Classic Poem

In Wales there is a borough town,
Carmarthen hight the same,
Where dwelt sometimes a lusty friar;
I need not show his name.
This friar was fat and full of flesh,
A jolly merry knave,
Who with the gossips of the town
Himself could well behave.
Those wealthy wives and thrifty dames
Could never make good cheer,
Nor well dispute of Peter's keys
If absent were this frere.
He said his matins in their ears
And gospel at their bed,
And spared no service for the quick,
Nor cared for the dead.
With abbot's ease and faring well
This friar so wanton was,
That neither maid nor married wife
His dortour door might pass
Without some stop: such stales he laid
To make them stumble in,
That by his life men guessed he thought
That lechery was no sin.
A loving friar, good-fellow-like
In those days was he held;
In every corner of the town
Good comp'ny out he smelled;
And as ye know, in haunting long
All sorts of people there,
He must find out some baiting place,
A mistress foul or fair,
A dainty morsel for his tooth:
These friars loved well to fare,
Though some were pleased with cheeses still,
Some found a better share,
As did this honest brother in Christ,
By gossiping about;
Who, when he would a hackney ride,
Had found a palfrey out:
A nag much of a woman's height,
That used for to bear
More sacks perchance unto the mill
Than corn was grinded there.
I not declare what trim conceits
He gave her all the while,
Ere he obtained the thing he sought;
How he his tongue could file,
To talk and mince the matter well,
The better to digest;
And how full oft at morrow mass
His mistress he could feast,
And after noon to gardens walk
And gathered posies gay,
And wore them closely in his cowl
As he did service say;
Nor cannot show you half the feats
He wrought to please his trull;
But those most fit for you to read
Here put in rime I wull.
A shoemaker, that held a shop
Far from his dwelling-place,
A fair wife had, a good brown wench,
And come of no ill race.
Some say of wagtails, pretty fools,
A kindred great and good,
That knows what shears will serve the turn
When shrews will shape a hood.
The chief of this great lineage leads
Their lives like holy nuns,
That for relief in gadding time
About the cloister runs;
A caterwauling once a week,
In breath to keep them well,
Lest virgins should from surfeit take
When they lead apes in hell.
This woman went not out of kind,
And, sure, for Simon's sake
She used great deeds of charity
And much ado did make.
Saint Simon was a godly man,
The friar might so be called;
I touch no further lest he kick,
For, sure, his back is galled.
Alive the man was many years,
Since abbeys were suppressed,
And dwelt not far from Cardiff town
When written was this jest.
But to my tale let me return:
This woman seldom failed
The morrow mass at four o'clock,
To see how Christ was nailed
Unto the cross: to whom she kneeled,
With book and beads in fist;
And for devotion many times
This gentle friar she kissed,
At every pater noster while,
Which was a precious thing,
And Jesus! how it did her good
To hear her lubber sing.
And when he turned about his face
And looked through the quere,
She scrat her head, she sat on pricks,
And crept the altar near.
This custom kept she many days,
The friar thereof full glad;
Yet still referred his other sport
Till better time were had.
You must conceive, this merry man
In jests and light conceits
His head was set, and for the same
Full oft he laid his baits.
To laugh and pass the time away
Such toys he would devise,
That few men, for the mirth thereof,
The matter could despise.
Upon a day appointed was
This wife, as was her use,
Should early come to morrow mass;
There might be made no scuse.
She kept her hour, and hard she kneeled
Without the dortour door;
The friar came forth and haled her in,
And flang her on the floor.
" Fie, fie, sir friar!" she cried apace,
But what should more be said?
She was content to take her ease
And leap into the bed.
And, as mine author doth declare,
The sounder for to sleep,
She had no more upon her tho
Than hath a shoren sheep.
Sir Simkin had no points to loose:
In, cowl and all, he skips.
God send my friar well forth again:
The moon was in the 'clipse.
How long he lay, or what he did,
In sooth, I cannot tell;
But at the length the sexton went,
And rang the service bell.
The friar wished rope about his neck;
The matins was begun
That he that morn would sing or say,
And all the lessons done.
Yet up he must for fear of check,
His course was come to rise;
The night before he took his rest,
To heal his bleared eyes.
A law there was within that house,
Who slept the service out,
In fratry should be hoist full high
And whipped like breechless lout.
Wherefore to tinder box he stepped,
And light a fire in haste;
And as he girded knotted cord
Full hard about his waist,
" Lie still", said he unto his guest,
" I must go take some pain,
And sing a psalm within the quere;
But I will come again."
Out goes he then: that liked her not,
She durst not lie alone,
For fear of bugs. Thus leave I now
Abed this good wife Joan,
And tell you how in quere full loud
This shaven cock he crows,
And drowned his fellows everichon,
He sang so in the nose.
