Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
When Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his half cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye
(So priketh hem nature in hir corages),
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially from every shires ende
Of Engelond to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem halth holpen whan that they were seeke.
When April with his sweet showers
Has pierced the drought of March to the root
And bathed every vein in such liquid
Of whose virtue the flowers are engendered;
When Zephyr also with his sweet breath
Has inspired in every hold and heath
The tender crops, and the young son
Has in the Ram his half course run,
And small fowls made melody
That sleep all the night with open eyes
(So nature spurs them in their hearts)
Then folk long to go on pilgrimage,
And palmers to seek strange shores,
To distant shrines, famous in various lands;
And especially from every shire’s end
Of England to Canterbury they go,
The holy blissful martyr for to seek,
That hath helped them when they were sick.
The Canterbury Tales begins with one extraordinary sentence. Chaucer sets his poem in springtime, describing the way April’s rain pierces the dry winter ground and awakens the world. He positions his pilgrims as part of this world. Like the birds, suddenly called to sing after a long night of sleep, the people are called to proceed on pilgrimage by the rhythms of the natural world. The prologue is thus an especially poignant expression of one of Chaucer’s central preoccupations: mankind’s place as part of the world. Though pilgrimage is a religious act, a way of getting closer to heaven, for Chaucer it’s also an animal instinct, inextricable from the real world the pilgrims navigate. The Tales’ famous juxtaposition of the sacred and the secular extends from the premise established in the first sentence.
"Experience, though noon auctoritee
Were in this world, is right ynogh for me
To speke of wo that is in mariage;
For, lordynges, sith I twelve yeer was of age,
Thonked be God that is eterne on lyve,
Housbondes at chirche dore I have had fyve—
If I so ofte myghte have ywedded bee—
And alle were worthy men in hir degree.
But me was toold, certeyn, nat longe agoon is,
That sith that Crist ne wente nevere but onis
To weddyng, in the Cane of Galilee,
That by the same ensample taughte he me
That I ne sholde wedded be but ones.
Herkne eek, lo, which a sharp word for the nones,
Biside a welle, Jhesus, God and man,
Spak in repreeve of the Samaritan:
‘Thou hast yhad fyve housbondes,’ quod he,
‘And that ilke man that now hath thee
Is noght thyn housbonde,’ thus seyde he certeyn.
What that he mente therby, I kan nat seyn;
But that I axe, why that the fifthe man
Was noon housbonde to the Samaritan?
How many myghte she have in mariage?
Yet herde I nevere tellen in myn age
Upon this nombre diffinicioun.
Men may devyne and glosen, up and doun,
But wel I woot, expres, withoute lye,
God bad us for to wexe and multiplye;
That gentil text kan I wil understonde.
Eek wel I woot, he seyde myn housbounde
Sholde lete fader and mooder and take to me.
But of no nombre mencion made he,
Of bigamye, or of octogamye;
Why sholde men thanne speke of it vileynye?”
"Experience, though no authority
Were in this world, is right enough for me
To speak of woe that is in marriage:
For, lordings, since I was twelve years old
Thanked be God that is eternal
Husbands at church door I have had five—
If I so often might have wedded been—
And all were worthy men in their degree.
But I was told, certainly, not long ago,
That since Christ only went once
To a wedding, in Cana in Galilee,
That by the same example he taught me
That I should only be wedded once.
Listen also, which was a suitably sharp word,
Beside a well, Jesus, God and man,
Spoke in reproof of the Samaritan:
‘You have had five husbands,’ said he,
‘And that same man that now has you
is not your husband,’ thus said he certainly.
What he meant thereby, I can not say;
But that I ask, why the fifth man
Was no husband to the Samaritan?
How many might she have in marriage?
I never heard tell in my lifetime
A definition of this number.
Men may divine and gloss, up and down,
But well I know, expressly, without lie,
God bade us for to wax and multiply;
That gentle text I can well understand.
Also I know well, he said my husband,
Should leave father and mother and take to me.
But of no number he made mention,
Of bigamy, or of octogamy;
Why should men then speak of it as villainy?"
The Wife of Bath’s Prologue is one of the most exciting sections of The Canterbury Tales. The beginning, quoted here, illustrates Chaucer’s intellectual audacity, as well as his adaptability as a writer. The form of The Canterbury Tales requires Chaucer to adapt numerous distinct voices. Rather than a single narrator describing a large group of people, he writes as many different narrators, all of whom not only have different interests, but also speak differently. In comparison to the prologue, the wife of Bath uses a less formal vocabulary, and speaks more associatively, moving fluidly from one thought to another. Her assertive voice pulls us into her world and makes us more likely to go along with her argument. That argument is more convincing than it seems at first glance. By playing up her own ignorance, she leads her audience away from the Biblical examples that might refute her argument—she’s clearly aware that there are points in the Bible where Christ prohibits multiple marriages, because she actively refers to them, but she casts those prohibitions as just too confusing. We feel confused too, so when she shifts to cite the instruction “be fruitful and multiply,” we’re relieved to be back on firm ground—and that firm ground happens to place us in agreement with her. This is Chaucerian audacity at its finest: taking on a different voice to deliver a clearly heretical argument in a convincing way.
For wel I wot that ye han her-biforn
Of makyng ropen, and lad awey the corn,
And I come after, glenyng here and there,
And am ful glad yf I may fynde an ere
Of any goodly word that ye han left.
And thogh it happen me rehercen eft
That ye han in your fresshe songes sayd,
Forbereth me, and beth nat evele apayd,
Syn that ye see I do yt in the honor
Of love, and eke in service of the flour
Whom that I serve as I have wit or myght.
For well I know that you have been here before
To make rope, and lay away the corn,
And I come after, gleaning here and there,
And am full glad if I may find an ear
Of any goodly word that you have left.
And though I have rehearsed often
What you have in your fresh songs said,
Have patience with me, and do not be angry,
Since you see that I do it in the honor
Of love, and also in service of the flower
Whom I serve as I have wit or might.
The Legend of Good Women is a great example of Chaucer’s self-consciousness as a poet. Here, the narrator sees a beautiful flower, and prepares to write about it by acknowledging that a great deal of poetry has been written before about similar subjects. The comparison between the previous canon of poetry and a field neatly ties together the place the narrator stands (a field looking at the flower) with the world of poetry. Chaucer’s narrator isn’t just some guy writing about his situation: he’s an author, writing about the things authors write about. A field isn’t just a field to him, but a symbol of the canon of poetry. A flower isn’t just a flower, but an object that many have written about before. When he sees it, he hears the “goodly words” of all those that went before him. Chaucer here addresses those other poets, inscribing himself as a member of a community of writers.
