Ye seken lond and see for your winninges, As wise folk ye knowen all th’estat
Of regnes, ye ben fathers of tidinges,
And tales, both of pees and of debat:
I were right now of tales desolat,
N'ere that a marchant, gon in many a yere,
Me taught a tale, which that ye shull here.
IN SURRIE whilom dwelt a compagnie
Of chapmen rich, and therto sad and trewe,
That wide where senten hir spicerie,
Clothes of gold, and satins riche of hewe.
Hir chaffare was so thriftly and so newe,
That every wight hath deintee to chaffare
With hem, and eke to sellen hem hir ware.
Now fell it, that the maisters of that sort
Han shapen hem to Rome for to wende,
Were it for chapmanhood or for disport,
Non other message wold they thider sende,
But comen hemself to Rome, this is the ende:
And in swiche place as thought hem avantage
For hir entente, they taken hir herbergage.
Sojourned han these marchants in that toun A certain time, as fell to hir plesance: And so befell, that the excellent renoun Of the emperoures doughter dame Custance Reported was, with every circumstance, Unto these Surrien marchants, in swiche wise Fro day to day, as I shal you devise,
This was the commun vois of every man: Our emperour of Rome, God him se, A doughter hath, that sin the world began, To reken as wel hire goodnesse as beaute,
N'as never swiche another as is she:
I pray to God in honour hire sustene,
And wold she were of all Europe the quene.
In hire is high beaute withouten pride,
Youthe, withouten grenehed or folie:
To all hire werkes vertue is hire guide;
Humblesse hath slaien in hire tyrannie:
She is mirrour of alle curtesie,
Hire herte is veray chambre of holinesse,
Hire hond ministre of fredom for almesse.
And al this vois was soth, as God is trewe, But now to purpos let us turne agein. These marchants han don fraught hir shippes newe, And whan they han this blisful maiden sein, Home to Surrie ben they went ful fayn, And don hir nedes, as they han don yore, And liven in wele, I can say you no more.
Now fell it, that these marchants stood in
Of him that was the Soudan of Surrie:
For whan they came from any strange place
He wold of his benigne curtesie
Make hem good chere, and besily espie
Tidings of sundry regnes, for to lere
The wonders that they mighte seen or here.
Amonges other thinges specially
These marchants han him told of dame Custance
So gret noblesse, in ernest seriously,
That this Soudan hath caught so gret plesance
To han hire figure in his remembrance,
That all his lust, and all his besy cure
Was for to love hire, while his lif may dure.
Paraventure in thilke large book,
Which that men clepe the heven, ywriten was
With sterres, whan that he his birthe took,
That he for love shuld han his deth, alas!
For in the sterres, clerer than is glas,
Is writen, God wot, who so coud it rede,
The deth of every man withouten drede.
In sterres many a winter therbeforn
Was writ the deth of Hector, Achilles,
Of Pompey, Julius, or they were born;
The strif of Thebes; and of Hercules,
Of Sampson, Turnus, and of Socrates
The deth; but mennes wittes ben so dull,
That no wight can wel rede it at the full.
This Soudan for his prive councel sent,
And shortly of this matere for to pace,
He hath to hem declared his entent,
And sayd hem certain, but he might have grace
To han Custance, within a litel space,
He n'as but ded, and charged hem in hie
To shapen for his lif som remedie.
Diverse men, diverse thinges saiden;
They argumentes casten up and doun;
Many a subtil reson forth they laiden;
They speken of magike, and abusion;
But finally, as in conclusion,
They cannot seen in that non avantage
Ne in non other way, save mariage.
Than saw they therin swiche difficultee
By way of reson, for to speke all plain,
Because ther was swiche diversitee
Betwene hir bothe lawes, that they sayn,
They trowen that no cristen prince wold fayn
Wedden his child under our lawe swete,
That us was yeven by Mahound our prophete.
And he answered: Rather than I lese
Custance, I wol be cristened douteles:
I mote ben hires, I may non other chese,
I pray you hold your arguments in pees,
Saveth my lif, and beth not reccheles
To geten hire that hath my lif in cure,
For in this wo I may not long endure.
What nedeth greter dilatation?
I say, by tretise and ambassatrie,
And by the popes mediation,
And all the chirche, and all the chevalrie,
That in destruction of Maumetrie,
And in encrese of Cristes lawe dere,
They ben accorded so as ye may here;
How that the Soudan and his baronage,
And all his lieges shuld ycristened be,
And he shal han Custance in mariage,
And certain gold, I n'ot what quantitee,
And hereto finden suffisant suretee.
The same accord is sworne on eyther side;
Now, fair Custance, almighty God thee gide.
Now wolden som men waiten, as I gesse, That I shuld tellen all the purveiance, The which that the emperour of his noblesse Hath shapen for his doughter dame Custance, Wel may men know that so gret ordinance May no man tellen in a litel clause, As was arraied for so high a cause.
Bishopes ben shapen with hire for to wende, Lordes, ladies, and knightes of renoun, And other folk ynow, this is the end.
And notified is thurghout al the toun,
That every wight with gret devotioun
Shuld prayen Crist, that he this mariage
Receive in gree, and spede this viage.
The day is comen of hire departing,
I say the woful day fatal is come,
That ther may be no longer tarying,
But forward they hem dressen all and some.
Custance, that was with sorwe all overcome,
Ful pale arist, and dresseth hire to wende,
For wel she seth ther n'is non other ende.
Alas! what wonder is it though she wept?
That shal be sent to straunge nation
Fro frendes, that so tendrely hire kept,
And to be bounde under subjection
Of on, she knoweth not his condition.
Housbondes ben all good, and han ben yore,
That knowen wives, I dare say no more.
Fader, (she said) thy wretched child Custance,
Thy yonge doughter, fostered up so soft,
And ye, my moder, my soveraine plesance
Over all thing, (out taken Crist on loft)
Custance your child hire recommendeth oft
Unto your grace; for I shal to Surrie,
Ne shal I never seen you more with eye.
Alas! unto the Barbare nation
I muste gon, sin that it is your will:
But Crist, that starfe for our redemption,
So yeve me grace his hestes to fulfill,
I wretched woman no force though I spill;
Women arn borne to thraldom and penance,
And to ben under mannes governance.
I trow at Troye whan Pirrus brake the wall, Or Ilion brent, or Thebes the citee,
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