
    And nab him by the ears until I come.

                                 FRIAR

    St. Cupid, I am game. In Peggy’s stall?

                               [_Exit._]

[_Alisoun whispers aside individually to the Shipman and Manciple, who
exeunt at different doors._]

                               CARPENTER

    Sack? Sack in the cellarage?

                                 WEAVER

                                 Come on, let’s tap it.

                  [_Exeunt with a number of others._]

                                SUMMONER

                     [_At table, trying to rise._]

    Qu--questio quid juris?

                                  COOK

                            Now he’s drunk
    You’ll get no more from him but “hic, hac, hoc.”

                                ALISOUN

                        [_Aside to the Miller._]

    And hold him till I come.

                                 MILLER

                              In Peggy’s stall?
    His ears shall be an ell long!--Pull his ears!

                               [_Exit._]

                                 CLERK

            [_Dazedly to Chaucer, returning him his book._]

    I thank you, sir. Is this the Tabard Inn?
    So then I’m back again. Such mighty voyages
    The mind sails in a book!

        [_He walks slowly forth into the air. Chaucer sits again by
        the fireplace, with the book on his knees._]

                                ALISOUN

                         [_Aside to the Cook._]

                              Hold fast, and wait.

                                  COOK

    In Peggy’s stall?

                                ALISOUN

                      Aye.

                                  COOK

                           Ears for nose, Bob Miller.

                               [_Exit._]

                                CHAUCER

                               [_Aside._]

    In Peggy’s stall,
    “Love conquers all.”

         [_Except for the drunken Summoner, Alisoun and Chaucer
                            are now alone._]

                                ALISOUN

         [_To the Summoner, lifting his head from the table._]

    Ho, cockerel! Perk up thy bill.

                                SUMMONER

                                    Quid juris?

                                ALISOUN

    Cluck! Cluck! How pretty Red-comb chucketh. Hark!

     [_Throwing her arms round his neck, she whispers in his ear._]

                                SUMMONER

    A pax! What did a’ say? A pax upon him.
    A’ said a’d pull my ears--in Peggy’s stall?
    By questio! a brimstone-cherub--me!

                              [_Rising._]

    Quid juris! Blood shall spurt. By quid! His nose
    Shall have a pax. By nails! A bloody quid!

        [_Seizing up from the table a round loaf for a shield and a
        long loaf for a sword, he reels out._]

                                ALISOUN

                             [_Laughing._]

    So, Peggy, they shall woo thy lily-white hoof,
    While Alisoun doth keep her rendezvous.

                       [_Comes over to Chaucer._]

    Ho, candle! Come out from thy bushel.

                                CHAUCER

                 [_Peering over the edge of his book._]

                                          Nay,
    ’Tis a dark world to shine in; I will read.

                                ALISOUN

    A book! Toot! My fifth husband was a clerk;
    He catched more learning _on_ his head than in it.
    What is’t about?

                                CHAUCER

                     The wickedness of woman.

                                ALISOUN

    A man, then, wrote it. If you men will write,
    We wives will keep ye busy. Read’s a snack.

                                CHAUCER

                        [_Pretending to read._]

    “Whoso that builds his mansion all of mallows,
    Whoso that spurs his blind horse over the fallows,
    Whoso that lets his wife seek shrines and hallows,
    Is worthy to be hanged on the gallows.”

                                ALISOUN

    Chuck that to another dog. My man is dead.

                                CHAUCER

                           [_Imperturbably._]

    “A lovely woman, chaste, is like a rose;
    Unchaste, a ring of gold in a sow’s nose.”

                                ALISOUN

    Lo, what a pretty preaching pardoner!
    “Offer your nobles now; spoons, brooches, rings!”
    Cork up thy froth, a devil’s name! Come, play.

                                CHAUCER

    “Better it is to dwell high on the roof
    Than down i’ the house where woman wields reproof.”
    O what a list of ladies! What a world!
    Hark, Alisoun! and after thou hast heard,
    Repent, and cease to be a woman. Hark!
    “Who first obeyed the snake’s advice, to thieve
    The apple from God’s Eden?--Mother Eve.”

                                ALISOUN

    That’s Adam’s whopper. He stole it and hid in’s throat:
    Feel o’ your own; the apple sticks there yet.

                                CHAUCER

                           [_Dramatically._]

    “Who from great Samson’s brow hath slyly shorn
    His strength? Delila, answer to thy scorn.
    O Hercules! What woman-shaped chimaera
    Gave thee the poisoned cloak? Thy Deianira.
    O pate of Socrates! Who from the steepy
    Housetop upset the slop-pail? Thy Xantippe!
    Yea, speeding her lover through the dark finestra,
    Who hath her husband slain, but Clytemnestra!
    Thou, too, O Cleopatra--”

                                ALISOUN

    [_Tearing a page out of the book, boxes Chaucer on the cheek._]

                              Hold thy gab!
    A devil fetch thy drasty book!

                                CHAUCER

                                   Hold, hold,
    Dame Alis! gentle Alisoun--

                      [_Recovers the torn page._]

                                ALISOUN

                                Hoot-toot!
    Are ye so dainty with a dirty parchment
    And so slipshod to smirch our reputations?
    You men! God’s arms! What ken ye of true women?
    You stuff one doll and name it Modesty,
    And bid her mince and giggle, hang her head
    And ogle in her sleeve; another poppet
    You make of snow and name St. Innocence:
    She sits by moonlight in a silver night-gown
    And sighs love-Latin in a nunnery.
    By Corpus bones! is not a mare a horse?
    A woman is but man; and both one beast--
    A lusty animal, for field or harness.
    But no! ye sanctify a squeamish mule;
    And when an honest wench, that speaks her mind,
    Meets a fine lad and slaps him on the buttock,
    And says out plat: “Thou art a man: I love thee--”
    She is a sinner, and your doll a saint.

                                CHAUCER

    Alis, thou speak’st like one in jealousy.

                                ALISOUN

    Why, Geoffrey, so I am. To tell thee flat,
    I’m jealous of thy Lady Prioress.

                                CHAUCER

    Peace, dame. Speak not her name with mine.

                                ALISOUN

                                               Aye, go it,
    Miss Innocence and Master Modesty!
    How’s that?

                                CHAUCER

                Dame Alisoun, it is enough.

                                ALISOUN

    Why, then, it is enough. Come, lad; clap hands.
    I am a bud of old experience,
    Whom frost ne’er yet hath nipped. In love, I’ve danced
    The waltz and minuet. Therefore, sweet Geoffrey,
    This Prioress wears a brooch upon her wrist.

                                CHAUCER

    Well, what of that?

                                ALISOUN

                        Yea, “What of that?” Good soul!
    She stops to-morrow at Bob-up-and-down.

                                CHAUCER

    How knowest thou?

                                ALISOUN

                      Nay, t’other ear is wise.
    At the One Nine-pin she shall meet--

                                CHAUCER

                                         Her brother.

                                ALISOUN

    What wilt thou bet she goes to meet her brother?

                                CHAUCER

    Why, anything.

                                ALISOUN

                   Hear that! As though a veil
    Were perfect warrant of virginity.
    What wilt thou bet she goeth not to meet
    Her leman--aye, her lover?

                                CHAUCER

                               Thou art daft.

                                ALISOUN

    Lo, subtle man! He robs a poor wife’s wits
    To insure his lady’s honour.

                                CHAUCER

                                 Tush, tush, dame.
    The very brooch she wears, her brother gave her,
    For whose sake she hath even promised never
    To take it off.

                                ALISOUN

    Wilt _bet_ me?

                                CHAUCER

                                   Bet away!

                                ALISOUN

    Ho, then, it is a bet, and this the stakes:
    If that my Lady Prioress shall give
    Yon brooch of gold from off her pretty wrist,
    Unto the man whom she expects to meet,
    And that same man prove not to be her brother,
    Then thou shalt marry me at Canterbury.

                                CHAUCER

    A twenty of thee, dame. But if thou lose
    The stakes, then thou shalt kneel a-down and kiss
    Yon brooch of gold upon her pretty wrist,
    And pray the saints to heal thy jealousy.

                                ALISOUN

    Aye, man, it is a bet; and here’s my fist.

                                CHAUCER

    And here’s mine, Alis; thou art a good fellow.

                         [_An uproar outside._]

    What row is this?

                                ALISOUN

                      Here comes my rendezvous.

        [_Enter in tumult, the Friar, Miller, Cook, Shipman,
        Summoner, and Manciple, holding fast to one another’s ears.
        They call out, partly in chorus._]

                                 FRIAR

    He’s nabbed, sweet Alisoun.

                                 MILLER

                                Here is the lousel.

                                SUMMONER

    I’ve got his quids.

                                  COOK

                        I stalled him.

                                ALISOUN

                                       Hang fast, hold him!
    Ho! fetch him down. [_Laughing._] O Geoffrey, here’s a wooing!

                                CHAUCER

    Yea; “Amor vincit omnia.”

                             ALL THE SWAINS

                              Here he is!

                                ALISOUN

    Leave go.

                         [_They let go ears._]

              Where is the knave?

                                  ALL

                      [_Pointing at one another._]

                                  There.

                                ALISOUN

                                         Which one?

                                  ALL

                      [_Pointing at one another._]

                                                    Him!

                                ALISOUN

    So, so! Hath Peggy jilted all of ye,
    That took such pains to grow you asses’ ears?
    Fie! Peg’s a jade--come back to Alisoun;
    She’ll learn ye the true dance of love.

                                  ALL

                                            The devil!

                                CHAUCER

    Nay, Robin Huberd, Roger--lads, chirk up.
    These be the thorny steps of Purgatory
    That lead ye to your Beatrice of Bath.
    When ye attain unto her t’other ear--

                            [_They groan._]

                                 FRIAR

    We have attained unto it.

                                ALISOUN

                            [_To Chaucer._]

                              Go thy ways!

                         [_Draws them aside._]

    Come here, sweethearts! Hark! I have made a bet
    With goodman Geoffrey yonder. Him as helps
    Me best to win my bet, by God! he shall
    Make merry for my marriage. Come, which fellow
    Will help me?

                                  ALL

                  I!

                                ALISOUN

                     The best shall make me bride.

                    [_A kitchen-boy blows a horn._]

                                  BOY

                              [_Shouts._]

    Meat!

        [_Servants enter with steaming trenchers; the other
        pilgrims come in and seat themselves at the table. The
        Prioress stands hesitating. Chaucer goes to meet her._]

                                  HOST

                         [_Rises on a bench._]

    Lordings, who goes to Canterbury?

                                  ALL

                                      I!

                                CHAUCER

                  [_Offers his arm to the Prioress._]

    Madame, will you vouchsafe to me the honour?

                                PRIORESS

                      [_With a stately courtesy._]

    Merci.

                                ALISOUN

            [_Imitating the Prioress, takes his other arm._]

    Merci!

    [_Chaucer escorts them both to the table, where he sits between
                                them._]

                                  HOST

    Lordings! Now hearkneth to a merry game.
    To-morrow when you canter by the way
    It is no mirth to ride dumb as a stone.
    I say--let every fellow tell a tale
    To short the time, and him as tells the best
    You’ll give a supper here when ye return.
    Lo! I myself will ride with you and judge.
    If ye assent, hold up your hands.

                                  ALL

                                      Aye! Aye!

                                  HOST

    To-morrow then to Canterbury!

                                  ALL

                                  To Canterbury!

        [_Amid the babbling din of eating, drinking, and laughter,
        Alisoun leans across Chaucer’s trencher towards the
        Prioress._]

                                ALISOUN

    Who is the lean wench, Geoffrey?

                                PRIORESS

                                     By St. Loy!

                         =Explicit pars prima.=




ACT SECOND

    “Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote
    The droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote,
    And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
    Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
    Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
    Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
    The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
    Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
    And smale fowles maken melodye,
    That slepen al the night with open ye,
    (So pricketh hem nature in hir corages):
    Then longen folk to goon on pilgrimages.”




ACT II

TIME: April 19th. The afternoon.

        SCENE: Garden of the One Nine-pin inn at the little hamlet
        of Bob-up-and-down, en route to Canterbury.


        _Right, the inn, with door opening into garden. Back, a
        wall about chin-high in which is a wicket gate. The wall is
        newly greened over with honeysuckle and rose-vines, which
        are just beginning to blossom. Left, an arbour of the same.
        Right front, a rough table and chair. Behind the garden
        wall runs the highway, beyond which stretches a quiet
        rolling landscape, dotted with English elms and hedgerows._

        _When the curtain rises, the scene is empty. There is no
        sound except the singing of birds, and the hum of a loom
        inside the inn. Then, away to the left, is heard a bagpipe
        playing. It draws nearer. Behind the wall, then, against
        the green background of Spring, pass, in pageant, the_
        CANTERBURY PILGRIMS _on horseback. Among the last, astride
        her ambler, rides the_ WIFE OF BATH, _telling her tale, in
        the group with_ CHAUCER _and the_ PRIORESS. _Behind her
        follow the Swains, the_ MILLER _playing the bagpipe. Last
        rides the_ REEVE.

        _Behind the scene, they are heard to stop at the inn and
        call for hostlers. The bustle of arrival, horses led
        across a stone court, laughter and abuse,--these sounds
        are sufficiently remote to add to the reigning sense of
        pleasant quietness in the garden. Through the door of the
        inn enters_ CHAUCER, _alone; in his hand, some parchments.
        He enters with an abandon of glad-heartedness, half reading
        from his parchments_.

                                CHAUCER

    “When that April with his sunny showers
    Hath from the drought of March the dreamy powers
    Awaked, and steeped the world in such sweet wine
    As doth engender blossoms of the vine;
    When merry Zephirus, with his soft breath,
    In every hedge and heath inspireth
    The tender greening shoots, and the young Sun
    Hath half his course within the Ram y-run,
    And little birds all day make melody
    That, all night long, sleep with an open ee,
    (So Nature stirs ’em with delicious rages)
    Then folk they long to go on pilgrimages--”

                                 SQUIRE

                        [_Comes from the inn._]

    Dan Chaucer! Master Chaucer!

                                CHAUCER

                                 Signorino!

                                 SQUIRE

    Sir, what a ride! Was ever such a ride
    As ours from London? Hillsides newly greened,
    Brooks splashing silver in the small, sweet grass,
    Pelt gusts of rain dark’ning the hills, and then
    Wide swallowed up in sunshine! And to feel
    My snorting jennet stamp the oozy turf
    Under my stirrup, whilst from overhead
    Sonnets shook down from every bough. Oh, sir,
    Rode Cæsar such a triumph from his wars
    When Rome’s high walls were garlanded with girls?

                                CHAUCER

    Boy, let me hug thee!

                                 SQUIRE

                          Noble sir!

                                CHAUCER

                           [_Embracing him._]

                                     A hug!
    Spring makes us youths together. On such a day
    Old age is fuddled and time’s weights run down.
    Hark!

                   [_A cuckoo sounds; they listen._]

    The meadow is the cuckoo’s clock, and strikes
    The hour at every minute; larks run up
    And ring its golden chimes against the sun.

                                 SQUIRE

    Sir, only lovers count the time in heaven.
    Are you in love, too?

                                CHAUCER

                          Over head and heart.

                                 SQUIRE

    Since long?

                                CHAUCER

                These forty years.

                                 SQUIRE

                                   Nay, is your mistress
    So old?

                                CHAUCER

            She’s still kind.

                                 SQUIRE

                              Kind, yet old! Nay, what’s
    Her name?

                                CHAUCER

              Hush, she will hear thee.

                                 SQUIRE

                                        Hear me?

                                CHAUCER

                           [_Mysteriously._]

                                                 Hush!
    Mine own true mistress is sweet Out-of-doors.
    No Whitsun lassie wears so green a kirtle,
    Nor sings so clear, nor smiles with such blue eyes,
    As bonny April, winking tears away.
    Not flowers o’ silk upon an empress’ sleeve
    Can match the broidery of an English field.
    No lap of amorous lady in the land
    Welcomes her gallant, as sweet Mistress Earth
    Her lover. Let Eneas have his Dido!
    Daffydowndilly is the dame for me.

                                PRIORESS

                              [_Within._]

    Joannes!

                                 SQUIRE

             You are happy, sir, to have
    Your mistress always by you. Mine’s afar
    Turning the Italian roses pale with envy.

                                CHAUCER

    She dwells in Italy?

                                 SQUIRE

                         In Padua.

                                CHAUCER

    In Padua? Why, there I knew Dan Petrarch,
    Whose sonnets make the world love-sick for Laura.

                                 SQUIRE

    Would I could make it sigh once for my lady!
    Sir, will you help me?

                                CHAUCER

                           Gladly; what’s her name?

                                 SQUIRE

    Alas! Her name is not poetical:
    Johanna! Who can sonnetize Johanna?

                                CHAUCER

    Invent her one to please you.

                                 SQUIRE

                                  Euphranasia--
    How like you Euphranasia, sir?

                                 FRIAR

           [_Aside, popping his head from behind the wall._]

                                   Qui la?

                         [_Dodges down again._]

                                PRIORESS

                          [_Within, singing._]

    Laudate, pueri, Dominum; laudate nomen Domini! Nay, Paulus, I
    _will_ sing: ’tis pretty weather.

                                 SQUIRE

    Euridice or Helena?

                                PRIORESS

                           [_Sings within._]

    A solis ortu usque ad occasum, laudabile nomen Domini.

                                 SQUIRE

                                                           Or, Thisbe?

                                CHAUCER

            [_Lifting a sprig of honeysuckle on the wall._]

    Nay, boy, this spray shall name her.

                [_The Friar peeps over the wall again._]

                                 SQUIRE

                                         Eglantine!
    Music itself! Methinks I have an aunt
    Named Eglantine. What matter?--Eglantine!

                                CHAUCER

    I’ll match that name against the Muses nine.

                     [_Takes out his parchments._]

                                 SQUIRE

    What! verses?

                                CHAUCER

                  Scraps of prologue to a book
    I think to call “The Canterbury Tales.”
    Good boy, leave me a bit; I have the fit
    To rhyme for a time thy Donna Eglantine.
    Come back at chapel-bell, or send someone
    To fetch the verses.

                                 SQUIRE

                         Sir, I will.

                             [_Exit left._]

                                 FRIAR

                                      Me voila!

                      [_Exit right, behind wall._]

                                CHAUCER

       [_Reading from one of his parchments, crosses over by the
                               arbour._]

    “There was also a nun, a prioress,
    That of her smiling was full simple and coy;
    The greatest oath she swore was ‘by St. Loy!’
    And she was clepèd Madame Eglantine;
    Full daintly she sang the psalms divine;
    And French she spake (St. Patrick taught her how),
    After the school of Stratford-at-the-Bowe.
    Full prettily her wimple pinchèd was,
    Her nose piquante; her eyes as grey as glass;
    Her mouth full small, and thereto soft and red;
    In very sooth she had a fair forehead;
    And dangling from her dainty wristlet small,
    A brooch of gold she wore, and therewithal
    Upon it there was writ a crownèd A,
    And after--

    [_Enter, right, the Prioress, carrying her little hound. Chaucer
                              sees her._]

                Amor vincit omnia.”

