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There are enough of other things to say." This drunken miller spoke on in his way, And said: "Oh, but my dear brother Oswald, The man who has no wife is no cuckold. But I say not, thereby, that you are one: Many good wives there are, as women run, And ever a thousand good to one that's bad, As well you know yourself, unless you're mad. Why are you angry with my story's cue? I have a wife, begad, as well as you, Yet I'd not, for the oxen of my plow, Take on my shoulders more than is enow, By judging of myself that I am one; I will believe full well that I am none. A husband must not be inquisitive The Canterbury Tales The Canterbury Tales 65Of God, nor of his wife, while she's alive. So long as he may find God's plenty there, For all the rest he need not greatly care." What should I say, except this miller rare He would forgo his talk for no man there, But told his churlish tale in his own way: I think I'll here retell it, if I may. And therefore, every gentle soul, I pray That for God's love you'll hold not what I say Evilly meant, but that I must rehearse, All of their tales, the better and the worse, Or else prove false to some of my design. Therefore, who likes not this, let him, in fine, Turn over page and choose another tale: For he shall find enough, both great and small, Of stories touching on gentility, And holiness, and on morality; And blame not me if you do choose amiss. The miller was a churl, you well know this; So was the reeve, and many anot
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her more, And ribaldry they told from plenteous store. Be then advised, and hold me free from blame; Men should not be too serious at a game. HERE ENDS THE PROLOGUE THE MILLER'S TALE Once on a time was dwelling in Oxford A wealthy lout who took in guests to board, And of his craft he was a carpenter. A poor scholar was lodging with him there, Who'd learned the arts, but all his phantasy Was turned to study of astrology; And knew a certain set of theorems And could find out by various stratagems, If men but asked of him in certain hours When they should have a drought or else have showers, Or if men asked of him what should befall To anything I cannot reckon them all. This clerk was called the clever Nicholas; Of secret loves he knew and their solace; And he kept counsel, too, for he was sly And meek as any maiden passing by. He had a chamber in that hostelry, And lived alone there, without company, All garnished with sweet herbs of good repute; The Canterbury Tales The Canterbury Tales 66And he himself sweetsmelling as the root Of licorice, valerian, or setwall. His Almagest, and books both great and small, His astrolabe, belonging to his art, His algorism stones all laid apart On shelves that ranged beside his lone bed's head; His press was covered with a cloth of red. And over all there lay a psaltery Whereon he made an evening's melody, Playing so sweetly that the chamber rang; And Angelus ad virginem he sang; And after that he warbled the King's Note: Often in good voice was his merry throat. And thus this gentle clerk his leisure spends Supported by some income and his friends. This carpenter had lately wed a wife Whom lie loved better than he loved his life; And she was come to eighteen years of age. Jealous he was and held her close in cage. For she was wild and young, and he was old, And deemed himself as like to be cuckold. He knew not Cato, for his lore was rude: That vulgar man should wed similitude. A man should wed according to estate, For youth and age are often in debate. But now, since he had fallen in the snare, He must endure, like other folk, his care. Fair was this youthful wife, and therewithal As weasel's was her body slim and small. A girdle wore she, barred and striped, of silk. An apron, too, as white as morning milk About her loins, and full of many a gore; White was her smock, embroidered all before And even behind, her collar round about, Of coalblack silk, on both sides, in and out; The strings of the white cap upon her head Were, like her collar, black silk worked with thread, Her fillet was of wide silk worn full high: And certainly she had a lickerish eye. She'd thinned out carefully her eyebrows two, And they were arched and black as any sloe. She was a far more pleasant thing to see Than is the newly budded young peartree; And softer than the wool is on a wether. Down from her girdle hung a purse of leather, Tasselled with silk, with latten beading sown. In all this world, searching it up and down, So gay a little doll, I well believe, Or such a wench, there's no man can conceive. Far brighter was the brilliance of her hue Than in the Tower the gold coins minted new.