The Canterbury Tales (unsourced)/The Cook's Prologue and Tale

by Geoffrey Chaucer

The Cook's Prologue

    The COOK of London, while the Reve yet spoke,
    For joye him thoughte, he clawed him on the bak.
    "Ha! ha!" quod he, "for Criste passioun,
    This miller hadde a sharp conclusioun
5   Upon his argument of herbergage.
    Wel seyde Salomon in his langage,
    `Ne bryng nat every man into thyn hous,'
    For herberwynge by nyghte is perilous.
    Wel oghte a man avysed for to be,
10  Whom that be broghte into his pryvetee.
    I pray to God so yeve me sorwe and care,
    If evere sitthe I highte Hogge of Ware,
    Herde I a millere bettre yset awerk.
    He hadde a jape of malice in the derk.
15  But God forbede that we stynte heere,
    And therfore, if ye vouche-sauf to heere
    A tale of me that am a povre man,
    I wol yow telle, as wel as evere I kan,
    A litel jape that fil in oure citee."

20     Oure Hoost answerde and seide, "I graunte it thee,
    Now telle on, Roger, looke that it be good,
    For many a pastee hastow laten blood,
    And many a Jakke of Dovere hastow soold
    That hath been twies hoot and twies coold.
25  Of many a pilgrim hastow Cristes curs,
    For of thy percely yet they fare the wors,
    That they han eten with thy stubbel goos,
    For in thy shoppe is many a flye loos.
    Now telle on, gentil Roger, by thy name,
30  But yet I pray thee, be nat wroth for game;
    A man may seye ful sooth in game and pley."

       "Thou seist ful sooth," quod Roger, "by my fey;
    But `sooth pley quaad pley,' as the Flemyng seith.
    And therfore, Herry Bailly, by thy feith,
35  Be thou nat wrooth, er we departen heer,
    Though that my tale be of an hostileer.
    But nathelees I wol nat telle it yit,
    But er we parte, ywis, thou shalt be quit."
    And ther-with-al he lough and made cheere,
40  And seyde his tale, as ye shul after heere.

The Cook's Tale

       A prentys whilom dwelled in oure citee,
    And of a craft of vitailliers was hee.
    Gaillard he was as goldfynch in the shawe,
    Broun as a berye, a propre short felawe,
45  With lokkes blake, ykembd ful fetisly.
    Dauncen he koude so wel and jolily
    That he was cleped Perkyn Revelour.
    He was as ful of love and paramour
    As is the hyve ful of hony sweete:
50  Wel was the wenche with hym myghte meete.
    At every bridale wolde he synge and hoppe;
    He loved bet the taverne than the shoppe.
    For whan ther any ridyng was in Chepe,
    Out of the shoppe thider wolde he lepe -
55  Til that he hadde al the sighte yseyn,
    And daunced wel, he wolde nat come ayeyn -
    And gadered hym a meynee of his sort
    To hoppe and synge and maken swich disport;
    And ther they setten stevene for to meete
60  To pleyen at the dys in swich a streete.
    For in the toune nas ther no prentys
    That fairer koude caste a paire of dys
    Than Perkyn koude, and therto he was free
    Of his dispense, in place of pryvetee.
65  That fond his maister wel in his chaffare;
    For often tyme he foond his box ful bare.
    For sikerly a prentys revelour
    That haunteth dys, riot, or paramour,
    His maister shal it in his shoppe abye,
70  Al have he no part of the mynstralcye.
    For thefte and riot, they been convertible
    Al konne he pleye on gyterne or ribible.
    Revel and trouthe, as in a lowe degree,
    They been ful wrothe al day, as men may see.

75     This joly prentys with his maister bood,
    Til he were ny out of his prentishood,
    Al were he snybbed bothe erly and late,
    And somtyme lad with revel to Newegate.
    But atte laste his maister hym bithoghte,
80  Upon a day, whan he his papir soughte,
    Of a proverbe that seith this same word,
    'Wel bet is roten appul out of hoord
    Than that it rotie al the remenaunt.'
    So fareth it by a riotous servaunt;
85  It is ful lasse harm to lete hym pace,
    Than he shende alle the servantz in the place
    Therfore his maister yaf hym acquitance,
    And bad hym go, with sorwe and with meschance!
    And thus this joly prentys hadde his leve.
90  Now lat hym riote al the nyghte or leve.
    And for ther is no theef withoute a lowke,
    That helpeth hym to wasten and to sowke
    Of that he brybe kan or borwe may,
    Anon he sente his bed and his array
95  Unto a compeer of his owene sort,
    That lovede dys, and revel, and disport,
    And hadde a wyf that heeld for contenance
    A shoppe, and swyved for hir sustenance.