                       [_He enters the arbour._]

                                PRIORESS

    Joannes, stay indoors and tell your beads.

                        [_To her little hound._]

    Jacquette, ma petite, it is a pretty day.
    See you those clouds? They are St. Agnes’ sheep;
    She hath washed their wool all white and turned ’em loose
    To play on heaven’s warm hillside. Smell that rose?
    Sweet-sweet! n’est ce pas, ma petite? Hast ever heard
    The Romance of the Rose?

                                CHAUCER

                               [_Aside._]

                             Saints!

                                PRIORESS

                                     ’Tis a tale
    As lovely as the flower,--writ all in verses
    Dan Chaucer made at court. Hush, hush, don’t tell:
    I’ve read it. Ah! Jacquette! Jacquette! Jacquette!
    When Mary was a girl in Joseph’s garden,
    Were there such pretty days in Palestine?

                           [_Picks a rose._]

                                CHAUCER

    Gods! must I hand her over--to a brother!
    Alas! the sands of dreams, how fast they slip
    Till Geoffrey lose his Lord-protectorship.

                                PRIORESS

       [_Plucking the rose’s petals till the last petal falls._]

    Pater noster (our Father), qui es in cœlis (which art
    in heaven), sanctificetur nomen tuum (hallowed be thy
    name). Adveniat regnum tuum (thy kingdom come);
    fiat voluntas tua--thy will be done!

                                CHAUCER

    Amen! I must resign!

    [_He is about to step out from the arbour and discover himself,
                but pauses as the Prioress continues._]

                                PRIORESS

    Alas! We must go seek my brother and so
    Quit the protection of this noble stranger.
    You know, Jacquette, we must be fond of him.
    He saved your life--we mustn’t forget that.
    And though the wastel-bread was underdone,
    He was most kind at table, and inquired
    After your health, petite. And though he kissed
    The ale-wife--oui, ma pauvre Jacquette!--yet he
    Is contrite, and will seek St. Thomas’ shrine
    For absolution.

                                CHAUCER

                    Forgive us our trespasses!

                                PRIORESS

    He was so courteous, too, upon the road
    I’m sure he is a gentleman. Indeed,
    I hope my brother proves as true a knight,
    When he arrives.

                                CHAUCER

                     Deliver us from temptation!

                 [_A shout from the pilgrims within._]

                                PRIORESS

    Would he were here now.--Nay, I mean--the other.
    This April day flowed sweet as a clear brook
    Till these hoarse frogs jumped in to rile its silver.

                                 SWAINS

                           [_Sing, within._]

            The Wife of Bath
              She’s a good fellow,
              A maiden mellow
            Of Aftermath.

                                PRIORESS

    Vite, vite, ma petite.

        [_She hastens to the arbour, where Chaucer quickly pretends
        to be absorbed in writing. As she is withdrawing hastily,
        however, he turns round._]

                           Monsieur, excusez moi!

                                CHAUCER

    Madame, the fault is mine; I crave your pardon.

                                PRIORESS

    What fault, Monsieur?

                                CHAUCER

        [_Breaks a spray from the arbour and hands it to her._]

                           I trespass in _your_ bower.
    Permettez.

                                PRIORESS

               Honeysuckle?

                                CHAUCER

                            So ’tis called;
    But poets, lady, name it--eglantine.

                                PRIORESS

    M’sieur!

                                CHAUCER

             May I remain and call it so?

                                PRIORESS

    M’sieur--this is Jacquette, my little hound.

        [_Chaucer takes the pup; they retire farther into the
        arbour, as the_ WIFE OF BATH _enters from the inn. She
        is accompanied by the_ FRIAR, MILLER, COOK, SUMMONER,
        PARDONER, MANCIPLE, _and_ SHIPMAN, _who enter singing. They
        lift her upon the table, and form a circle round her._]

                                 SWAINS

                           The Wife of Bath
                         She’s a good fellow,
                            A maiden mellow
                             Of Aftermath.

                           She cuts a swath
                       Through sere-and-yellow;
                           No weeping willow
                          Bestrews her path.

                          Her voice in wrath
                        Is a bullock’s bellow;
                         For every good fellow
                            Eyes she hath.

                         She’s a good fellow,
                           The Wife of Bath!

                                ALISOUN

    Sweethearts, your lungs can blow the buck’s horn.--Robin,
    Ye sing like a bittern bumbling in the mire.

                                 MILLER

    By Corpus, ’twas a love-toot.

                                 FRIAR

                                  Prithee, sweet dame,
    Finish your tale.

                                  ALL

                      Finish the tale.

                 [_Other pilgrims enter from the inn._]

                                ALISOUN

    Shut up, lads. Sure, my wits are gone blackberrying.
    Where was I?

                                 FRIAR

                 Where King Arthur’s knight came home,
    You said, and--

                                ALISOUN

                    Will you let me say it then?

                                 FRIAR

    Sweet dame, you said--

                                ALISOUN

                           A friar and a fly
    Will fall in every dish, that’s what I said.
    Lads, will ye hear this church-bell ring, or me?

                                  ALL

    You--you--

                                SUMMONER

               I’ll muffle his clapper.

                                ALISOUN

                                        Hark my tale:
    This knight rode home a-whistlin’ to himself,
    Right up the castle-hall, where all the lords
    And ladies sat. “Your majesties,” quoth he,
    “Though I be hanged, this is my true reply:
    Women desire to do their own sweet wills.”

                          [_The Swains clap._]

    “Ho!” cried King Arthur, “that’s the best I’ve heard
    Since I was first henpecked by Guinevere.
    Depart! Thy neck is free!”
                               But at that word,
    Up sprang an old wife, sitting by the fire,
    And says: “Merci, your Majesty, ’twas I
    That taught this answer to the knight; and he
    Hath sworn to do the next thing I require.
    Therefore, sweet knight, before this court I pray
    That ye will take me to your wedded wife.
    Have I said false?”
                        “Nay, bury me,” quoth he.
    “Then I will be thy love.”
                               “My love?” quoth he.
    “Nay, my damnation!”
                         “Take your wife to church,”
    Cries out the King, “and look ye treat her well,
    Or you shall hang.”

                                 MILLER

                        Ho! What a roast!

                                PRIORESS

                               [_Aside._]

                                          Poor man!

                                ALISOUN

    The knight he spake no word, but forth he takes
    His grizzly bride to church, and after dark
    He leads her home. “Alas! sweet husband mine,
    What troubleth you?” quoth she. “Nothing,” quoth he.
    “Perchance that I am old?” “Nay, nay,” quoth he.
    “Ugly and old,” quoth she, “cures jealousy.”
    “It doth indeed,” quoth he. “What then?” quoth she.
    “Are ye content?” “More than content,” quoth he;
    “And will ye let me do my own sweet will
    In everything?” “In everything,” quoth he,
    “My lady and my love, do as you please.”
    “Why, then, so please me, strike a light,” quoth she.
    And when the knight had lit the candle, lo!
    His grizzly bride--she was the Fairy Queen.

                         [_Loud acclamation._]

                                PRIORESS

                               [_Aside._]

    Praise heaven!

                                 FRIAR

                   [_Into whose arms Alisoun jumps._]

    Bravo, Queen Mab, it was thyself.

                                  COOK

                                      I’ll bet
    The knight was her fifth husband.

                                ALISOUN

                                      Welcome the sixth!
    God made me the King Solomon of wives.

                                SHIPMAN

            [_To the Miller, who begins to play his pipes._]

    God save thee, Robin! Bust thy pigskin.

                                ALISOUN

                                            Aye!
    Let’s have an elf dance. Come!

                          [_To the Summoner._]

                                   Thy arm, sweet Puck!

                               BOTTLEJOHN

                [_To Herry Bailey, who is looking on._]

    Tarry ye all to-night?

                                  HOST

                           Aye, till to-morrow.

                               BOTTLEJOHN

    ’Twill be a pinch for room.

                                  HOST

                              [_Laughs._]

                                But not for reckonings.

        [_The Miller, sitting on the wall, plays his bagpipe,
        while Alisoun dances with her Swains, each of whom is
        jealous of the rest. Chaucer and the Prioress still remain
        out of sight in the arbour. As the music grows merrier,
        the Prioress begins to click the beads of her rosary
        rhythmically._]

                                CHAUCER

    Why do you tell your beads, Madame?

                                PRIORESS

                                        To keep
    The fairies from my feet.

                                CHAUCER

                              The fairies?

                                PRIORESS

                                            Yes,
    The bagpipe sets them free. I feel them twitch me.

                                CHAUCER

    Why drive them away?

                                PRIORESS

                          Monsieur!

                                CHAUCER

                                    See you the birds?
    St. Francis taught that we should learn of them.

                                PRIORESS

    What do they?

                                CHAUCER

                  Sing, and dance from bough to bough.
    The Muses sing; and St. Cecilia danced.

                                PRIORESS

    Think you she danced, sir, of her own sweet will?

                                CHAUCER

    Nay, not in April! In April, ’tis God’s will.

                                PRIORESS

    Monsieur--

                   [_Gives Chaucer her hand shyly._]

                ’tis April.

        [_They dance, in stately fashion, within the arbour.
        Forgetting themselves in the dance, however, they come a
        little too far forward; Alisoun spies them, and clapping
        her hands, the music stops._]

                                ALISOUN

                            Caught! Ho, turtle-doves
    Come forth, Sir Elvish Knight, Sir Oberon!
    Fetch forth thy veilèd nymph, that trips so fair.

        [_Chaucer steps forth from the arbour. The Prioress,
        within, seizes up her little hound from a settle and hides
        her face._]

                                  ALL

    Hail!

                                CHAUCER

          Silence, loons! And thou, wife, hold thy tongue
    And know thy betters. As for you, ye lummocks,
    You need be proud as water in a ditch
    To glass this lady’s image even in your eyes,
    So, look ye muddy not her sandal-tips.
    Begone! And mind when next you laugh the same,
    That all the saints, to whom you bumpkins pray,
    Dance with the Virgin round the throne of God.
    Begone, and do your reverences.

        [_Some of the pilgrims retire; others remain staring and
        bow as the Prioress, veiled, crosses over to the inn door
        with her little hound._]

                                ALISOUN

                            [_To the Cook._]

                                    Hist, Roger!
    What is the man?

                                  COOK

                     No cheap dough.

                                PRIORESS

                                     O Jacquette!

                               [_Exit._]

                                ALISOUN

                  [_Approaches Chaucer tentatively._]

    God save thee, man! I ken not who thou art,
    But him’s can curry down a ticklish mare
    Like me, he hath a backbone in his bolster;
    I love thee better for’t.--Ay, gang thy gait;
    But, bully Geoffrey, mind, we have a bet:
    Yea, if I fry thee not in thine own grease
    And cry thee tit for tat, call me a man.
    Man lives _for_ wit, but woman lives _by_ it.--
    These dancing virgins!

                      [_Exit, followed by Friar._]

                                CHAUCER

                           Clods and bumpkins all!

                                 MILLER

                  [_Gets in Chaucer’s way defiantly._]

    Sir Oberon--

                                CHAUCER

                 Stand by!

                                 MILLER

                           Lord Rim-Ram-Ruff!
    He plays the courtier.

                             [_Bitterly._]

                    Harkee, Monsieur Courtier,
    “When Adam delved and Eve span,
    Who was then the gentleman?”

                                CHAUCER

    Why, Monsieur Snake; he cherished the family tree
    As the apple of his eye. In view of which,
    Go drink a pot of cider.

                     [_Throws the Miller a coin._]

                                 MILLER

                              [_Ducking._]

                             ’Save your Worship!

                         [_Exit with Swains._]

                                CHAUCER

                               [_Solus._]

    “When Adam delved”--who was court-poet then?
    Adam. Who was Bob Clodhopper? Why, Adam.
    Which, then, in that close body politic
    Perked high his chin? Which doffed and ducked the knee?
    Which tanned and sweat in the lean furrow? Which
    Spat on the spade--and wore it in his crest?
    Which was the real Adam? Sly Dame Clay,
    If paradox died not in Genesis,
    Let me not fancy Richard’s laureate
    Alone’s incognito. Incognito
    Are all that pass in nature’s pilgrimage,
    For thou, with loamy masks and flesh-tint veils,
    Dost make us, in this timeless carnival,
    Thy dupes and dancers, ushering the courtier
    To kiss beneath thy glove the goose-girl’s hand,
    Or snub, behind the poor familiar rogue
    And clown, some god that hides in Momus’ mask.
    Nay, but not she--my gentle Prioress!
    Though all the rest, in born disguisements, be
    Basted and togg’d with huge discrepancy,
    _She_ wears the proper habit of her soul.
    Dear God! how harmony like hers unchains
    Delight from the lugg’d body of Desire
    To sing toward heaven like the meadow-lark,
    Till, with her parting, it drops dumb again
    In the old quag of flesh.
                              Flesh, Geoffrey! Fie!
    What need to guard from sight the poet in thee
    When nature thus hath hoop’d and wadded him
    With barracoons of paunch? What say, thou tun?
    Will Eglantine mistake thee for Apollo,
    Thou jewel in the bloated toad; thou bagpipe
    Puff’d by the Muse; thou demijohn of nectar;
    Thou grape of Hebe, over-ripe with rhyme;
    Thou lump of Clio, mountain of Terpsichore;
    Diogenes, that talkest in thy tub!
    Fie, Mother Earth!--Cling not about my waist
    As if I were a weanling sphere. Fall off!
    Ye gods! that kneaded this incongruous dough
    With lyric leaven, sweat me to a rake-handle
    Or let the Muse grow fat!

                               [_Exit._]

                                 FRIAR

                          [_Outside, sings._]

            Ye pouting wenches, pretty wives,
              That itch at weddings, fairs, and wakes,
              For trothal-rings and kissing-cakes,
            For wristlets, pins, and pearlèd knives,
                          Hither trip it!
              To peep i’ the friar’s farsèd tippet,
              Who gently for sweet sinners’ sakes--

                    [_Enter the Friar and Alisoun._]

                                ALISOUN

    Hush!

        [_Going to the cellar door, she opens it and ponders._]

                                 FRIAR

                               Ben’cite!
                           (Thus singeth he.)
                           Bene--benedicite!

                                ALISOUN

          Hold thy cock-crow! My wit’s working.

                                 FRIAR

                                                 Nay,
    Thy jealousy, sweet dame.

                               [_Sings._]

            Ye lasses jilted, lovers droopèd,
              Rose-lip--

                                ALISOUN

                              Shut up!

                                 FRIAR

                             [_Sings on._]

            Rose-lip, White-brow, Blue-eye, Brown-tress,
            Confide your pretty hearts! Confess
            To the pleasant friar: trust not Cupid--

                                ALISOUN

                                             By Peter!
    I have the plan!

                                 FRIAR

                               [_Sings._]

                     Love is a liar,
            But lovers love the pleasant friar,
            Who, making of their burdens less--

     [_Here he approaches Alisoun caressingly, and deftly steals a
                    gold pin from her head-dress._]

                                ALISOUN

                        [_Laughing to herself._]

                    Ha! that shall win my bet!
    What, Huberd!

                                 FRIAR

                         [_Secreting the pin._]

                               Ben’cite!
                           (Thus singeth he.)
                           Bene--benedicite!

                                ALISOUN

                  Wilt thou hear my plan?

                                 FRIAR

                                          Fair Alis,
    I would console thy jealousy.

                                ALISOUN

                                  Me jealous!
    Blest be thy breech! Who of?

                                 FRIAR

              [_Imitating Chaucer in his former speech._]

                                 “And, thou, wife, hold
    Thy tongue and know thy betters.”

                                ALISOUN

                                      Ho! my betters?
    That little snipper-snapper of a saint
    He praised for dancing ring-around-the-rose-tree,
    When honest wives are damned for showing their ankles?
    A fig for her!--What, him! a walking hay-cock
    That woos a knitting-needle of a nun!
    And me! that when I was to home in Bath
    Walked into kirk before the beadle’s wife:
    My betters? Wait until I win my bet!

                                 FRIAR

    What bet?

                                ALISOUN

              Canst thou be mum?

                                 FRIAR

                                 Dame, I have been
    A bishop’s valet, a nun’s confidant,
    A wife’s confessor, a maid’s notary;
    As coroner, I’ve sat in Cheapside inns
    When more than wine flowed. This breast can be dark
    As Pharaoh’s chamber in the pyramids.

                                ALISOUN

    List then: Ye wot I made a bet last night
    With Geoffrey. This was it: Dame Eglantine,
    Here at this inn, expects to meet her brother--

                                 FRIAR

    You mean--Dan Roderigo.

                                ALISOUN

                            Aye; but as
    She hath not seen him since she was a child,
    She hath not recognised him. He, ye ken,
    Doth wear a ring wi’ a Latin posy in’t.

                                 FRIAR

    I know; ’tis “Amor vincit omnia,”
    The same as on her brooch.

                                ALISOUN

                               There hangs my bet.
    For if Dame Eglantine shall give yon brooch
    Into the hands of any but her brother,
    Then Geoffrey marries me at Canterbury.

                                 FRIAR

    Diable! _Marries_ thee?

                                ALISOUN

                            What then, dear friend?
    Wouldst thou forswear thy celibate sweet vows
    To buckle on a wife?

                                 FRIAR

                         Nay, dame, a sister.

                                ALISOUN

    A sister of St. Venus’ house? Go pray!
    A husband is my holy pilgrimage,
    And Geoffrey is my shrine.

                                 FRIAR

                               Et moi?

                                ALISOUN

                                       “Et moi?”
    Thou art a jolly incubus. Thou shalt
    Help me to catch my bird.

                [_Enter the Miller by the wicket gate._]

                                 FRIAR

                              Et donc?

                                ALISOUN

                                       “Et donc?”
    Why, then, I’ll give a farthing to the friars.

                                 FRIAR

    Nay, dame, the coin of Cupid is a kiss.

                             [_Pleading._]

    One kiss pour moi.--At Canterbury--un baiser!

                                 MILLER

                         [_Seizing the Friar._]

    One pasty, eh? thou shorn ape!

                                 FRIAR

                              [_Screams._]

                                   Alisoun!

                                 MILLER

    By Corpus bones, I’ll baste thee!

                                ALISOUN

                                      Let him be!
    Shame! Wouldst thou violate a modest friar?

                                 MILLER

    He asked thee for a--

                                ALISOUN

                          Baiser. Baiser means
    In Latin tongue a blessing. Not so, Huberd?

                                 FRIAR

    Dame, from thy lips, it meaneth Paradise.

                                 MILLER

                           [_Imitating him._]

    Doth it in thooth, thweet thir?--Thou lisping jay!
    Thou lousy petticoats!

