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

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

John Dryden

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

APPENDIX TO THE FABLES

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

THE KNIGHTES TALE,

BY GEOFFREY CHAUCER

Whilom, as old stories tellen us,
There was a duk that highte Theseus;
Of Athenes he was lord and governour,
And in his time swiche a conquerour,
That greter was ther non under the sonne;
Ful many a riche contree had he wonne.
What with his wisdom and his chevalrie,
He conquerd all the regne of Feminie,
That whilom was ycleped Scythia,
And wedded the fresshe Quene Ipolita,
And brought hire home with him to his contree
With mochel glorie and solempnitee,
And eke hire yonge suster Emelie.
And thus with victorie and with melodie
Let I this worthy duk to Athenes ride,
And all his host in armes him beside.
And certes, if it n'ere to long to here,
I wolde have told you fully the manere
How wonnen was the regne of Feminie
By Theseus, and by his chevalrie:
And of the grete bataille for the nones
Betwix Athenes and Amasones:
And how asseged was Ipolita,
The faire hardie quene of Scythia;
And of the feste, that was at hire wedding,
And of the temple at hire home coming:
But all this thing I moste as now forbere;
I have, God wot, a large feld to ere,
And weke ben the oxen in my plowe:
The remenent of my tale is long ynow.
I wil not letten eke non of this route;
Let every felaw telle his tale aboute,
And let se now who shal the souper winne,
There as I left, I will agen beginne.
This duk, of whom I made mentioun,
Whan he was comen almost to the toun,
In all his wele and his moste pride,
He was ware, as he cast his eye aside,
Wher that ther kneled in the highe wey
A compagnie of ladies, twey and twey,
Eche after other, clad in clothes blake;
But swiche a crie and swiche a wo they make,
That in this world n'is creature living
That ever heard swiche another waimenting;
And of this crie ne wolde never stenten,
Till they the reines of his bridel henten.
What folk be ye that at min home coming
Perturben so my feste with crying?
Quod Theseus; have ye so grete envie
Of min honour, that thus complaine and crie?
Or who hath you misboden, or offended?
Do telle me, if that it may be amended,
And why ye be thus clothed all in blake?
The oldest lady of hem all than spake,
Whan she had swouned with a dedly chere,
That it was reuthe for to seen and here.
She sayde, Lord, to whom Fortune hath yeven
Victorie, and as a conqueror to liven,
Nought greveth us your glorie and your honour,
But we beseke you of mercie and socour:
Have mercie on our wo and our distresse:
Some drope of pitee thrugh thy gentillesse
Upon us wretched wimmen let now fall;
For certes, lord, there n'is non of us alle
That she n'hath ben a duchesse or a quene;
Now be we caitives, as it is wel sene:
Thanked be Fortune, and hire false whele,
That non estat ensureth to be wele.
And certes, lord, to abiden your presence,
Here in this temple of the goddesse Clemence,
We han ben waiting all this fourtenight:
Now help us, lord, sin it lieth in thy might.
I wretched wight, that wepe and waile thus,
Was whilom wif to King Capaneus,
That starfe at Thebes, cursed be that day,
And alle we that ben in this aray,
And maken all this lamentation,
We losten all our husbondes at that toun,
While that the siege therabouten lay:
And yet now the old Creon, wala wa!
That lord is now of Thebes the citee,
Fulfilled of ire and of iniquittee,
He for despit, and for his tyrannie,
To don the ded bodies a vilanie,
Of alle our lordes, which that ben yslawe,