                                ALISOUN

          [_Suddenly embracing the Miller; whispers to him._]

                           Whist! Robin, thou
    Art just in the nick. I have a plan. Run fast;
    Fetch here the other lads, and bring a gag.

                                 MILLER

    A gag? For him?

                                ALISOUN

                    Run quick.

                                 MILLER

                               [_Going._]

                               By Corpus arms!

                                 FRIAR

                             [_Taunting._]

                       Mealy miller, moth-miller,
                               Fly away!
                  If Dame Butterfly doth say thee nay,
                      Go and court a caterpillar!

                                 MILLER

                     [_Laughing, shakes his fist._]

    Ha, ha! By Corpus bones!

                           [_Exit at gate._]

                                ALISOUN

                             Now, bird; the plot.
    I’ve sent him for a gag.

                                 FRIAR

                             A gag? What for?

                                ALISOUN

    To win my bet, of course. ’Tis for this knight.

                                 FRIAR

    Thou wilt not gag a knight--the Prioress’
    Brother!

                                ALISOUN

             Hast thou forgot I bet with Geoffrey
    The man that wears the ring will prove to be
    Dame Virtue’s lover?

                                 FRIAR

                         He that wears the ring?
    Methinks I smell: but who’s your man?

                                ALISOUN

                                          Sweet owl,
    The sunlight hurts thine eyes, thou starest too hard.

     [_Blindfolding his eyes with her hands, she whirls him thrice
                                round._]

    Behold him.

                                 FRIAR

                              [_Dizzily._]

                Where?

                  [_Alisoun slaps her own shoulder._]

                       What, thou? O ecce homo!
    Thou wilt enact the lover and the knight
    And woo Dame Eglantine?

                                ALISOUN

                            Who else? Forsooth,
    I am a shapely crusader. This leg
    Hath strode a palfrey thrice to Palestine.
    I’ve won my spurs.

                                 FRIAR

                       Thou wit of Aristotle.
    O Helen of Troy! O Amazon! I catch:
    Thou gaggest the _real_ knight and bear’st him off
    Where thou mayst steal his ring and togs.

                                ALISOUN

                                              And borrow
    A false beard from thy tippet. Thou shalt be
    My valet, and retouch the Wife of Bath
    To play the Devil in the Mystery.

                                 FRIAR

    But where’ll be thy boudoir?

                                ALISOUN

                                 The cellar yonder.
    Bob Miller and the other lads shall gag
    And tie him there.

                                 FRIAR

                       Why, this is merrier than
    Nine wenches ducking in a Hallow-een bowl.

        [_Doubling over with laughter, he almost knocks against
                Chaucer, who enters, left, meditative._]

    Whist! Geoffrey! Come away.

                                CHAUCER

                      [_Reads from a parchment._]

                              “April, May,
                              Cannot stay;
                      We be pilgrims--so are they,
                            And our shrine,
                              Far away--”

        [_A bell sounds outside; Chaucer pauses, and draws out a
                           pocket sun-dial._]

                                The chapel bell!
    Four, by my cylinder. My signorino
    Will claim his verses!

                             [_Reads on._]

                    “And our shrine,
                     Far away,
            Is the heart of Eglantine.”

                         [_Pauses and writes._]

                                ALISOUN

                          [_Aside to Friar._]

                           Eglantine! What’s this?

                                 FRIAR

    Love verses. He hath writ them for the Squire
    To give unto his lady-love Johanna.

                                ALISOUN

    But he said “Eglantine.”

                                 FRIAR

                             Aye, dame; he dubs
    Her Eglantine to be poetical.

                                ALISOUN

    A poet! Him?

                                 FRIAR

                 Why not? Jack Straw himself
    Could ring a rhyme, God wot, till his neck was wrung.

                                CHAUCER

                               [_Reads._]

                  “Eglantine,
                        O to be
                    There with thee,
                        Over sea,
                  In olive-shaded Italy.”

    Too rough. “Shaded” is harsh. H’m! “Olive-silvered.”
    “In olive-silvered Italy.”--That’s better.

                                 FRIAR

                            [_To Alisoun._]

    Hide there!

                                ALISOUN

                What now?

                                 FRIAR

                          Watch.

             [_The Friar approaches Chaucer obsequiously._]

                                CHAUCER

                               [_Reads._]

                             “There to pray
                            At thy shrine--”

                                 FRIAR

                                 Benedicite!
    The blissful martyr save you, sir.

                                CHAUCER

                                       And you.

                                 FRIAR

    The gentle Squire sent me for--

                                CHAUCER

    His verses? They are just finished.

                           [_Folds them up._]

                                 FRIAR

                            Sir, you see, he hailed me
    Passing upon the road. He lies out yonder
    Along a brookside, sighing for his lady.

                                CHAUCER

                [_Handing the parchment to the Friar._]

    Bid him despatch her these. Here, wait; this spray
    Of eglantine goes with them.

                                 FRIAR

                                 Save you, sir.

        [_The Friar starts for the wicket gate. Chaucer,
        absent-minded, passes on to the inn door. As he does so,
        the Friar, treading tip-toe behind him, steals another
        parchment, which is sticking from his pouch._]

                                CHAUCER

                              “April, May,
                              Cannot stay;
                     We be pilgrims--so are they.”

                               [_Exit._]

                                 FRIAR

     [_Stands holding the second parchment, from which he reads._]

        “There was also a nun, a prioress,
        That of her smiling was full simple and coy;
        The greatest oath she swore--”

                                       Blessed be larceny!
    This rhyme is slicker to have up my sleeve
    Than five aces of trumps.

                                ALISOUN

                            [_Joining him._]

                              What’s up?

                                 FRIAR

                                         List, dame!
    Of human hearts I am an alchemist.
    To stir them in the crucible of love
    Is all my research and experiment;
    And but to find a new amalgam makes
    My mouth to water like a dilettante’s.

                                ALISOUN

    Well?

                                 FRIAR

    Geoffrey wrote these verses for the Squire
    To give his lady; therefore, _I_ will give them
    To Eglantine, and watch the _tertium quid_;
    That is to say, whether the resultant be
    A mantling _coleur rose_, or--an explosion.

                                ALISOUN

    What’s in the verses? Nay, man, read ’em out;
    I am no clerk.

                                 FRIAR

    _I_ am a master-reader.

                          “Sigh, Spring, sigh,
                                 Repine
                    Amid the moon-kissed eglantine,
                             For so do I.”

                          [_The Friar sighs._]

                                ALISOUN

    No more o’ that.

                                 FRIAR

                     Sweet Alis, ’tis the art.
    When I look thus,--’tis moonlight. When I sigh
    Thus,--’tis a zephyr wooing apple blossoms.

                                ALISOUN

    Wooing a sick goat! Read ahead.

                                 FRIAR

                                    Ahem!

                               [_Reads._]

                              “April, May,
                               Cannot--”

[_Enter, from the inn, the Knight; from the wicket gate, the Swains,
with ropes and a gag._]

                                ALISOUN

    Quit; here’s our knight. Go find the Prioress.
    And when you’ve given her the verses, join
    Me and the other fellows in the cellar.

                  [_Jerking her thumb at the Knight._]

    _He_’ll be with us.

                                 FRIAR

                        Thy valet comprehends.

                                 KNIGHT

                             [_To Friar._]

    Good fellow, have you seen my son, the Squire?

                                 FRIAR

    My lord, that dame can tell you.

                    [_Throwing a kiss to Alisoun._]

                                     Au revoir!

   [_Then throwing another to the Miller, he sings as he skips out._]

                           Ma douce gazelle,
                           Ma gazelle belle,
                               Bon soir!

                                 MILLER

                          [_To the Shipman._]

    Quick! Head him off, Jack!

                        [_Exit Friar into inn._]

                                ALISOUN

                               Let him go.

                           [_To the Miller._]

                                           Thine ear!

                                 MILLER

    But--

                                ALISOUN

          Shh!

                   [_Draws him aside and whispers._]

               Art thou afeard?

                                 MILLER

                                Nay, dame, but ’tis
    A lord. Mayhap we’d catch the whipping-post.

                                ALISOUN

    But mayhap me along with it, sweet Bob.

                        [_They whisper aside._]

                                 KNIGHT

    This woman tell me of my son! ’Tis strange.

                                ALISOUN

                          [_Aside to Miller._]

    Ye ken!

                                 MILLER

            Aye, aye.

        [_Looking pleased, he speaks to the others aside. During
        the following scene, all of them approach the Knight
        cautiously with the ropes and gag, while Alisoun,
        distracting the Knight, warns or urges them in pantomime._]

                                 KNIGHT

                      Good woman, have you seen--

                                ALISOUN

    And do mine eyes behold him once again?
    O sir! The blissful saints requite you, sir!

                                 KNIGHT

    For what, good dame?

                                ALISOUN

                         His voice! That I should hear
    His voice once more! The vision bursts again
    Upon my brain: the swords, the sweated horse,
    The lifted battle-mace, and then his arms,
    His arms around me--saved!

                        [_Falling at his feet._]

                               Oh, can it be?

                                 KNIGHT

    Madame, arise. We met last night, methinks,
    At Master Bailey’s inn, in Southwark, but
    Never before.

                                ALISOUN

                              [_Rising._]

                  Hold! Gallop not so fast,
    Ye steeds of Memory!--Was it perchance
    A lonely damsel by the Coal Black Sea,
    Forsaken save by him; or was it by
    The walls of old Granada, at the siege,
    When, dazzled by the white star of my beauty,
    He raised his cross to smite the lustful Moor,
    And cried, “Don Roderigo dies for thee!”

                                 KNIGHT

                           [_To the Miller._]

    The woman is ill. You had best call a leach.

                                ALISOUN

    Call no one, sir. Forgive my sentiment.
    Small wonder is it, though the lordly falcon
    Forget the dove he succoured from the crows.
    But ah! how can the tender dove conceal
    The flutterings of her snow-white breast to meet
    Her lord once more?

                                 KNIGHT

                               [_Going._]

                        Madame, I wish you better.

                                ALISOUN

    Dear lord, when last we met at Algezir--

                                 KNIGHT

    Pray to the Virgin!

                                ALISOUN

                        Sweet lord!--

                                 KNIGHT

                                      By St. George,
    I know you not.

                                ALISOUN

                    Alas! Alas! The faithless!
    Was this the chivalry ye promised me
    That night ye kissed me by the soldan’s tent?

                                 KNIGHT

    Off me, thou wife of Satan!

                                ALISOUN

                                Heard ye that?
    Lads, to the rescue!

                                 KNIGHT

                         Sorcery!

       [_The Miller and Alisoun gag the Knight, while the others
                        assist in binding him._]

                                ALISOUN

                                  Quick, Roger!
    Take off his finger-ring. Mum, sweethearts! In, now!

       [_Exeunt omnes, carrying the Knight into the inn cellar._]

        [_Enter the Squire and Johanna. Passing along behind the
        wall, they enter the garden by the wicket gate._]

                                 SQUIRE

    Lady, I cannot yet believe my eyes
    That you are here, and not in Padua.

                                JOHANNA

    ’Tis sweet to hear your voice discredit mine,
    And yet I pray you, sir, believe in me;
    I would not prove a rich Lombardian dream
    To be more fair--even than I am.

                                 SQUIRE

                                     You could not.

                                JOHANNA

    Grazie!

                                 SQUIRE

            For you authenticise yourself
    With beauty’s passport. This alone is you;
    But how come hither?

                                JOHANNA

                         Like the Spring, because
    I heard the snows had thawed in Merry England.

                                 SQUIRE

    As ever, you’re fellow-travellers, dear lady;
    I might have guessed it from the little birds,
    Your gossipy outriders. But with what
    Less winged chaperones came you?

                                JOHANNA

                                     Nay, with none!
    Some flighty ladies of King Richard’s court
    That oped their beaks--but not like nightingales--
    To prate of love. For my part when I saw them
    This morning trot away toward Canterbury
    With that dull Gaunt and silly Duke of Ireland,
    I sighed “sweet riddance.” True, the king is different,
    But he is married.

                                 SQUIRE

                       You are not alone?

                                JOHANNA

    No, sir. I travel with a world-stormed priest,
    Whom all who love him call “Good Master Wycliffe”;
    And those who love him not, “Old Nick,” for writing
    The gospels in dear English.

                                 SQUIRE

                                 You--a Lollard!

                                JOHANNA

    Wait till you know him. He rides now to assist
    High mass at the Cathedral, for Duke John
    Who sails to claim his kingdom in Castile.
    But I ride with him, not so much to absolve
    My sins,--which frankly, since they are so few
    And serviceable, I hate to part with--as
    I go to look on one shall grace that service--
    The man I best admire.

                                 SQUIRE

                           Sweet lady, whom?

                                JOHANNA

    Dan Chaucer--laureate of chivalry.

                                 SQUIRE

    Chaucer! Why he--

                          [_Checks himself._]

                      Alas!

                                JOHANNA

                            Scarce do I wonder
    To see you bite your lip at that great name:
    You, sir, who once, unless my memory fail,
    Did promise me some verses of your own.

                                 SQUIRE

    Nay, you shall have them.

                                JOHANNA

                              What? The verses?

                                 SQUIRE

                                                Yes.

                                JOHANNA

    Prithee, what are they? Rondeaux, amoretti,
    Ballads? Why did you send them not? Odes? Sonnets?
    Which?

                                 SQUIRE

           Nay, I know not.

                                JOHANNA

                            Know not?

                                 SQUIRE

                                      Not as yet.

                                JOHANNA

    Know not as yet!

                                 SQUIRE

                     I mean--O Donna mine!
    I have a friend, whom but to call my friend
    Sets all my thoughts on fire, and makes the world
    A pent-up secret burning to be told.
    Whose slave to be, I would roll Sisyphus’ stone;
    Whom to clasp hands withal, I’d fight Apollyon;
    For whom but to be Pythias, I would die.

                                JOHANNA

    What amorous Platonics! Pythias?
    Sure, Troilus were an apter choice. Well, sir,
    Who is this paragon?

                               [_Aside._]

                         Heaven send her freckles.

                                 SQUIRE

    Nay, if it were allowed me but to name--
    If you could guess the Olympian pedigree--

                    [_Enter Chaucer from the inn._]

    Ah! Here he comes!

                                JOHANNA

Pray, sir, _who_ comes?

                                 SQUIRE

                                                    My friend.

                                CHAUCER

                        [_Scanning the ground._]

    I would not for good twenty pound have lost it.

                                JOHANNA

    Is this your Damon?

                                 SQUIRE

                        Lady, ’tis my friend.

                                CHAUCER

                            [_To himself._]

    If Madame Eglantine should find it, read it!
    Nay, not for forty pound.

                                 SQUIRE

                              He does not see us.
    May I present him?

                                JOHANNA

                    [_Nods carelessly, then aside._]

                       Saints! Must I essay
    To circumvent a rival of such scope?

                                 SQUIRE

    Great sir!

                                JOHANNA

               “Great sir” ’s a proper epithet.

                                 SQUIRE

                     [_Touching Chaucer’s sleeve._]

    I prithee--

                                CHAUCER

                Ah, boy, well met! Did I perchance--

                          [_Seeing Johanna._]

    Pardon!

                                 SQUIRE

            [_Whispers to Chaucer, then aloud to Johanna._]

            Permit me to present to you--
    Lady Johanna, Marchioness of Kent--
    This gentleman, my friend.

                                JOHANNA

                           [_Bows slightly._]

                               A nameless knight?

                                 SQUIRE

                            [_Embarrassed._]

    His name--ah!

                                CHAUCER

                  Master Geoffrey, and your servant.

                                JOHANNA

                            [_To Chaucer._]

    We saw you searching. Was it for a sur-name?

                                 SQUIRE

    Have you lost something? Let us help you find it.
    A purse?

                                JOHANNA

             I trust your loss was not in pounds.

                                CHAUCER

    Sooth, I have lost what fair your ladyship
    Could least, methinks, supply--a piece of wit
    Without a tongue; that is, a piece of parchment
    Writ o’er with verses.

                                 SQUIRE

                           Verses! Sir, a word.

          [_Draws Chaucer aside to the arbour and whispers._]

                                JOHANNA

    A clever rogue! He’d make an apt court-fool.

                                CHAUCER

                          [_Aside to Squire._]

    No; these lost verses were a mere description--
    To fit my prologue--of a dainty nun,
    Poking some gentle mirth at her; of use
    To none save me; but faith! I grudge ’em dearly.

                                 SQUIRE

    Did you find time to write--the other verses?

                                CHAUCER

    The others?

                                 SQUIRE

                To my lady.

                                CHAUCER

                            Those you sent for?
    Did not you like them?

                                 SQUIRE

                           I? I sent for none, sir.

                                JOHANNA

                               [_Aside._]

    Still whispering? Faith! Hath my Aubrey lost
    Both heart and manners to this tavern rhymester?
    I will not have it.

                                 SQUIRE

                            [_To Chaucer._]

                        But I sent no friar!

                                CHAUCER

    He took your mistress’s verses, saying you
    Had sent for them by him.

                                JOHANNA

                              Excuse me, sirs:
    That arbour-seat has room for two to sit,
    Providing we choose wisely from us three.

                                CHAUCER

    Your choice is fate.

                                 SQUIRE

             [_Aside to Chaucer as they enter the arbour._]

                         The friar must have stolen them.

       [_Johanna and the Squire sit; Chaucer stands talking with
             them, his back toward the arbour’s entrance._]

      [_Enter, right, from inn, the Prioress and Friar, the former
                         reading a parchment._]

                                PRIORESS

    The verse is very beautiful.

                                 FRIAR

                                 Is’t not
    Enough to make the Muse weep amber? Zipp!
    ’Tis honey’d moonbeams stored in lachrymals.

                                PRIORESS

                               [_Reads._]

                              “Eglantine,
                                O to be
                            There with thee,
                               Over sea;
                       In olive-silvered Italy.”

    But, gentle friar, why in Italy
    When I’m in England?

                                 FRIAR

                         Dame, ’tis poetry.
    In poetry, all ladies have blue eyes
    And live in Italy.

                                PRIORESS

                       And is this truly
    For me?

                                 FRIAR

            He bade me give it with this spray.

                                PRIORESS

                   [_Taking the sprig of eglantine._]

    He is so chivalrous! But I must finish.

                       “In olive-silvered Italy.

                             There to pray
                             At thy shrine,
                              There to lay
                            This green spray
                       Of our English eglantine.
                              At thy feet.

                               Lady mine,
                         Then wouldst thou say:
                             ‘Pilgrim sweet
                               In Padua,
                        Take it; it is thine.’”

    Is Padua short for Bob-up-and-down?

                                 FRIAR

    Yes, dame.

                               [_Aside._]

               And now to watch my experiment
    Precipitate rose-colour.

                                PRIORESS

                               [_Sighs._]

                             Almost finished!

                               [_Reads._]

                             “Say not nay!
                      Fairest, dearest, far away,
                           Donna Eglantine.”

                                 FRIAR

    Alas, Madame, I did but do my duty.
    He bade me bring them.

                                PRIORESS

                           From my heart, I thank you.
    They’re very beautiful.

                                 FRIAR

                            But amorous,
    I fear; they are _love_-verses.

                                PRIORESS

                                  Are they? Sure,
    I thought them sweet. He is so chivalrous.

                                 FRIAR

[_Aside, takes out his stolen parchment._]

    Soft, then, I’ll try the other. This should bring
    The explosion.

                       [_Rattles the parchment._]

                                PRIORESS

         [_Eagerly, laying the first parchment on the table._]

                   Did he send more verses?

                                 FRIAR

                                            Nay,
    He sent no more, though from his pouch there fell
    This parchment; but methinks he would desire you
    Not to peruse it.

     [_Turning as if to leave, he discovers the three conversing in
                             the arbour._]

                                PRIORESS

                      Me!

                                 FRIAR

                          Yes, dame, for it
    Describes you.

                                PRIORESS

                   How?

                                 FRIAR

                        Alas! In different vein
    From the other.

                                PRIORESS

                    Different?

                    [_Demanding it with a gesture._]

                               Quickly!

                                 FRIAR

                                        ’Tis my duty.

                     [_Hands her the manuscript._]

                                PRIORESS

                        [_Snatching it; reads._]

        “There was also a nun, a prioress,
        That of her smiling was full simple and coy;
        The greatest oath she swore was ‘by St. Loy!’”
    O ciel! O quel outrage!

        [_While she reads on to herself, changing visibly to pique
        and tears, the Friar, purloining the first parchment from
        the table, trips over to the arbour’s entrance and bows._]

                                 FRIAR

                            Diner est servi!
    Messieurs, you are awaited by a lady.

                             [_Runs off._]

                                CHAUCER

                             [_To Squire._]

    Quick! Catch him!

                                JOHANNA

                             [_To Squire._]

                      Stay! “A lady?”

      [_Pursued, the Friar drops his parchment, and, as the Squire
           stops to pick it up, escapes at the garden gate._]

                                PRIORESS

             [_Holding her parchment, confronts Chaucer._]

                                      Stay, Monsieur.

                               [_Reads._]

    “And French she spake (St. Patrick taught her how!)”
    You hear, Monsieur--“St. Patrick taught her how!”
    Oh, where is my Jacquette!

                                 SQUIRE

             [_Joyfully; glancing at the other parchment._]

                               These are the verses!

              [_Hands the parchment eagerly to Johanna._]

                                CHAUCER

    Madame, be calm. I will explain.

                                PRIORESS

                                     Non, non.

                                JOHANNA

                               [_Reads._]

            “Eglantine,
                O to be
            There with thee--”

                             [_To Squire._]

    Wrote you these verses, sir? Who’s Eglantine?

                                 SQUIRE

    Why, lady, she--

                                PRIORESS

                            [_To Chaucer._]

                     How could you write them?

                                CHAUCER

                                               Patience,
    Dear Madame Eglantine--

                                JOHANNA

                            Ha! Eglantine!

                                CHAUCER

                      [_To Prioress, distracted._]

    Which verses do you mean? I wrote them not
    To you!

                                PRIORESS

            What, not to me? Those gracious lines,
    So exquisite?

                                CHAUCER

                  Good God!

                                 SQUIRE

                            [_To Johanna._]

                            Upon my truth,
    These verses are for you. Let me explain--

                                JOHANNA

    Nay, let your friend.

                 [_Showing her parchment to Chaucer._]

                          Sir, did you write these verses?

                                CHAUCER

    I did!

                                PRIORESS

                       [_Showing her parchment._]

           And these, Monsieur?

                                CHAUCER

                                I did.

                                JOHANNA

                                       And pray,
    To whom did you write _these_?

                                CHAUCER

                                 To you.

                                JOHANNA

                                         O Heaven!

                                PRIORESS

    To her!

        [_Unseen, save by the audience, the cellar door is opened,
        part way, and Alisoun peers out, dressed in the Knight’s
        clothes, but still without a make-up. She winks to Huberd,
        whose head bobs up a moment from behind the wall._]

                                 SQUIRE

                            [_To Johanna._]

    Sweet mistress--

                                JOHANNA

                     I demand to know
    Who is this rhyming man? Who was his father?

                                CHAUCER

    My father was a vintner, dame, in London.

                                PRIORESS

    A vintner?

                                 SQUIRE

                     [_With pleading deprecation._]

           Sir--

                                JOHANNA

                     Small marvel that his son
    Should be a cask.

                                ALISOUN

                         [_Aside, jubilantly._]

                      God save my betters!

                                JOHANNA

                             [_To Squire._]

                                           “If
    You could but guess the Olympian pedigree--”
    Saints! Take me to my guardian, sir.

                                PRIORESS

                            [_To Chaucer._]

                                         Ah! bring
    Me to my brother! O Monsieur! How false!

                                 FRIAR

                    [_From behind the wall, sings._]

                   Love is a liar,
            But lovers love the pleasant friar,
            Who, making of their burdens less--

                           CHAUCER AND SQUIRE

    That friar!

                                 FRIAR

 [_Popping his head above the wall with a mock gesture of benediction,
                                sings._]

                               Ben’cite!
                          (Thus singeth he.)
                           Bene--benedicite!


                        Explicit pars secunda.




ACT THIRD


    “Wite ye nat wher ther stant a litel toun
    Which that y-clepèd is Bob-up-and-doun,
    Under the Blee, in Caunterbury weye?”




ACT III

TIME: Evening of the same day.


SCENE: The hall of the One Nine-pin.

        _At the opening of the act all the Pilgrims are on the
        stage, except the following_: MILLER, SHIPMAN, COOK,
        MANCIPLE, SUMMONER, KNIGHT, ALISOUN, CHAUCER, _and_
        WYCLIFFE.

        _Owing to the overcrowding of the little inn, the hall is
        arranged, for the night, as a common sleeping-room. Up
        stage, right, is a great canopied bedstead, with steps to
        climb into it. Along the right wall are truckle-beds. As
        the curtain rises, a clear bell is heard ringing outside,
        slow and musical. By the light of a single torch, the
        Pilgrims are seen, some putting on their cloaks and hoods,
        some peering from behind the bed-curtains, others taking
        links from a tap-boy, who distributes them. These, as they
        are lit, throw an ever stronger light upon the grouped
        faces and contrasted garbs of the company. The PARSON is
        just waking the PLOUGHMAN, who drowses on a truckle-bed._

                                 PARSON

    Up, brother; yon’s the chapel bell.

                               PLOUGHMAN

                                        It rings
    For thee; thou art the parson, Jankin.

                                 PARSON

                                           Nay,
    The preacher will be Wycliffe, old good Master
    De Wycliffe.

                                MERCHANT

                 Old good Master Weak-liver!

                                 PARSON

                           [_Turns angrily._]

    Sir!

                              MAN-OF-LAW

         Old good Master Black-sheep!

                                 PARSON

                               [_Turns._]

                                      Sir!

                                  MONK

                                           Old Nick!

                                 PARSON

                               [_Turns._]

    Whom name you thus?

                                  MONK

                        Your preacher. Faugh! The pope
    Hath bann’d him with five bulls for heresy.

                               PLOUGHMAN

    The old man hath a good grip, if he can
    Hold five bulls by the horns.

                              MAN-OF-LAW

                          [_Aside to Priest._]

                                  An ignoramus!

                               BOTTLEJOHN

    Dick, fetch a pint of moist ale from the cellar
    For Master Bailey here.

                               [_Aside._]

                            A small pint, mind,
    And notch his tally.

                                  DICK

    [_Takes a stick from wall, notches it with his knife, and shows
                          it to Bottlejohn._]

                         Sixpence, sir, three farthings.

        [_Dick then goes to the cellar door. As he opens it, he
        is grabbed within by the Miller, handed breathlessly to
        the Shipman, who claps his hands over the boy’s mouth, and
        disappears with him below. The door then is closed, but at
        intervals it opens and the Miller’s head is seen cautiously
        to emerge._]

                                MERCHANT

    This Wycliffe’s gab hath hurt good trade. ’Twas him,
    Six year ago, whose preaching made the poor folk
    March up to London-town with Wat the Tyler,
    And burn the gentry’s houses.

                                  DYER

                                  Served ’em right!

                               PLOUGHMAN

    God save Wat Tyler!

                                  MONK

                        Peasant! Spit upon thee!

                                 PARSON

    Thou son of Antichrist!

                                  MONK

                            Thou unhang’d Lollard!

                               BOTTLEJOHN

    Sst! Sst! Good masters! Pray, sweet lordings, here
    Comes Master Wycliffe.

        [_Enter, in conversation, WYCLIFFE and CHAUCER, followed
        by JOHANNA, who seeks to draw WYCLIFFE away. The Pilgrims
        greet the last, some with shouts of welcome, others with
        hisses._]

                                WYCLIFFE

                            [_To Chaucer._]

                           Certes, sir, it may
    Be as you say.--Good folk! good children!--Yet
    To me this England is a gorgeous tabard,
    Blazon’d with shining arms and kingly shields;
    A cloth of gold, blood-dyed with heraldries
    Of knightly joustings, presbyterial pomps,
    And red-wine revellings; cunningly, i’ the fringe,
    Chaced round with little lutes and ladies’ Cupids
    To snuggle the horse-hair lining. This brave shirt,
    This inward-goading cloth of gaiety,
    The poor, starved peasant wears on his bare back--
    A ghost, that plays the bridegroom with’s despair.

                               PLOUGHMAN

                    [_Amongst sneers and applause._]

    Right!

                                WYCLIFFE

                            [_To Chaucer._]

           Friend, how seems it thee?

                                CHAUCER

                                      Sir, with your pardon,
    To me, our England is still “Merry England!”
    Which nature cirqued with its green wall of seas
    To be her home and hearth-stone; where no slave,
    Though e’er he crept in her lap, was nursed of her;
    But the least peasant, bow’d in lonely fief,
    Might claim his free share in her dower of grace;
    The hush, pied daisy for’s society,
    The o’erbubbling birds for mirth, the silly sheep
    For innocence.--Mirth, friendship, innocence:
    Where nature grants these three, what’s left for envy?
    These three, sir, serve for my theology.

                              MAN-OF-LAW

    Parfoi! What is this man--a Papist? Is’t
    Some courtier?

                                FRANKLIN

                   Naw! He rings true Lollard, him.
    They’re friends.

                                PARDONER

                              [_Sniffs._]

                     They say it is a London vintner.

                                WYCLIFFE

               [_Aside, to Johanna, indicating Chaucer._]

    Not speak with him?

                                JOHANNA

                        On no account.

                                WYCLIFFE

                                       But--


                                JOHANNA

                                             ’Tis
    A villain. Pray, sir, come to chapel.

     [_She hurries Wycliffe toward the door, where she is accosted,
                     beseechingly, by the Squire._]

                                 SQUIRE

                                          Mistress!

                                JOHANNA

    Am I beset?

                        [_Indicating Chaucer._]

                Join your conspirator,
    Signore!

                          [_She sweeps out._]

                                 SQUIRE

                             [_Following._]

             Grace, Madonna, grace!

             [_Enter, right, Eglantine, with her priests._]

                                CHAUCER

                          [_Aside, sees her._]

                                    My lady!

                                 PARSON

                           [_To Ploughman._]

    Quick, mon, and light the way for Master Wycliffe.

                              [_Exeunt._]

                                MERCHANT

                           [_To Man-of-Law._]

    Go you?

                               MAN-OF-LAW

                         [_Smiles ironically._]

            Hein? When an ass comes out of Oxford,
    His braying charms great ears.

                               [_Lower._]

                                   They say he hath
    A patron in John Gaunt.

                            [_They go out._]

                               BOTTLEJOHN

                               [_Calls._]

                            Dick! Drat thee, Dick!
    Ned, fetch Dick from the cellar with that ale
    For Master Bailey.

                                  NED

                            [_Goes slowly._]

                       Can I ’ave a candle?

         [_The Host gives him such a look that he hastens on._]

                               BOTTLEJOHN

                             [_To Bailey._]

    These ’prentices!

                                 BAILEY

                      Haw! Haw!

                                  MONK

                             [_To Pardoner._]

                                Come, we’ll go twit him.

                       [_Exeunt toward chapel._]

     [_As Ned is about to open the cellar door, a black face looks
                             out at him._]

                                  NED

                           [_Running back._]

    Ow! Ow! A devil’s head! I seed a spook!

                               BOTTLEJOHN

                 [_Seizing a ladle, drives him back._]

    Scat! And the devil swallow thee! Skedaddle!
    Feared o’ the dark!

                                  NED

                          [_Goes whimpering._]

                        ’E’ll drub me wi’ his thigh-bones.

         [_Opening the door, he feels his way down. As the door
              closes, a faint scream comes from within._]

                                CHAUCER

[_To Prioress, who, preceded by her three priests, is about to go out._]

    Madame, goes she to chapel?

                                PRIORESS

                                Paul, Joannes,
    Keep close.

                                CHAUCER

                Si chère Madame--if dear my lady
    Would vouchsafe but a moment, till--

                                PRIORESS

                [_Pausing, but not looking at Chaucer._]

                                         Eh bien?

                                CHAUCER

                             [_Confused._]

    The night is very beautiful.

                                PRIORESS

                                 Joannes!

                                CHAUCER

    That is--I bring you tidings of your brother.

                                JOANNES

    What would Madame?

                                CHAUCER

                       The moon--

                                PRIORESS

                            [_To Joannes._]

                                  Go, go--to chapel.

                                JOANNES

    But will Madame--

                                PRIORESS

                      Va! Va!--

            [_Exeunt priests; she turns shyly to Chaucer._]

                                Alors, Monsieur,
    Vous dites mon frère?--

                                CHAUCER

                            Your brother--

                       [_Aside, as they go out._]

                                           Drown her brother!

                                 WEAVER

                              [_To Dyer._]

    Come on!

                           [_Exeunt omnes._]

                               BOTTLEJOHN

                       [_Blowing out a candle._]

             This preaching saveth tallow.

                               [_Calls._]

                                           Dick!
    Ned! Slow knaves!

                            [_Exit right._]

        [_Cautiously, the cellar door is opened, and enter the
        Miller. He whistles softly; some one within whistles in
        answer._]

                                 MILLER

                      Be all gagged below there?

                                SHIPMAN

                        [_His head appearing._]

                                                 Aye,
    All’s tight beneath the hatches. Is the deck clear?

       [_Miller nods; Shipman disappears for an instant. Then the
                           Miller bows low._]

                                 MILLER

    This way, your lordship--

                                  COOK

                      [_Appearing with Shipman._]

                              ’Save your Worship!

        [_Enter SUMMONER, MANCIPLE, and HUBERD, the latter
        disguised as a chimney-sweep. Lastly, ALISOUN in the dress
        of the Knight._]

                             ALL THE SWAINS

                                                  Hail,
    Dan Roderigo!

                                ALISOUN

         [_While the Swains assist in adjusting her disguise._]

                  Good my squires and henchmen,
    I thank you.-- Roger, sweetheart, lace my boot there.--
    Our journey hath been perilous and dark--
    Bob, chuck, how sits my doublet?--but praise Mary,
    I am preserved to greet my virgin sister;--
    God send _she_ like the flavour of my beard
    Better than me.

                                 FRIAR

                    Let me amend it, sweet!

                            [_Kisses her._]

                                ALISOUN

    Avaunt, vile chimney-sweep! Beshrew thee, Huberd
    Love, wouldst thou swap complexions?

      [_Looks in a pewter plate, while the Cook holds a candle._]

                                         Thy smut nose
    Hath blotched the lily pallor of my brow
    Like a crushed violet. Some powder, quick,
    And touch it off.

                                 FRIAR

        [_From his robe and cowl, which the Shipman holds, extracts
        a rabbit’s foot and touches up Alisoun’s face, while the
        Manciple helps her on with a scarlet-lined mantle._]

                      Sweet love, how liketh you
    This cloak I stole?

                                ALISOUN

                        ’Twill serve.

                                 FRIAR

                              [_Bowing._]

                                      Your valet is
    Your abject Ethiop slave.

                                 MILLER

                             [_Kicks him._]

                              Your nincumpoop!
    Scarecat! Thou blacks thy friar’s skin to save it,
    Lest the fat vintner and the young squire catch thee
    And flay it off.

                                 FRIAR

                     Even so.

                                SUMMONER

                              By quid, let’s blab, then.
    He kissed her, and we’ll blab.

                      COOK, MANCIPLE, AND SHIPMAN

                                   Aye!

                                ALISOUN

                                        Wo betide ye,
    Then! Down! Kneel down--the batch of ye--and swear,
    As ye have hopes to win this lily-white hand,
    Ye will be brothers, till I win my bet.
    Out with your oaths, now. Kiss my foot and say,
            By Venus’s lip,
            And Alis’s hip,
            I swear to keep
            This fellowship!

                                  ALL

            [_Severally trying to kiss her extended foot._]

            By Venus’s lip,
            And Alis’s hip,
            I swear to keep--

                               BOTTLEJOHN

                           [_Calls outside._]

    Ned! Dick!

                                ALISOUN

                      [_In low voice, to Swains._]

               Get out! Back to your cellar; guard
    The knight and the two knaves. Whoever enters
    Gag ’em and tie.

                               BOTTLEJOHN

                             [_Entering._]

                     Dick! Ned! The devil take
    All ’prentices!

                                ALISOUN

                          [_Retaining Friar._]

                    Hist!

                        [_Staying the Miller._]

                          Bob!

                           [_To the others._]

                               Go! Go!

                               BOTTLEJOHN

                                       I wonder
    Was it a spook he saw! ’Tis dark.

                     [_Takes up an unlit candle._]

                                ALISOUN

                                      Mind, when he strikes
    A light, I am the devil, and your feet
    Are hoofs.

                               BOTTLEJOHN

               Folk say they dwell in cellars.

                                 FRIAR

                                               Soft!
    I’ll sprinkle a pinch of this sal volatile
    I’ the candle flame.

                               BOTTLEJOHN

                           [_Lights candle._]

                         I’ll take my crucifix.

        [_He is about to go toward the priedieu, when the Friar
        thrusts his hand over the candle flame. A vivid flash of
        light reveals his black face to Bottlejohn._]

                                 FRIAR

                           Succubus! Incubus!
                           Praestare omnibus!

                               BOTTLEJOHN

                 [_Drops the candle, which goes out._]

    Help!

                                ALISOUN

          Silence!

    [_On the hearth the Friar lights a dull red flame, which throws
                  a flickering glow about the room._]

                               BOTTLEJOHN

                            [_To Alisoun._]

                   O! what art thou? Dost thou laugh?
    What is thy name?

                                ALISOUN

                     My name is Lucifer.
    These be my urchins, Belial and Moloch.
    Salaam! Salaam!

                            FRIAR AND MILLER

                             [_Salaaming._]

                    Hail, Mephistophilis!

                                ALISOUN

                              [_To Host._]

    What thing art thou?--Duck!

                               BOTTLEJOHN

            [_Ducks as the Miller pricks him with a dirk._]

                                I be Bottlejohn,
    The host o’ the One Nine-pin.

                                ALISOUN

                                  Bottlejohn,
    Thee and thy One Nine-pin I damn. For know,
    Thy cellar is the attic over hell,
    And hath been leaking bad ale through my ceiling
    This seven year, and made a puddle deep
    As Proserpina’s garter in her bridal
    Chamber, where thy two knaves--

                               BOTTLEJOHN

                                     What! Ned and Dick?

                                ALISOUN

    Came plumping through head-downwards into hell
    Like bullfrogs in a tarn.

                                 MILLER

                              And drowned! and drowned!
    Shalt _thou_ in thine own ale.

                      [_Leads him toward cellar._]

                               BOTTLEJOHN

                                   O Virgin!

                                 FRIAR

                           [_At door, back._]

                                             Whist!
    One comes.

                               BOTTLEJOHN

               Help! help!

                                ALISOUN

                             [_To Miller._]

                           Quick, Belial, lug thine ass
    Into his stall. Instruct him with thy whittle
    What manner devils we are, and when I clap
    My hands thus and cry “Host!” then lead him forth.

        [_Exeunt Miller and Bottlejohn into cellar. To Friar._]

    Meantime, my pixy, hide we here.

                                 FRIAR

                                     Sweet lord--

         [_They hide in the cupboard. Enter, left, Chaucer and
                              Prioress._]

                                PRIORESS

                                            Parlez toujours, Monsieur!
    Parlez toujours!

                                CHAUCER

                     How silver falls the night!
    The hills lie down like sheep; the young frog flutes;
    The yellow-ammer, from his coppice, pipes
    Drowsy rehearsals of his matin-song;
    The latest swallow dips behind the stack.
    What beauty dreams in silence! The white stars,
    Like folded daisies in a summer field,
    Sleep in their dew, and by yon primrose gap
    In darkness’ hedge, St. Ruth hath dropped her sickle.

                                PRIORESS

    Nay, yonder’s the new moon.

                                CHAUCER

                                But here’s St. Ruth,
    Whose pity hath reprieved a vintner’s son.
    Your nephew’s verses--

                                PRIORESS

                           Pray speak not of them;
    That wicked Friar Huberd was to blame.
    But now--

                      [_Turning to the casement._]

              The moon, Monsieur; parlez, Monsieur!

                                CHAUCER

                               [_Aside._]

    “Parlez, Monsieur.” How shall I trust myself?

                               [_Aloud._]

    I may not, dear Madame. If I should speak,
    My heart would run in passages too sweet
    For this cloy’d planet.

                                PRIORESS

               [_Pointing through casement to the sky._]

                            Mais--parlez, Monsieur.

                                CHAUCER

    Yea, if perchance there were some _other_ star--

                                PRIORESS

    Some other star--

                                CHAUCER

                      Some star unsurfeited,
    Some blessed star, where hot and lyric youth
    Pours not swift torment in the veins of age;
    Where Passion--gorgeous cenobite--blurs not
    With fumid incense of his own hot breath
    The hallow’d eyes of sweet Philosophy;
    Where body battens not upon the soul,
    But both are Reason’s angels, and Love’s self--
    Pontifical in daisy-chains--doth hold
    High mass at nature’s May-pole;--if such star
    There were in all God’s heaven, and such indeed
    Were ours, there would I speak and utter, not
    “Dear Eglantine, I love you,” but “We love.”

                                PRIORESS

    Monsieur, ’tis true.

                                CHAUCER

                         The simple truth, once said,
    Is very sweet, Madame.

                                PRIORESS

                           Merci, Monsieur.

                                ALISOUN

    Whist, Huberd; are they gone?

                                 FRIAR

                                  Nay.

                                ALISOUN

                                       Did he kiss her?
    Bones! Are they dumb!

                                 FRIAR

                          Art jealous, dame?

                                ALISOUN

                                             Shut up!

                                CHAUCER

                           [_At the window._]

    Some other star! Choose, lady, which is ours?

                                PRIORESS

    Yonder cool star that hides its winking light
    Like a maid that weeps--but not for heaviness.

                                CHAUCER

    Ha! If I were Prometheus now, I’d filch it
    From out the seventh crystal sphere for you
    And ’close it in this locket.

                          [_Seizes her hand._]

                                PRIORESS

                                  Nay, that holds
    My brother’s hair.

                                CHAUCER

           [_Dropping her hand, looks away into the night._]

                       We dream.

                                PRIORESS

                                 Of what, Monsieur?

                                CHAUCER

    We dream that we are back in Eden garden
    And that the gates are shut--and sin outside.

                                PRIORESS

    Why, such in truth is love.

                                CHAUCER

                                Yes, such in truth
    But not in fact, dear lady. Such sweet truth
    Grows only on God’s tree; we may behold
    And crave immortally, but may not pluck it
    Without the angel’s scourge.--“When Adam delved”--
    Aye, then he dragged both heaven and earth and hell
    Along with him.--O God! this suzerain mansion
    Where saints and crown’d philosophers discourse
    Familiarly together as thy guests--
    This ample palace of poesie, the mind--
    Hath trap-doors sunk into a murky vault,
    Where passion’s serfs lie sprawling.

                                PRIORESS

                                         I am afraid!

                                CHAUCER

    Forgive me, O sweet lady! I seem not
    All that I am.

                                PRIORESS

                              [_Timidly._]

                   What are you?

                                CHAUCER

                                 Do you ask?
    Why, then, for this dull, English bulk, ’tis true
    A London vintner gat it; but for this
    My moving soul, I do believe it is
    Some changeling sprite, the bastard of a god,
    Sprung from Pan’s loins and white Diana’s side,
    That, like a fawn, I fain must laugh and love
    Where the sap runs; yet, like an anchorite,
    Pore on the viewless beauty of a book:
    Not more enamoured (when the sun is out)
    O’ the convent rose, than of the hoyden milkweed
    Bold in my path. Life, in whatever cup,
    To me is a love-potion. In one breath,
    My heart hath pealed the chimes above St. Paul’s
    And rung an ale-wife’s laughter.

                                ALISOUN

                        [_Aside to the Friar._]

                                    Bless his heart
    And waistband! Heard ye that?

                                PRIORESS

                      [_Who has listened, lost._]

                                  To hear you speak
    Is sweeter than the psalter. Do not stop.

                                CHAUCER

                          [_Aside, smiling._]

    Dear Lady Dreams!--

                               [_Aloud._]

                        Hark! Footsteps from the chapel.

                         [_Goes to the door._]

    It is your nephew and his lady-love.
    Let’s step aside before I introduce you,
    And profit by these pangs of “lyric youth.”

     [_Chaucer and the Prioress step aside, as enter, left, Johanna
                           and the Squire._]

                                 SQUIRE

    Stay!

                                JOHANNA

          Leave me!

                                 SQUIRE

                    Hear me!

                                JOHANNA

                             Is the house of prayer
    No sanctuary that you drag me from it?

                                 SQUIRE

    Donna, the cloudy-pillar’d dome o’ the air
    Alone can roof a lover’s house of prayer.

                                JOHANNA

    More verses? Send ’em to your lady nun.

                                 SQUIRE

    O heartless bosom! Cold concave of pity!
    Whet thy disdain upon the heart-shaped stone
    Lodged, like a ruby, in that marble breast,
    And slay me with the onyx of thine eye.

                                JOHANNA

    Pray, did your Geoffrey write that?

                                 SQUIRE

                                        Do not scorn him.
    He named you “Eglantine” because “Johanna”
    Was not euphonious.

                                JOHANNA

                        Because “Johanna”
    Was not--

                                 SQUIRE

              Euphonious. But “Eglantine”--

                                JOHANNA

    But “Eglantine” was all symphonious.
    “Johanna”--ha?--was not mellifluous
    Enough to woo me! So a honeysuckle,
    An eglantine, must be my proxy--ha?
    Go! go! Hide in the night--Go! Kill thyself!

                                 SQUIRE

                            [_At the door._]

    O sky! thy noon was a broad, glorious mirror,
    Which now hath fallen from its frame and shattered;
    And little stars, like points of glass, they prick me
    That gather back my grains of crushèd joy.

                                JOHANNA

                           [_At the window._]

    O starry night! thou art Fortune’s playing-card,
    All bright emboss’d with little shining hearts
    That dash our own with destiny. Oh, false!

                               [_Turns._]

    Go!--to your Eglantine!

                                 SQUIRE

                            Johanna!

                                CHAUCER

                     [_Speaks from the darkness._]

    Hide, Cleopatra, thy Egyptian hair!

                                JOHANNA

                                        Hark!

                                CHAUCER

    Esther, let melt thy meekness as the snow.--

                                JOHANNA

                      [_Draws nearer to Squire._]

    What is’t?

                                CHAUCER

    Hide, Ariadne, all thy beauties bare!

                                 SQUIRE

               Who speaks?

                                CHAUCER

    Penelope and Marcia Cato,
    Drown all your wifely virtues in the Po.--

                                JOHANNA

                           Good Aubrey, strike a light.

                                CHAUCER

    Isold and Helen, veil your starlit eyes--
    _Johanna_ comes, that doth you jeopardise!

           [_The Squire lights a candle, revealing Chaucer._]

                                JOHANNA

    O monster! It is he.

        [_Chaucer takes the candle from the Squire’s hand, and,
        holding it high, approaches Johanna, thereby throwing the
        Prioress into his own shadow._]

                                 SQUIRE

                         Nay, gentle sir!

                                CHAUCER

    Laodamia, Hero, and Dido,
    And Phyllis, dying for thy Demophon,
    And Canace, betroth’d of Cambalo,--
    Polixena, that made for love such moan,
    Let envy gnaw your beauties to the bone;
    Yea, Hypermnestra, swoon in envious sighs--
    _Johanna_ comes, that doth you jeopardise!

                                JOHANNA

    Oh, thank you--both. Squire, I congratulate
    Your cunning chivalry on luring me
    From church to bait me in this bear-trap.

                                 SQUIRE

                                              Lady,
    Upon my honour--

                            [_To Chaucer._]

                     Good sir--

                            [_To Johanna._]

                                Nay, fear nothing.
    Indeed, if you but knew--

                                JOHANNA

                    [_Catching sight of Prioress._]

                              If I but knew!
    St. Ann! I know too much.

                                 SQUIRE

                              You would be proud
    To have him rhyme your name. Sir, I protest
    Had I conceived how fair “Johanna” sounds
    In verse--

                                CHAUCER

                              [_Sternly._]

               Hold, signorino! Was it thus
    You bade me sonnetise your Eglantine?
    You said yourself--

                                 SQUIRE

                        In sooth, that “Eglantine”
    Is sweeter.

                                JOHANNA

                Ugh!

                                CHAUCER

                     There you were false. For know
    As ocean-shells give back the mermaid’s sigh,
    The conches of a lover’s ears should hold
    Eternal murmurs of his mistress’ name.
    “Johanna” should have been thy conjure-word
    To raise all spirits; thy muses’ _nom de plume_;
    “Johanna” should have learnt thy brook to purl,
    Thy pine to sorrow, and thy lark to soar;
    And nightingales, forswearing Tereus’ name,
    Have charmed thy wakeful midnight with “Johanna.”

                                JOHANNA

                            [_To Chaucer._]

    Roland of Champions! Ringrazio!
    Now, pray, what says the other lady?

                                 SQUIRE

                                         The other?

                                JOHANNA

                            [_To Prioress._]

    Dame Eglantine, your most obsequious.

                                PRIORESS

    Votre servante.--I also, Mademoiselle,
    Have been at court.

                                JOHANNA

                        Does not Madame applaud, then,
    This vintner’s courtly eloquence?

                                PRIORESS

                                      I think
    Monsieur will soon explain how this good youth
    And I are dearly tied unto each other.

                                 SQUIRE

    What! I--and you, Madame?

                                JOHANNA

                              It seems the trap
    Hath caught the hunters.

                               [_Aside._]

                             Oh, my heart!

                                 SQUIRE

                                           I swear
    I do not know this lady.

                                JOHANNA

                             What! you swear!

                               [_Aside._]

    Not perjury?

                                 SQUIRE

                 I swear that we are strangers;
    Of no relationship, and least of love.

                                JOHANNA

    Oh, Aubrey, is this true?

                                 SQUIRE

                              Why, Mistress--

                                CHAUCER

                          [_Aside to Squire._]

                                              Soft!
    Walk with this nun a moment.

                                 SQUIRE

                                 Sir?

                                CHAUCER

                                      Dost trust me?

                                 SQUIRE

    Yes, but--

                                CHAUCER

                        [_Indicating Johanna._]

               I’ll reconcile her.

                         [_Aside to Prioress._]

                                   Tell him all,
    Madame. Leave us alone a moment.

                                 SQUIRE

                                     But--

                                CHAUCER

                               [_Aloud._]

    I will not play the hypocrite.

                                PRIORESS

                     [_To Squire, as they go out._]

                                   Dear Aubrey--

                                JOHANNA

    “Dear Aubrey!” Gone! gone! and with her. O base
    Conspiracy!--To leave me!

                            [_To Chaucer._]

                              Stand aside!

                                CHAUCER

    Nay, do not follow.

                                JOHANNA

                        I? I follow _her_?
    Follow the lost Francesca into Limbo!
    She’s damned. I seek my ward, De Wycliffe.

                                CHAUCER

                                               Stay!

                                JOHANNA

    St. Winifred! You’ll force--?

                                CHAUCER

                                  Donna, my heart
    Bleeds tears for you.

                                JOHANNA

                          Stand by!

                                CHAUCER

                                    That one so young,
    So seeming virtuous--

                                JOHANNA

                          “So seeming”--thanks!

                                CHAUCER

    As this young squire should, at one look from his--
    Should, at one look, forsake your ladyship
    For his--alas! But such is man! The bonds
    Which nature forges chain us to the flesh,
    Though angels pry the links.

                                JOHANNA

                                 The bonds which nature?--

                                CHAUCER

    Yes, nature: ’tis not love. Had it been love,
    Would he have turned, even in his vows of truth,
    And left you with his--ah! it chokes me. Nay,
    Go, go, great marchioness, seek out your ward;
    I crave your pardon.

        [_Bowing, he steps aside. Johanna, passing disdainfully to
        the door, there pauses, and turns to Chaucer, as though he
        had spoken._]

                                JOHANNA

                         Well?

                       [_Chaucer retires right._]

                               ’Tis very dark.

                             [_Returning._]

    I will wait here.

                                CHAUCER

                      In sadness, honoured lady,
    I take my leave.

            [_He goes to the door; Johanna rises uneasily._]

                     Yet I beseech your grace
    Will never hint to that poor youth, my friend,
    The secret I let slip.

                                JOHANNA

                               [_Aside._]

                           “Let slip!” The booby!--
    He thinks he’s told me who she is. Soft! _now_
    I’ll worm it out.

                               [_Aloud._]

                      Wait; if I promise never
    To hint the thing we know--you understand.

                                CHAUCER

    That’s it.

                                JOHANNA

               One moment, Master Geoffrey. I
    Have rallied you somewhat on your paternal
    Vintage.

                                CHAUCER

             To be hit by your Grace’s wit
    Is to die smiling.

                                JOHANNA

                               [_Aside._]

                       How the big fish bites!

                         [_Aloud, effusively._]

    But you’ll forgive me? ’Tis my nature, those
    To banter whom I best adore.

      [_Detaching a knot of ribbon from her gown, she offers it to
                               Chaucer._]

                                 Pray, sir,--

                                CHAUCER

    For me?--A love-knot! By your Grace’s favours
    I am bewildered.

                                JOHANNA

                     Keep it as a pledge--
    For you are Aubrey’s friend, my Aubrey’s friend--
    As pledge that I will never, so help me Heaven,
    Reveal to him my knowledge of his secret,
    How Eglantine is his--oh, word it for me,
    For I am heartsick.

                                CHAUCER

                        Trust me, honoured lady,
    You have done bravely. For did he suspect
    That I have even whispered to you how
    That nun, whose sensuous name he bade me rhyme
    In verses meant for you, that Prioress,
    Whose cloistral hand even now, lock’d in his palm,
    Leads here your Aubrey, how that vestal maid
    Hath lived for months, nay years, your lover’s--oh!

                                JOHANNA

                       [_Seizes Chaucer’s arm._]

    His _what_? In God’s name, speak it! His--

                                CHAUCER

                                             His aunt!

                       [_Blows out the candle._]

                                JOHANNA

    His _aunt_?

                                CHAUCER

                       [_Going off in the dark._]

    O shire of Kent! thou shire of Kent!
    To sit with thee in parliament
    Doth not content
    Me, verayment,
    Like laughing at lovers after Lent.
    Haha! Hahaha!

                               [_Exit._]

    Ho! Shire of Kent!

                                JOHANNA

              So--Kent? He mocks my title, doth he?
    O gall! If he have made a fool of me--
    Yet, if he’ve made a fool of me, O sweet,
    Sweet gall!

                                 SQUIRE

                              [_Outside._]

                Johanna!

                                JOHANNA

                         Aubrey!

                                 SQUIRE

                      [_Returning with Prioress._]

                                 He hath told thee?

                                JOHANNA

    Nay, hath he told me _true_?

                                 SQUIRE

                               This is my aunt,
    Dame Eglantine, my father’s sister.

                                ALISOUN

                               [_Aside._]

                                        Death!
    We must be quick.

                                 FRIAR

                               [_Aside._]

                      I’ll win thy wager for thee.

                  [_Exit Friar at door, front left._]

                                PRIORESS

                   [_Extending her hand to Johanna._]

    My nephew tells me you and he--

                                JOHANNA

                                    Madame,
    I blush to think of my late rudeness; ’twas
    My jealousy. Yet you should pardon it;
    For you that wear St. Chastity’s safe veil
    Can never know how blind St. Cupid plagues
    The eyes of worldlings.

                                PRIORESS

                            No?

                                 SQUIRE

                                Love, you forgive me?

                          [_Reënter Chaucer._]

                                JOHANNA

    Forgive you? By my heart--I’ll think about it.
    Here comes our fool. Come hither, What’s-your-name.

                                CHAUCER

                 [_Coming forward with the love-knot._]

    Your Grace’s secret-monger.

                                JOHANNA

                                Tut! tut!

              [_Embarrassed, motions him to put it away._]

                                          Rhymester,
    If thou wilt come to court, I’ll have thee made
    Court-fool.

                                 SQUIRE

                               [_Aside._]

                O mistress, hush!

                                JOHANNA

                                  A cask of thy
    Diameter should keep King Richard drunk
    With laughter for a twelvemonth. Cask, I swear it,
    Thou shalt be made court-fool.

                                 SQUIRE

                         [_Aside to Chaucer._]

                                   She doth not mean it.

                                PRIORESS

                          [_Aside to Squire._]

    Nephew, I cannot quite approve your choice.

                                JOHANNA

    Nay, keep my knot; my favour is renewed.
    I’ll sue the king myself at Canterbury
    To swaddle thee in motley.

                       [_Chaucer laughs aside._]

                               --Well, no thanks?

                                CHAUCER

    Lady, pray God I live to see that day.

                                JOHANNA

    Amen. Now, Aubrey, where’s your father? Let’s
    Make merry all together.

                                PRIORESS

                             True, my brother;
    Went he to chapel?

                                 SQUIRE

                       Ladies, I am ’shamed
    To make confession of my selfishness:
    To-day, all day, in the sweet day and night
    Of my own thoughts I have been wandering.
    I have not seen my father since this morning.
    I’ll go and seek him now.

                                CHAUCER

                              Nay, boy, remain.
    Doubtless he’s gone to chapel. I will find him
    And bring him to you here. First, though, let me
    Anticipate my fool’s prerogative
    And play the father to another’s bairns,
    This vixen girl and boy.

        [_With an affectionate smile he draws Johanna and Aubrey
                      together and kisses them._]

                             God bless ’em both!

                                PRIORESS

                               [_Aside._]

    St. Loy! No more?

                                JOHANNA

                      Dear fool, thou’rt not so old.
    Come now, how old?

                                CHAUCER

                       Ah, lass, my crop is rowen.
    When grey hairs creep like yarrow into clover,
    Farewell, green June! Thy growing days be over.

                               [_Aside._]

    Bewitching Eglantine!

                             [_Exit left._]

                                PRIORESS

                      [_At the casement, aside._]

                          Some other star!

                               [_Aloud._]

    Nephew!

  [_The Squire and Johanna stand absorbed in their own whisperings._]

            Nephew!

                                 SQUIRE

                    Madame!

                                PRIORESS

                            I pray you, tell
    Your father, when he comes, I am retired
    A moment to my room.

                                 SQUIRE

                         I will, Madame.

                       [_Exit Prioress, right._]

    My lady, we’re alone.

                                JOHANNA

                          Alas, then come,
    Sit and be sad.

              [_She sits in the niche by the fireplace._]

                                 SQUIRE

                    Sad? Must I wear a mask, then?
    Mistress! Mistress, masks fall away from love
    Like husks from buds in April. By love’s light
    Lovers can look through mountains to their joy
    As through these black beams I see heaven. Nay,
    Hear me! When I have won my spurs--

                                 FRIAR

                           [_Sings within._]

                  What, ho! What, ho!
                  Dan Cupido!
            A spurless knight usurps thy halls.--

                                JOHANNA

                                        What’s that?

                                 SQUIRE

    The friar! ’Tis his voice.

                                 FRIAR

                           [_Sings within._]

              Thy fortress falls,
              And all her rosèd charms--

                                JOHANNA

    Is’t in the cellar?

                                 SQUIRE

                        Or the wall?

                     [_They look up the chimney._]

                                 FRIAR

                           [_Sings within._]

                     To arms, Dan Cupido! To arms,
                              Dan Cupido!

         [_With a rush of soot, he falls into the fireplace._]

                                     Bon soir!

                                JOHANNA

    ’Od’s fiends!

                                 SQUIRE

                  [_Seizing Friar, drags him forth._]

                  Sneak thief, at last I have thee--What!
    A chimney-sweep?

                                 FRIAR

                     Did scare the ladykin?

                                 SQUIRE

    Was’t thou that sung?

                                 FRIAR

                          Sung-la?

                                JOHANNA

                       [_Brushing herself off._]

                                   My taffeta!

                                 SQUIRE

    Sing! Didst thou sing?

                                 FRIAR

                           Oh, sing! You mean the friar, sir.

                                 SQUIRE

                           [_Peremptorily._]

    Where?

                                 FRIAR

           In the cellar. He’s a-hiding, sir.

                                 SQUIRE

    I warrant him. Here--

                        [_Gives Friar a coin._]

                          Come, show me the scoundrel.

                                 FRIAR

                          [_Examining coin._]

    A noble!

                               [_Sings._]

                        Oh, rare
                        Sweet miller,
                        Lady-killer,
                        Not there, not there!

                                 SQUIRE

                    [_Eyeing Friar with suspicion._]

             What?

        [_The Miller slips stealthily from the cellar door and
        joins Alisoun in the cupboard._]

                                 FRIAR

                   Was’t so he sung, sir?

                                 SQUIRE

                                          Yes.

                                JOHANNA

                      [_Still brushing her gown._]

    Ruined!

                                 FRIAR

            Sir, follow, sir. I know him well.
    A begging friar?

                                 SQUIRE

                     Yes.--One moment, Mistress.--
    I’ll flay the beggar. Now!

                                 FRIAR

       [_The Friar opens cellar door; Squire snatches his candle
                          and precedes him._]

                               A sneaking friar--
    A noble!--a swindling, skulking, lying friar.

       [_Aside to Bob Miller, who joins him from the cupboard._]

    O rare Bob-up-and-down!

      [_Exeunt; Alisoun leaves the cupboard and exit stealthily at
                          door, left front._]

                                JOHANNA

                            Stay; are they gone?
    Mass! mass! I’m spotted worse than ink. And kneel
    In Canterbury kirk in such a gown!
    I’ll eat it first. Oh, Lord! Lord, now who comes?

       [_Enter, left back, the Canon’s Yeoman and the Carpenter;
               after whom the Wife of Bath, disguised._]

                                ALISOUN

    Good fellow, you there, can you propagate
    Unto my vision--a young prioress?

    CANON’S YEOMAN

    No, sir, I cannot.

                                ALISOUN

                       Or a marchioness?

                       [_The pilgrims pass on._]

                                JOHANNA

                               [_Aside._]

    A marchioness!

                                ALISOUN

                    [_Twirling her sword-scabbard._]

                   Hum! Hum!

                               CARPENTER

                             How went the sermon?

                            CANON’S YEOMAN

    God’s blood! Old Wycliffe hammered the pope flat.
    The pulpit rang like a hot anvil.

                               CARPENTER

                                      Aye,
    There’ll be skulls cracked yet.

                           [_Exeunt right._]

                                ALISOUN

                            [_To Johanna._]

                                    Amorous Minerva!

                                JOHANNA

    Signor!

                               [_Aside._]

            My left sleeve’s clean.

                                ALISOUN

                                    I have a son,
    Whose aunt--

                                JOHANNA

                 Are you the Knight of Algezir?

                                ALISOUN

    I am--Dan Roderigo d’Algezir.

                                JOHANNA

    My Aubrey’s father.

                                ALISOUN

                        Bones! Are you Johanna?

                                JOHANNA

                               [_Aside._]

    Bones!

                                ALISOUN

           Corpus arms! it sticks me to the heart
    To gaze on your sweet face, my dear.

                                JOHANNA

                               [_Aside._]

                                         My dear!

                                ALISOUN

    Ah! the fat rogue! He said your face was worth
    Unbuckling an off eye to pop it in;
    But such a pretty finch!

                                JOHANNA

                             Finch! Sir, perhaps
    You are deceived in me.--Who sent you here?

                                ALISOUN

    Yon chum of that sweet spindle-shanks, my son--
    Yon rhymester, Master Geoffrey.

                                JOHANNA

                                    Yes; ’twas he.

                               [_Aside._]

    Saints! is _this_ Aubrey’s father?

                               [_Aloud._]

                                     Doubtless, sir,
    There’s no mistake. Your sister left you word--

                                ALISOUN

    O villain! Aye, though I ha’ bred him! What
    Though ’tis my own son--villain! God’s teeth!

                                JOHANNA

                                                  Sir!

                                ALISOUN

    Your pardon, dainty dame. Before I speak
    I do not rinse my mouth in oleander.
    I am a blunt knight. Nay, I cannot sigh
    A simoon hot with sonnets like my son.
    I am a blunt knight who, on Satan’s heel,
    Hath rode it and strode it, wenched it, wived it, and knived it,
    Booted and footed ’t, till--by Venus’ shoestring,
    I be a blunt and rough but honest soldier.

                                JOHANNA

    Signore, I believe it.

                                ALISOUN

                           Blunt’s the word, then;
    And here’s the blunt point. You’re deceived.

                                JOHANNA

    By whom?

                                ALISOUN

             By Aubrey.

                                JOHANNA

                        What!

                                ALISOUN

                              Aye, by my smiling son
    Wi’ the pretty curls. Where is he now?

                                JOHANNA

                                           Why, he--
    He’s gone to find the friar.

                                ALISOUN

                                 Aye.

                                JOHANNA

                                      Good Heaven!
    Can he have harmed him?

                                ALISOUN

                            Who--the friar? The friar’s
    His pal--his pal; and so is Geoffrey; aye,
    And that lascivious, Latin-singing nun--

                                JOHANNA

    What! Eglantine?

                                ALISOUN

                     Yes, she; those four! Child, child,
    Wouldst not believe it, how they’ve sneaked and schemed,
    Plotted my life, aye, for my money. But
    ’Twas lust, lust egged him on. Oh God! my son!
    And ’twas a cherub ’fore this Geoffrey warped him!

                                JOHANNA

                            [_To herself._]

    They whispered here: and there she said “Dear Aubrey.”

                                ALISOUN

    And their disguises; oh, you’d not believe it!
    That devil friar plays the chimney-sweep.
    And--

                                JOHANNA

          Chimney-sweep! ’Twas he, then, sung? Oh, come;
    Help!

                                ALISOUN

          Where?

                                JOHANNA

                 They’re in the cellar.

                                ALISOUN

                                        Like enough;
    They’re plotting, plotting. God’s wounds! ’Tis a trap.
    Where be they all? Geoffrey to send me here--
    My son to leave you with the friar--Ha!
    They’re with that sly, deceptive Prioress;
    ’Tis she--

                                JOHANNA

               Why, she’s your sister.

                                ALISOUN

                         [_As if taken back._]

                                      What--my sister!
    Is _she_ the Prioress? _She_ Eglantine?

                                JOHANNA

    Yes, yes; and she, too, left upon a pretext.
    Sir Roderigo, say, what shall we do?

                                ALISOUN

    My sister--and my son!

                                JOHANNA

                               [_Calls._]

                           Aubrey!--no answer?
    Aubrey!

                                ALISOUN

            My son and sister!

                                JOHANNA

                               Oh, poor soldier!

                                ALISOUN

    Oh, monstrous brood, hatched in a vampire’s nest!
    But I will be revenged. Go to your room;
    Lock fast the door; but when I call, “A brooch,
    A brooch!” come forth and raise the house.

                                JOHANNA

                                               Why “brooch”?

                                ALISOUN

    A watchword. Quick; go! I hear footsteps. Go!

                 [_Urges her toward door, right back._]

    Blunt is the word; your presence dangers me--
    Your room. No, no, I fear not.

                                JOHANNA

                                   Poor Sir Roderick!

          [_Exit; Alisoun shuts door; voices outside, left._]

                                ALISOUN

    A miss is as good’s a mile.

                                 REEVE

                              [_Outside._]

                                Where went your knight?

                 [_Enter Reeve, Doctor, and Chaucer._]

                                CHAUCER

    To chapel.

                                 REEVE

               Na, na, na; I saw him not.

                                CHAUCER

                             [_To Doctor._]

    Nor you?

                                 DOCTOR

             A knight, say you, from the Holy Land?

                                CHAUCER

    Yes, a crusader.

                                 DOCTOR

                         [_Points at Alisoun._]

                     Is that he?

                                CHAUCER

                                 Ah, thank you;

              [_Starts forward, but sees he is mistaken._]

    Nay, ’tis another man.

                                 DOCTOR

                           Good even, sir.

                                 REEVE

                             [_To Doctor._]

    ’Twas the first time I heard the devil preach
    In chapel.

                                 DOCTOR

               Wycliffe?

                                 REEVE

                               [_Nods._]

                         Curse him and his Lollards!

                        [_Exeunt, right front._]

                                CHAUCER

                  [_Follows them to door, and calls._]

    Aubrey!

                                ALISOUN

                          [_Claps her hands._]

            Host!

                                CHAUCER

                  Signorino!

                                ALISOUN

                             Host here!

        [_Enter from cellar the Miller and Bottlejohn. As the door
        is closing, the chink is filled with the faces of the
        Swains, threatening Bottlejohn._]

                                 MILLER

               [_His dagger drawn, aside to Bottlejohn._]

                                        Mum!
    Quick! Be thy ribs good whetstones?

                               BOTTLEJOHN

                        [_Ducking to Alisoun._]

                                        Here, sweet lording.

                                ALISOUN

    Thou’rt slow.

                                 MILLER

                               [_Aside._]

                  Ribs!

                               BOTTLEJOHN

                        Slow, sweet lording.

                                ALISOUN

                                             Tell me, host,
    Hast thou residing in this hostelry
    A gentle prioress?

                                CHAUCER

                               [_Aside._]

                       What?

                                 MILLER

     [_Aside to Bottlejohn, sharpening his dagger on an ale mug._]

                             Whetstones!

                               BOTTLEJOHN

                                         Aye,
    Sweet lording.

                                ALISOUN

                   Good; go tell her that her brother
    Awaits her here.

                                CHAUCER

                               [_Aside._]

                     Her brother!

                           [_Draws nearer._]

                                  HOST

                                  Aye, sweet lording.

           [_Starts for door, right back, Miller following._]

                                ALISOUN

    Her brother, say--Dan Roderigo.

                               BOTTLEJOHN

                                    Aye,
    Sweet lording.

                                 MILLER

                   Host, hast thou a whetstone in
    Thy pocket?

                               BOTTLEJOHN

                Aye, sweet lording.

                                 MILLER

                        [_Winking at Alisoun._]

                                    “Aye, sweet lording.”

                   [_Exeunt Bottlejohn and Miller._]

                [_Alisoun ignores Chaucer’s presence._]

                                CHAUCER

                          [_Approaching her._]

    Your pardon, sir, I trespass. By your cross
    You come--

                                ALISOUN

               From Palestine. Well met. You, friend?

                                CHAUCER

    Nay, I’m a door-mouse, sir; a doze-at-home.
    My home’s near by at Greenwich. You have friends--
    Friends at the inn?

                                ALISOUN

                        A friend, sir; a fair friend;
    By Jupiter, a sweet friend.

                                CHAUCER

                                Ah!

                                ALISOUN

                                    A sister.
    She is a nun.

                                CHAUCER

                  Good God!

                                ALISOUN

                            A prioress.

                                CHAUCER

    It cannot be!

                                ALISOUN

                  Signor!

                                CHAUCER

                          Her name? Her name?

                                ALISOUN

    What’s that to you--her name?

                                CHAUCER

                           [_Disconcerted._]

                                  It may be--

                                ALISOUN

                                              Ah!
    Perhaps you know her--what? ’Tis Eglantine.

                                CHAUCER

    Impossible!--Sir, pardon me; I must
    Have made some strange mistake.

                                ALISOUN

                                    Nay, friend; I guess
    ’Tis I have made the blunder.

                                CHAUCER

                                  You, sir?

                                ALISOUN

                                            Sooth,
    I might as well stick both feet in the mire
    And wade across my blushes. We old lads
    With beards, who sees our blushes, what? So, then,
    This prioress, she is not just my sister.

                                CHAUCER

    No?

                                ALISOUN

        No.

                                CHAUCER

            What then?

                                ALISOUN

                       Vous savez bien, these nuns,
    When they would have a friend, they clepe him “brother.”
    Especially on holy pilgrimage
    It hath a proper sound: “My _brother_ meets me;
    My _brother_ is a knight.” You cannot blame ’em;
    ’Tis more discreet; we men must humour ’em.
    Therefore this little honeysuckle nun
    Doth take delight to call me _brother_.

                                CHAUCER

                                          Liar!

        [_As Chaucer lifts his hand about to strike Alisoun, she
        raises hers to guard; seizing it, he beholds her ring._]

    What!--“Amor vincit omnia.”--Even her!

                                ALISOUN

    Take back your lie!

                                CHAUCER

                        That ring--tell me--that ring!

                                ALISOUN

    St. Madrian! It is my love-ring. She,
    My sweet nun, gave it me. She wears a brooch
    To match it, on her wrist.

                [_Enter, right, Bottlejohn and Miller._]

                               BOTTLEJOHN

                               The Prioress,
    Sweet lording.

                        [_Enter the Prioress._]

                                PRIORESS

                   Brother! Welcome, brother!

                                CHAUCER

                                              No!
    God! God! I’ll not believe it. Aubrey! Aubrey!

                            [_Exit, left._]

                                ALISOUN

    My pretty virgin sister!

                                PRIORESS

                    [_Gives her hand, reticently._]

                             Roderigo!

                       [_Looking after Chaucer._]

    He need not, sure, have gone.

                                ALISOUN

                                  Put up thy chin,
    My snow-white dove. Aha, but thou art grown!
    The silver slip o’ girlhood that I kissed
    Good-by when I set out for Palestine
    Hath mellowed into golden womanhood.
    Give me thy lips.

                                PRIORESS

                      Nay, brother, nay; my vows!
    I may not kiss a man.

                                ALISOUN

                         Toot! never fear, then;
    Thou shalt not break thy vows against _my_ beard.
    What, I’m thy brother; come!

                                PRIORESS

                                 Adieu, mon frère.

                                ALISOUN

    Soft, soft, my startled fawn. You need not jump
    Because your brother is a true crusader.
    Or didst thou fancy I was cut in stone,
    With my cold gauntlets crossed above my breast,
    Like a dumb, marble knight upon a tomb?
    Art not thou glad to see me, sister?

                                PRIORESS

                                         Yes,
    Mon frère. Forgive me, I had thought--You see,
    My nephew--’tis a pretty mannered youth;
    You’re not alike, are you?

                                ALISOUN

                             [_Laughing._]

                               By Peter’s toe,
    I hope not. Saints deliver me from being
    A new-hatched chicken’s feather.

                                PRIORESS

                                     What! your son?

                                ALISOUN

    Next, thou’ll be wishing I were like that fellow
    That fetched me here--yon what’s-his-name, yon Geoffrey.

                                PRIORESS

    Why, ’tis a noble gentleman.

       [_Enter, from cellar door, Summoner, Shipman, Cook, Friar,
                     and Manciple; they look on._]

                                ALISOUN

                                 Hoho!
    Your noble gentleman! Why, harkee, sweet;
    He told me he’s betrothèd to an ale-wife.

                                PRIORESS

    He told you--when?

                                ALISOUN

                       Just now, coming from chapel.

                                PRIORESS

    Her name?

                                ALISOUN

                  [_Ruminating, winks at the Swains._]

              What was her name, now?--Alisoun,
    The Wife of Bath, they call her.

                                PRIORESS

                                     O gran Dieu!
    That _person_!

                                ALISOUN

                 Person! God wot, ’twas not so
    Your Geoffrey called her. “Alisoun,” quoth he;
    “My lily Alisoun, my fresh wild-rose,
    My cowslip in the slough of womankind,
    Bright Alisoun shall be my bride.”

                                PRIORESS

               [_Throwing herself into Alisoun’s arms._]

                                       Mon frère!
    Oh, keep me safe, mon frère!

                        [_She hides her face._]

                                 MILLER

                             [_Laughing._]

                                 By Corpus bones!

                                SUMMONER

    Look!

                                SHIPMAN

          Hold me up!

                               BOTTLEJOHN

                             [_Whispers._]

                      Lady, beware!

                                 MILLER

                                    Mum!

                                PRIORESS

                                         What
    Are these?

                                ALISOUN

               Begone, you varlets!

                                  COOK

                              [_Bowing._]

                                    Yes, sweet lord.

                                SUMMONER

    We know our betters.

                      [_They withdraw a little._]

                                ALISOUN

                         Come, what cheer, my girl?
    Hath that churl Geoffrey wronged thee?

                                PRIORESS

                                           No, no, no!

                                ALISOUN

    Nay, if the churl hath wronged thee, by this locket--

                                PRIORESS

    Swear not by that. _He_ swore by that.

                                ALISOUN

                                         O vile!
    He swore by this--the brooch that holds my hair,
    Thy brother’s hair?

                                PRIORESS

                        But, Roderigo--

                                ALISOUN

                                        What!
    Give’t here! Or maybe thou hast promised it
    To him?

                                PRIORESS

            No, no, mon frère. Here, take it--keep it.

                                ALISOUN

    So! By this brooch--

                               [_Aside._]

                         Now, lads, learn how to woo!
    Now, by this golden brooch of Eglantine,
    And by this little, slender wrist of pearl,
    Where once it hung; and by the limpid eyes
    Of Eglantine, and by her ripe, red mouth,
    Yea, by the warm white doves which are her breasts
    And flutter at the heart of Eglantine,
    I swear I will be ever Eglantine’s
    And lacerate the foes of Eglantine.

                                PRIORESS

    Brother, such words--

                                ALISOUN

                          Call me not brother, sweet;
    A brother’s blood is lukewarm in his limbs,
    But mine for thee is lightning. Look at me!
    Was Jove a finer figure of a man
    Than me? Had Agamemnon such an arm,
    Or Hector such a leg?

                                PRIORESS

                          Forbear! Forbear!

                                ALISOUN

    Alack, she scorns me. Stay, Venus of virgins!
    Why dost thou wimple all the lovely dawn
    Of thy young body in this veil of night?
    Why wilt thou cork thy sweetness up, and, like
    A mummy, wrapped in rose and ivory,
    Store all thy beauty till the judgment-day?
    God did not paint thee on a window-glass.
    Step down from thy cold chapel, rosy saint,
    And take thy true-knight in thine arms.

                                PRIORESS

                                            Help! help!

                               BOTTLEJOHN

    Pray, lady, pray! It is Satanas! They
    Be devils all!

                                ALISOUN

                   Love--Eglantine--I kneel.

                                PRIORESS

    Joannes! Marcus!

                       [_Seizing her crucifix._]

                     Tibi, Domine!

        [_Enter, right, Joannes, Marcus, and Paulus. They are
        immediately driven back by the Summoner, Shipman, and
        Cook._]

                                JOANNES

    Madame.

                                SHIPMAN

            Come on!

                                PRIORESS

                     Help! Save me!

                        [_Enter Chaucer, left._]

                                ALISOUN

                            [_To Prioress._]

                                    Lovely nymph,
    Come to my arms--

                                CHAUCER

                 [_To Alisoun, with his sword drawn._]

                      Embrace me.

                                PRIORESS

                      [_Goes to his protection._]

                                  Cher monsieur!

                                ALISOUN

    God save you, Master Geoffrey.

                                CHAUCER

                                   Draw!

                                 FRIAR

                               [_Aside._]

                                         Lord! Lord!
    The pot boils. Now to add the salt and pepper.

                         [_Exit down cellar._]

[_Enter, left back, in quick succession, all the pilgrims, returning
with their links from chapel._]

                                PRIORESS

                            [_To Chaucer._]

    Monsieur--

                                CHAUCER

                            [_To Alisoun._]

               Draw!

                                PRIORESS

                     Do not fight, Monsieur!

                                CHAUCER

    Wilt draw, I say?

                                ALISOUN

                      Draw what? Draw _you_? Merci,
    I’m not a dray-horse.

                                CHAUCER

                          Is this man your brother?

                                PRIORESS

    Oh, sir, I know not; but he hath insulted--

                                CHAUCER

    Insulted you? Enough. By all the devils,
    Defend yourself!

                                ALISOUN

                              [_Drawing._]

                     To arms then, sweet Achilles.

       [_They fight. Re-enter right, Shipman, Summoner, and Cook.
                     They rush to Alisoun’s aid._]

                                SHIPMAN

    Boardside the fat churl.

                                PILGRIMS

                             Come! A fight!

                                FRANKLIN

                             [_Entering._]

                                            Who are they?

                                MERCHANT

    A Lollard and Papist.

                                PRIORESS

                          Stay them! Stop them!

                                PILGRIMS

    Down with the Papists!

                                PRIORESS

                           Oh, St. Loy!

                                CHAUCER

                           [_To the crowd._]

                                        Stand off!

                                PILGRIMS

    Down with the Lollards!

          [_They close in and fight confusedly with staves._]

                                ALISOUN

                       [_Holding up the locket._]

                            Hold! A brooch! A brooch!

                                CHAUCER

    I’ll make thee yield it, ruffian.

        [_From the cellar enter the Friar and the Squire, the
        latter sword in hand, fragments of cut ropes still clinging
        to him._]

                                 SQUIRE

                  [_To Chaucer--plunging at Alisoun._]

                                      Sir, I’m with you.

                       [_Enter, right, Johanna._]

                                ALISOUN

                             [_To Squire._]

    Unnatural son!

                                JOHANNA

                   Help!

                    [_Throws herself between them._]

                         Brave Sir Roderick!

                             [_To Squire._]

    Shame! Shame! Your father’s blood?

                                 SQUIRE

                                       You, lady?

                       [_Enter, left, Wycliffe._]

                                WYCLIFFE

                          [_To the pilgrims._]

                                                  Peace!

                                CHAUCER

    You, marchioness! What does this mean?

                                ALISOUN

        [_Stripping off her beard and wig--her own hair falling
        over her shoulders--snatches a warming-pan from the
        chimney, and confronts Chaucer._]

                                           Sweet Geoffrey,
    It means this pan shall warm our wedding sheets.

                                 MILLER

    What devil!

                                CHAUCER

                Alisoun!--My bet is lost.

                                FRANKLIN

    The Wife of Bath!

                [_The pilgrims crowd round and laugh._]

                                JOHANNA

                           [_Turning away._]

                      Impostors!

                                ALISOUN

                            [_To Chaucer._]

                                 Come, sweet chuck,
    And kiss the brooch that hath betrothed our hearts.

                                PRIORESS

    M’sieur, is this true?

        [_As Chaucer turns to the Prioress in a kind of blank
        dismay, enter, from the cellar, swathed in a long gown, the
        real Knight and the Friar._]

                                 KNIGHT

                             [_To Friar._]

                           Where?

               [_Friar points to Prioress; he advances._]

                                  Eglantine!

                                PRIORESS

          [_Aghast at this apparition, runs to the priedieu._]

                                             No more!

                                CHAUCER

   [_Struck, at a flash, by this medley of incongruities, bursts into
           laughter, and seizing an ale mug, lifts it high._]

    Alis, I drink to thee and woman’s wit.

                                 FRIAR

    God save the vintner and the Wife of Bath!

                                PILGRIMS

                               [_Shout._]

    God save the vintner and the Wife of Bath!

                                ALISOUN

                 [_Sharing the ale mug with Chaucer._]

                                               Sweetheart!

                         Explicit pars tertia.




ACT FOURTH


    “And specially, from every shires ende
    Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
    The holy blisful martyr for to seke,
    That hem hath holpen whan that they were seke.”




ACT IV

TIME: The next day.


        SCENE: Before the west front of Canterbury Cathedral,
        gorgeously decorated with tapestries, hatchments, and cloth
        of gold. Grouped nearby are temporary booths of venders,
        gaily trimmed.

        _Many pilgrims are assembled; others keep arriving from
        different directions, talking, praying, and sight-seeing.
        At the Cathedral door a Priest blesses, with a sprengel,
        those who enter._

                              FIRST VENDER

    Relics! Souvenirs!

                             SECOND VENDER

                       Blood of the blissful martyr!

                             A BLACK FRIAR

                        [_To Bailey, the Host._]

    A guide, Sir Hosteler?

                                  HOST

                           Be off!

                             SECOND VENDER

                         [_To the Guild-men._]

                                   Ampulles?

                                 WEAVER

    What are they?

                             SECOND VENDER

                   Leaden bottles; look!

                                  DYER

                                         What’s in ’em?

                             SECOND VENDER

    Drops from the holy well: St. Thomas’ well,
    That turned four times to blood and once to milk;
    Good for the humours, gout, and falling-sickness.

                                 WEAVER

                             [_Buys some._]

    Here.

                             SECOND VENDER

          Eightpence.

   [_The Guild-men buy, and arrange the leaden vials in their hats._]

                              FIRST VENDER

                      Vernicles! St. Peter’s keys!

                               CARPENTER

                       [_Examining a purchase._]

    What’s written on this brooch, sir?

                                 CLERK

                                        “Caput Thomæ.”

                               PLOUGHMAN

          [_Staring at a statue in a niche of the Cathedral._]

    Is he alive?

                                FRANKLIN

                 Naw; he’s just petrified.

                              BLACK FRIAR

                            [_To Merchant._]

    A guide, sir?

                                MERCHANT

                  No.

                              BLACK FRIAR

                      Show you the spot, sir, where
    The four knights murdered Becket, in the year
    Eleven hundred seventy, at dusk,
    The twenty-ninth day of December--

                              A GREY FRIAR

                                       Nay, sir,
    I’ll show you the true statue of the Virgin
    That talked to holy Thomas when he prayed.

                              BLACK FRIAR

    St. George’s arm, sir! Come; I’ll let you kiss it.

                               GREY FRIAR

    This way; the tomb of Edward the Black Prince.

                  [_Both seize Merchant and tug him._]

                                MERCHANT

                            [_Struggling._]

    Mine host!

                                  HOST

                             [_Coming up._]

               Pack off!

                                 PARSON

                            [_To Ploughman._]

                         What May-day queen comes here?

        [_Outside, left, are heard girls’ voices singing; enter,
        dressed richly and gaily_, CHAUCER, _surrounded by a bevy
        of Canterbury brooch-girls, who have wreathed him with
        flowers and long ribbons, by which they pull him; plying
        him with their wares, while he attempts to talk aside with
        the Man-of-Law, who accompanies him_.]

                            CANTERBURY GIRLS

                               [_Sing._]

                         High and low,
                         Low and high,
                           Be they merry,
                             Be they glum,
                             When they come
                           To Canterbury,
                             Canterbury,
                             Canterbury,
                           Some low,
                           Some high,
                           Canterbury brooches buy.

                                CHAUCER

    Sweet ladies--nay, sweet Canterbury muses,
    Not Hercules amid the Lydian nymphs
    Was ravished by more dulcet harmonies.

                           [_To Man-of-Law._]

    You sergeants-of-the-law are subtle men.

                               MAN-OF-LAW

    We have a knack--a knack, sir.

                                 A GIRL

                                   Pull his sleeve.

                                ANOTHER

    They say you are a bridegroom. Is it true, sir?

                                CHAUCER

    Your Canterbury skies rain compliments.

                           [_To Man-of-Law._]

    Pray!--

                               MAN-OF-LAW

                     [_Taking money from Chaucer._]

            If you insist, my lord.

                                CHAUCER

                                    Nay, not “my lord.”
    How stands the case?

                               MAN-OF-LAW

                         You say this wife hath been
    Some eight times wedded?

                                CHAUCER

                             Five times.

                                 A GIRL

                                         Stop their gossip,
    He’s talking business.

                             ALL THE GIRLS

                           Brooches! Souvenirs!

                                CHAUCER

                       [_Examining their wares._]

    How much?

                                 A GIRL

              This? Two-pence.

                               MAN-OF-LAW

                               Five times--five times. Well!

                                CHAUCER

                 [_To Man-of-Law, giving more money._]

    Prithee--

                               MAN-OF-LAW

              If you insist.

                                 A GIRL

                            [_To Chaucer._]

                             Mine for a penny.

                               MAN-OF-LAW

    Why, then, the case stands thus: By English law,
    No woman may be wedded but five times.
    By law, sir, a sixth husband is proscribed.

                                CHAUCER

    You’ll vouch for that? By law?

                               MAN-OF-LAW

                                   Sir, I will quote
    You precedents from William Conqueror.

                                CHAUCER

    Alas, my nuptials! And I would have made
    So neat a bridegroom!

                                 A GIRL

                          Come, sir, will you buy?

                                ANOTHER

    Take mine!

                             ALL THE GIRLS

               Mine! Mine! Mine!

                                CHAUCER

                                 Nay, fresh goddesses,
    Your graces are more heavenly souvenirs!

                   Sell to me your glances
                   For a poet’s fancies!

                    [_To a girl with yellow hair._]

    You, Midas’ daughter, how much for this gold?

                                THE GIRL

    ’Tis not for sale, sir.

                                CHAUCER

                            [_To another._]

                            How much for that rose?

                                THE GIRL

    What rose?

                                CHAUCER

               Your smile.

                                THE GIRL

                           Gratis--for you, sir.

           [_Enter Alisoun, attired gorgeously as a bride._]

                             ALL THE GIRLS

                                                 Oh-h!

                                CHAUCER

    How much, Olympians, for your nectar’d lips?

                             ALL THE GIRLS

    A kiss! A kiss!

                                ALISOUN

                    Hold! Give the bride first licks.

                             ALL THE GIRLS

    The bride!

                                ALISOUN

                       [_After kissing Chaucer._]

               Now, lasses, take your turns.

                                 A GIRL

                                             The shrew!

                                ALISOUN

    Lo! what a pot of honey I have won
    To lure the village butterflies. Come, pretties,
    Sip, sip, and die o’ jealousy.

                                 A GIRL

                            [_To Chaucer._]

                                   Who is
    This woman?

                                CHAUCER

                Nymphs, this is the gentle Thisbe
    That wooed and won me. Judge then, goddesses,
    How I must weep to lose her.

                                ALISOUN

                                 Lose me, love?
    Nay, honey-pot, I am too stuck on thee.
    Thy bosom is my hive, and I queen-bee.

                                 A GIRL

    I’d rather lose my heart to a ripe pumpkin.

                                ANOTHER

    Or a green gourd.

                  [_They go off, in piqued laughter._]

                                ALISOUN

                         [_Calls after them._]

                      What devil doth it matter
    Whether he be a pumpkin or a rose,
    So be that he rings sound.--Give me the man
    That keeps his old bark grafted with new buds
    And lops away the dead wood from his trunk,
    And I will hug him like the mistletoe.
    Geoffrey, thou art the man.

                                CHAUCER

    [_As Alisoun is about to embrace him, turns to the Man-of-Law._]

                                Cold-blooded knave!
    The flower of women and the wit of wives--
    Yet I must lose her!

                               MAN-OF-LAW

                         Blame not me, sir; blame
    The law.

                                CHAUCER

             O heartless knave!

                               MAN-OF-LAW

                                By English law,
    No woman may be wedded but five times.

                                ALISOUN

    What’s that?

                                CHAUCER

                 But is there no exception?

                               MAN-OF-LAW

                                            None.
    By law, sir, a sixth husband is proscribed.

                                ALISOUN

    Hey, what! What devil? Say’t again. I’m deef.

                               MAN-OF-LAW

    By law, dame, a sixth husband is proscribed.

                                ALISOUN

    Prescribed? Ho, then, art thou a doctor?

                               MAN-OF-LAW

                                             No,
    I am a sergeant-of-the-law.--“Proscribed”
    Is to say, dame, “inhibited,” “forbidden.”

                                ALISOUN

    How! you forbid me to take Geoffrey here
    For my sixth husband?

                                CHAUCER

                          Nay, the law forbids it.

                                ALISOUN

    Pish! What’s the fine?

                               MAN-OF-LAW

                           To hang, dame, by the neck
    Till thou art dead.

                                ALISOUN

                        Aye, man, by _Geoffrey’s_ neck.
    Get out!

                                CHAUCER

             Canst quote the law?

                               MAN-OF-LAW

                                  The statute, sir,--
    The forty-ninth doom of King Richard--saith:
    “One woman to five men sufficeth,” or
    “Quid tibi placet mihi placet,” sir.

                                ALISOUN

    Hog-gibberish!

                                CHAUCER

                               [_Aside._]

                   Nay, ’tis a man-of-law.
    But soft! we’ll bribe him.

                                ALISOUN

                               [_Aside._]

                               Do, duck.

                                CHAUCER

                                         Sergeant--hist!

       [_Whispers aside and gives him money, as if covertly. Then
                                aloud._]

    This statute, is there no appeal from it?

                               MAN-OF-LAW

    A special dispensation from the king;
    That’s all, sir.

                                ALISOUN

                     Break his head!

                                CHAUCER

                                     Nay, Alis, here’s
    Good news. The king himself is here to-day
    In Canterbury. I will beg him grant
    This special dispensation for our marriage.

                                ALISOUN

    Thou--ask the king?

                                CHAUCER

                        Why not?

                                ALISOUN

                                 Give me a vintner
    For cheek! Sweet duck, I do believe thou lov’st me.

              [_Enter the Miller, with the other Swains._]

                                CHAUCER

    I am unworthy, love, to match thy wit.

                                 MILLER

    Thou art unworthy, fool, to latch her shoe.

                                CHAUCER

    Even so.

                                 MILLER

             Thou likes to play the gentleman;
    Come, then; I’ll duel you.

                                CHAUCER

                               Good Bob, I love thee.

                                 MILLER

    Come: knives or fists?

                                CHAUCER

                           Kind Bob, thou shalt this day
    Shed tears and vow I love thee.

                                 MILLER

                                    Wilt not fight?
    Then--

                                ALISOUN

                  [_Intercepting a blow at Chaucer._]

           Hold there, Robin Sweetheart, art thou jealous?

                                 MILLER

    Aye, dame.

                                ALISOUN

               What for?

                                 MILLER

                             [_To Swains._]

                         She axes me what for!
    Axe her, who gagged the Knight?

                                SHIPMAN

                                    Who tied the Squire?

                                MANCIPLE

    Who watched in the wet cellar?

                                SUMMONER

                                   Tied thy doublet?

                                 FRIAR

    Who stole thy scarlet cloak?

                                  COOK

                                 Who kissed thy toe?

                                 MILLER

    Axe her, what made us do all this? Mayhap
    To get our backs flayed--what? Mayhap to make
    Our wench a wedding with this vintner here?

                                SHIPMAN

    Revenge!

                                 FRIAR

             Remember Peggy’s stall.

                [_They surround Chaucer threateningly._]

                                  COOK

                                     Vile tub!

                                PRIORESS

                          [_Entering, left._]

    O Roderigo, help him!

                                 KNIGHT

                          Whom? That churl!

                                 SQUIRE

    Father, let me!

                                 KNIGHT

                    You are deceived in him.

                                 SQUIRE

    But, sir, these are the rogues that bound you.

                                 KNIGHT

                                                   He
    Is one of them. They are beneath our notice.

                                MANCIPLE

    Death to the vintner!

                                SUMMONER

                          Hit him!

                                ALISOUN

                                   Stand away!

                                CHAUCER

           [_As Alisoun, with her fists, keeps them at bay._]

                      Happy, bridegroom, be thy stars
                      When thy Venus turns to Mars!

                           [_Enter heralds._]

                                HERALDS

    Make way! Room for King Richard! Way! The King!

                                 CLERK

                           [_In the crowd._]

    Shall we see Chaucer now?

                                 PARSON

                              He’s sure to come.

        [_The heralds force back all the pilgrims, except those of
        high degree, showing, at the great door of the Cathedral, a
        procession of priests and choir-boys about to emerge._]

                                 PRIEST

    Peace, folk! Stop wrangling. Kneel! His Reverence,
    Archbishop of Canterbury, meets the King.

                                PRIORESS

                             [_To Squire._]

    Chaucer, you say?

                                 SQUIRE

                      A little patience more.

        [_A silence falls on the pilgrims as, within the Cathedral,
        choir-boys begin to chant a hymn. Issuing from the door
        and forming against one side of the massed, kneeling
        pilgrims, enters a procession, headed by splendid-vested
        priests, carrying pictured banners of St. Thomas and
        his shrine, followed by choir-boys, and lastly, by the
        Archbishop of Canterbury with regalia._]

                             THE PROCESSION

                               [_Sings._]

                     “Tu, per Thomæ sanguinem
                       Quem pro te impendit,
                     Fac nos, Christe, scandere
                       Quo Thomas ascendit.

                              [_Chants._]

    Gloria et honore coronasti eum Domine
    Et constituisti eum supra opera manuum tuarum
    Ut ejus meritis et precibus a Gehennæ incendiis liberemur.”

        [_At the climax of the chant, as the Archbishop appears in
        the doorway, the chimes of the Cathedral peal forth from
        high above the kneeling crowd; cheers, beginning from the
        right, swell to a tumult, and as the people rise, enter,
        right, King Richard on horseback, the Dukes of Lancaster,
        Gloucester, and Ireland on ponies, and their train, among
        whom are Wycliffe and Johanna on foot. Six mules, laden
        with offerings, bring up the rear. The shouts of “God save
        the King!” “God save John Gaunt!” etc., continue till the
        King and nobles descend from their steeds._]

                                PILGRIMS

    God save King Richard!

                              KING RICHARD

                           Thanks, good gaffers, thanks!

                         [_To John of Gaunt._]

    Sweet Uncle Jack, thou hast a spanking pony.
    Take her to Spain with you, and all the Dons
    Will kiss her fetlock. N’est ce pas, bel ami?

                                DE VERE

    They will, my Dick. Par charity! Haha!

                               ARCHBISHOP

                         [_Saluting gravely._]

    God save your Majesty!

                              KING RICHARD

                           God save you, too!
    Your Reverence is looking in fine feather.
    Here are some trinkets for the holy martyr.
    These mules bear spices from Arabia;
    These--tapers; and these--Persian tapestries.
    Here’s a neat statue of myself in gold;
    And so, and so, so.--

                     [_To the Duke of Gloucester._]

                          Pretty Uncle Tom,
    I wish my ruffs were puckered like your brows.
    Dost thou pick faults, eh? in my Paris gown?

                               GLOUCESTER

    My liege, this is the shrine of holy Becket.

                              KING RICHARD

    Lord, save our souls!

                            [_To De Vere._]

                          Lend me a looking-glass.

                                DE VERE

                     [_Takes one from his sleeve._]

    Ha! Dick, par charity!

       [_Richard and De Vere look in the glass and make faces in
               imitation of Gloucester and the others._]

                                 PARSON

                     [_In the crowd to the Clerk._]

                           Yonder’s the Duke
    Of Lancaster: John Gaunt.

                                CHAUCER

        [_Who has been held back with the crowd by the heralds,
        pushes through, and hastening forward, kneels to Johanna,
        who is talking with Wycliffe._]

                              A boon! a boon!

                                JOHANNA

                            [_To Wycliffe._]

    Protect me, sir!

                                CHAUCER

                   [_Holds up Johanna’s love-knot._]

                     Lady, once more, your pledge!

                                JOHANNA

    Unmannered loon!

                                A HERALD

              [_Seizes Chaucer roughly by the shoulder._]

                     Get back!

                             JOHN OF GAUNT

                                What, brother Geoffrey!

                                CHAUCER

    Well met, old friend!

                           [_They embrace._]

                              KING RICHARD

                          God’s eyes! Our laureate.
    Halloa there, Chaucer!

                                JOHANNA

                           Chaucer!

                                ALISOUN

                                    Chaucer!

                                PRIORESS

                                             Chaucer!

                     [_Chaucer bows to the King._]

                                 SQUIRE

                             [_To Knight._]

    Father, I said so.

                                 GAUNT

                       You are late, my poet
    What make you here?

                                CHAUCER

                        Blunders, your Grace.

                                 GAUNT

                                              How, blunders?

                                CHAUCER

    Taxing the memory of a gracious lady.

                                JOHANNA

    Signor, the place of fool I should have sued
    For you, hath been already filled--by me.
    I crave your pardon.

                                CHAUCER

                         And I kiss your hand.

                              KING RICHARD

    Ho, Chaucer!

                                ALISOUN

                     [_Struggling with a herald._]

                 Let me out!

                                CHAUCER

                             Your Majesty?

                              KING RICHARD

    When April comes, there’s not a man in England
    But thinks on thee and love. While thou art England’s
    And England Richard’s, thou art Richard’s own.

        [_As the King embraces Chaucer, Alisoun breaks away from
                             the herald._]

                                ALISOUN

    Hold up, your Majesty! The man is mine.

                              KING RICHARD

    What’s this?

                                CHAUCER

                 My liege--another blunder.

             [_Chaucer whispers aside to the Man-of-Law._]

                              KING RICHARD

                                            So?
    The blunder was not God’s in making her.

                                ALISOUN

    The man is mine.

                              KING RICHARD

                     What, Geoffrey, art thou tripped?
    Have love and April overflowed thy verse
    To fill thy veins?

                                CHAUCER

                       Your Majesty--

                               MAN-OF-LAW

                      [_Aside to John of Gaunt._]

                                      Dan Chaucer
    Bid me explain to you--

                          [_They talk aside._]

                                CHAUCER

                            Your Majesty,
    This is that fair-reputed fay, Queen Mab,
    Who, having met amid the woods of Kent,
    Hath so enamoured me, as you have said,
    With love and April, that--to speak it short--
    We are betrothed.

                              KING RICHARD

                      Betrothed!

                                DE VERE

                                 Par charity!

                                 MILLER

                  [_To a herald, who restrains him._]

    Leave go!

                                 GAUNT

                        [_Aside to Man-of-Law._]

              A miller?

                               MAN-OF-LAW

                               [_Aside._]

                        Yes, that fellow there.

                                ALISOUN

                          [_Nudging Chaucer._]

    Speak on, sweet chuck.

                                CHAUCER

                           “Betrothed,” your Majesty:
    ’Tis a sweet word which lovers’ law hath hallow’d,
    But which your law, King Richard, hath envenom’d.
    “No woman may be wedded but five times:”
    Thus saith the law.

                              KING RICHARD

                        What! Where?

                                 GAUNT

                         [_Laughingly aside._]

                                     My liege!

                           [_They whisper._]

                                CHAUCER

                                               And so,
    Because this queen of wives hath scarce been knit
    Five times in wedlock, therefore--saith the law--
    Our bosoms must be sundered.

                                 MILLER

                           [_In the crowd._]

                                 God be praised!

                                CHAUCER

    But knowing, King, how nobly wit and mercy
    Are mixed in your complexion, I presume
    To ask your greatness to outleap your laws
    And grant, by special dispensation, to
    This woman--a sixth husband.

                              KING RICHARD

                                 By my fay, sir,
    You ask too much. My laws are sacred.

             [_Aside to John of Gaunt, who whispers him._]

                                          Hein?

                                ALISOUN

    Dig him again there, Geoffrey.

                                CHAUCER

                                   King, have grace!

                              KING RICHARD

    The Duke of Lancaster advises me
    There may be one exception.

                               [_Aside._]

                                What? What’s that?

                               [_Aloud._]

    But only one. My law is sacred.--Woman,
    I grant to thee the right to wed once more
    On one condition. Mark it; thy sixth husband
    Must be a miller.--Herald, sound the verdict.

        [_As the herald blares his trumpet, Alisoun shakes her
        fist at Chaucer, who eyes her slily; then both burst into
        laughter._]

                                 HERALD

    If any miller here desire this woman,
    Now let him claim her.

                                 MILLER

                             [_Rushes up._]

                           Here, by Corpus bones!

                                ALISOUN

    Thou sweet pig’s eye! I take thee.

                   [_Extending her hand to Chaucer._]

                                       Geoffrey, quits!

                                CHAUCER

    Quits, Alisoun!

                                 FRIAR

                      [_Bobbing up between them._]

                    Et moi?

                                ALISOUN

                            Et toi.

                            [_Kisses him._]

                                 MILLER

                           [_Grabbing him._]

                                    Hold, friar!
    That pays thee to perform the ceremony.

                              KING RICHARD

                        [_Seated, to Chaucer._]

    Come now, our prodigal Ulysses! Tell us;
    What dark adventures have befallen thee since
    Thou settest forth from Priam-Bailey’s castle?
    What inland Circe witched our laureate
    To mask his Muse among this porkish rabble?

                                CHAUCER

    My liege, may I have leave to tell you bluntly?

                              KING RICHARD

    Carte blanche, carte blanche, mon cher. I’ll be as mute
    As e’er King Alcinous i’ the Odyssey.

                                CHAUCER

    My Muse went masked, King Richard, from your court
    To learn a roadside rhyme. Shall I repeat it?

                              KING RICHARD

    Carte blanche, j’ai dit. Say on!

                                CHAUCER

                             Your Majesty,
    “When Adam delved and Eve span,
    Who was then the gentleman?”

                                 MILLER

    By Corpus bones!

                              KING RICHARD

                             [_Starts up._]

                     Mort Dieu!

                                CHAUCER

                                “Carte blanche,” my liege!
    Six years ago in London, when the mob
    Roared round your stirrups, Wat the Tyler laid
    His hand upon your bridle. “Sacrilege!”
    Cried the Lord Mayor, and Wat Tyler fell
    Dead.

                         [_The crowd murmurs._]

                               GLOUCESTER

                    [_To Richard, remonstratingly._]

          Nephew!

        [_The King, sitting again, motions Gloucester silence._]

                                CHAUCER

                  Whereat you, your Majesty--
    God save you, a mere boy, a gallant boy--
    Cried out: “Good fellows, have you lost your captain?
    I am your King, and I will be your captain.”

                        [_The pilgrims cheer._]

    Have you forgotten how they cheered? Then hark!
    Once more that “porkish rabble” you shall hear
    Make music sweeter than your laureate’s odes.

                       [_Turning to the crowd._]

    Pilgrims and friends, deep-hearted Englishmen,
    This is your King who called himself your captain.

                                PILGRIMS

                               [_Shout._]

    God save the King!

                                CHAUCER

                       My liege, my dear young liege,
    Are these the dull grunts of the swinish herd,
    Or are they singing hearts of Englishmen?
    Where is _the gentleman_, whose ermined throat
    Shall strain a nobler shout? “When Adam delved”--
    Sire, Adam’s sons are delving still, and he
    Who scorns to set his boot-heel to the spade
    Is but a bastard.

                              KING RICHARD

                          [_Jumps up again._]

                      ’Swounds!

                                PILGRIMS

                                God save Dan Chaucer!

                              KING RICHARD

                            [_To Chaucer._]

    Give me thy hand. God’s eyes! These knaves cheer you
    Louder than me. Go tell the churls I love ’em.

                                CHAUCER

                          [_To the pilgrims._]

    His Majesty bids me present you all
    Before him, as his fellow Englishmen.

                              KING RICHARD

                     [_As the pilgrims approach._]

    Fellows, God bless you!

                            [_To Chaucer._]

                            Thanks.

        [_Snatching away his looking-glass from the hand of De
        Vere, who is making a comic face at Chaucer, he smashes it
        upon the ground._]

                                DE VERE

                                    Sweet Dick!

                               ARCHBISHOP

                                                My liege,
    The holy canopy is being raised.

     [_A medley of sweet bells is heard from within the Cathedral.
                  The pilgrims crowd about Chaucer._]

                                CHAUCER

    Give me your hands, my friends. You hear the bells
    Which call us to the holy martyr’s shrine.
    Give me your hands, dear friends; and so farewell:
    You, honest parson--sly Bob--testy Jack--
    Gentle Sir Knight--bold Roger--Master Franklin--
    All, all of you!--Call me your vintner still,
    And I will brew you such a vintage as
    Not all the saps that mount to nature’s sun
    Can match in April magic. They who drink it--
    Yes, though it be after a thousand years,
    When this our shrine, which like the Pleiades
    Now glitters, shall be bare and rasèd stone,
    And this fresh pageant mildewed history--
    Yet they who drink the vintage I will brew
    Shall wake, and see a vision, in their wine,
    Of Canterbury and our pilgrimage:
    These very faces, with the blood in them,
    Laughter and love and tang of life in them,
    These moving limbs, this rout, this majesty!
    For by that resurrection of the Muse,
    Shall you, sweet friends, re-met in timeless Spring,
    Pace on through time upon eternal lines
    And ride with Chaucer in his pilgrimage.

                        [_A deep bell sounds._]

                               ARCHBISHOP

    My liege, St. Thomas will receive his pilgrims.

      [_The King, lords, and people, forming in procession, begin
            to move toward the entrance of the Cathedral._]

                                CHAUCER

                            [_To Prioress._]

    Madame, will you walk in with me?

                                PRIORESS

                                      Monsieur,
    If you will offer this at Thomas’ shrine.

                                CHAUCER

    Your brooch!

                                PRIORESS

                 Our brooch.

                                CHAUCER

                             When shall we meet again?

                                PRIORESS

    Do you forget our star?

                                CHAUCER

                            Forget our star!
    Not while the memory of beauty pains
    And _Amor vincit omnia_.

        [_The heralds blare their trumpets; the priests swing their
        censers; the choir-boys, slowly entering the Cathedral,
        chant their hymn to St. Thomas, in which all the pilgrims
        join. Just as Chaucer and the Prioress are about to enter,
        the curtain falls._]


                         Explicit pars quarta.

                                 FINIS.



[Illustration: In lauđibus Aña.

    Aña.

    Granum cadit copiam germinat frumenti: alabastrum
    frangitur fragrat vis unguenti. ps̅̅. Dñs regnavit

    Aña.

    Totus orbis martyris certat in amorem: cujus
    signa singulos agunt in stuporem. ps̅̅. Jubilate.

    Aña.

    Aqua thome quinquies varians colorem
    in lac semel transiitquater in cruorem. ps̅̅. De’ de’ me’

    Aña

    Ad thome memoriam quater lux descendit: et
    in sancti gloriam cereos accendit. ps̅̅. Benedicite

    Aña.

    Tu per thome sanguinẽ quem pro te impendit: fac
    nos christe scandere quo thomas ascendit. ps̅̅. Laudate
]




                                ADDENDA


1. The accompanying reproduction of the original Hymn to St. Thomas,
of which the last verse only is sung by the pilgrims in Act IV, is
authentic in words and music.

The author is sincerely indebted to Professor Kittredge, of Harvard
University, for tracing and securing, through the various courtesies of
Mr. Albert Matthews (of Boston), Mr. Frank Kidson (of Leeds), Mr. J.
E. Matthew (of S. Hampstead, London), and Mr. Wilson (of the British
Museum Library), a copy of this almost inaccessible document.

The words are taken from Vol. 13, p. 240, of Dreves’ “Collection
of Sequences and Latin Hymns.” The music is copied from the “Sarum
Antiphonal” of 1519.

In regard to the music, Mr. Wilson writes: “Each of these Antiphons
(_i.e._ each verse of the hymn) is sung once before, and once after,
each psalm. Here there are five; and at the end of each is the
catchword of the psalm. The first is ‘_Dominus regnavit_’; the second,
‘_Jubilate_,’ and so on.”

Mr. J. E. Matthew writes: “The catchword is not sufficient, in every
case, to identify the psalm, but I have indicated all the psalms having
such beginnings.[1] The lines ‘Gloria et honore coronasti,’ etc.
(part, of course, of the 8th Psalm: ‘Thou hast crowned him with glory
and honour’), form no part of the service in the ‘Sarum Antiphonal.’”

2. For valuable information and advice regarding the chronology of
the “Canterbury Tales” as affecting this play, the author also gives
sincere thanks to his friend, Mr. John S. P. Tatlock, of the University
of Michigan.

3. The following dates will reveal certain anachronisms in the text of
his play, which the writer, for dramatic purposes, has ignored:--

        Oct. 1, 1386: Chaucer was elected Knight of the Shire for
        Kent, which office he still held in April, 1387.

        Dec. 31, 1384: Wycliffe died.

        1386: John of Gaunt left England for Castile.

4. According to Chaucer scholars, the third wife of John of Gaunt was
probably a sister of Chaucer’s wife. Upon this probability, though
it could not have been a fact until after 1387, the author bases his
dramatic license of referring to Chaucer and the Duke of Lancaster as
brothers-in-law.

                                                          PERCY MACKAYE.

    NEW YORK, March, 1903.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] The psalms, as indicated by Mr. Matthew, are as follows: Beginning
_Deus regnavit_, xxiii, xcix; _Jubilate_, c, lxvi; _Deus, Deus, meus_,
xxii, lxiii; _Benedicite_, The Song of the Three Children? (Apocrypha.)
_Laudate_, cxiii, cxvii, cxxxiv, cxlvii, cxlviii.




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