But as he turned the plainsong book,
Full smoothly could he smile,
Yet none of all the covent could
Perceive him all the while.
To mend his mirth and make him laugh,
A fancy fell in thought:
He saw the owner of the beast
That he had rid for naught,
The husband of the wife, indeed,
That he in bed had laft,
Who walked within the church beneath,
All careless of this craft.
" By God", thought he, " I will go prove
This man if he do know
His wife by measuring her foot
Or mark upon her toe;
For if I do deceive the fool
And make the wife afeard,
He nor his wife is ne'er the worse,
A hair not of his beard,
And I shall much the better be
And laughing have at will.
Thus every way, and be my luck,
I shall have sport my fill."
Down went this good religious man
Where hornsby husband walked,
And curchie made, and ducked full low;
And as he with him talked,
" I have", quod he, " known thee right long,
And still, the truth to say,
I have thee found a faithful friend
In every kind of way.
A customer thou hast of me;
My money I bestow
On thee, before all other men
That dwells within thy row.
And to be plain, I love thee well,
And plainer now I am;
Then, give good ear, I shall declare
Wherefore to thee I cam.
But wise and warely use my words,
And keep my counsel both:
Thy promise is sufficient band;
I will no further oath."
This man full well he knew his good,
Who curchied to the ground:
" Sweet sir", quod he, " tell on your mind,
I am your beadman bound."
" Thou know'st, my neighbour, men must live,
And have a wench sometime,
And we, poor friars, must keep it close,
For fear of open crime.
It were a spot unto our house,
A slander to our name,
When we have sport, if all the world
Should understand the same.
For God Himself doth give us leave,
As thou hast heard ere now,
Although the world we do deceive
In keeping of our vow.
I am too long in preaching thus,
And time I do abuse:
I have a wench for whom thou must
Go make a pair of shoes.
Let them be good; when I thee pay,
A penny more to boot
I shall thee give." " I lack", quod he,
" The measure of her foot."
Then boldly spake this bare-foot frere:
" By God, that shalt thou have,
If thou keep close and follow me,
Else call the friar a knave."
The straight plain path to dortour, then,
They took the way full right,
The friar before; but you must note,
It was not full day-light.
Wherefore the man came far behind,
The friar went in apace,
And caused his wench, the other's wife,
Right close to hide her face.
When entered was this honest man,
" Put forth thy foot", quod he
— The friar I mean, which at that time
The bolder man might be.
She thrust her leg out of the bed,
But head fast under clothes
She kept; and cursed the saucy friar
A hundred times, God knows.
The workman took his measure well,
And had no further care;
The friar well laughed within his sleeve:
Thus pleased both they are.
But how the wife contented was
Let wives be judge herein,
That from their husband's bed sometime
In suchlike case hath bin.
Yet let me show how she did quake
And tremble all the while,
And wished the roperipe hanged full high
That did her thus beguile;
And how for fear her body was
On water every part.
Hereafter shall you know likewise
What hate was in her heart,
Which for the time she covered well
And ne'er a word she spake.
Her husband hasted to his shop,
And so his leave did take.
" I have a pair of shoes", quod he,
" Which I shall bring anon
All ready made; for my wife's foot
And hers I think both one."
" Ye say the truth, good moon", thought she,
" The friar hath played the knave.
Make for your wife what shoes ye list,
The measure twice you have."
The friar runs forth, the man went home,
The woman lay a space,
As she had bin in swadling clouts,
And durst not show her face.
When she had found herself alone,
She rose, and speed did make
To be at home ere her good man
His breakfast came to take.
As in her house she did arrive,
She barred the door full fast,
And burst a-weeping like a babe,
And this she said at last:
" O, shameless knave! not pleased to spoil
Me of my wifely fame,
But at my faults thy frantic head
Must make thereof a game.
Could not my breach of wedlock's band
Content thee, but in spite
Thou must devise so lewd a fact
My faith with fraud to quite?
How didst thou know I durst not stir
That touched was so near?
I might have scaped my husband's wrath,
But thou hadst bought it dear.
If I had spoke, as once I thought
To do, my fear was such,
Thy folly had been ten times more,
Though mine were very much.
He might have took his wife again,
And knocked full well thy pate,
And shaved thy crown another sort
Than falls for thine estate;
Or else he might have shamed us both,
And so refused his wife.
I could have lived, but where wouldst thou
Have led a friar's life?
O beastly wretch! that of thy self
Hast had so small regard.
As for the knavery showed to me,
I will it well reward;
Not for the malice due therefore
But that I mind to leave
Example to thy fellows all
How they their friends deceive.
Did I procure thee to this deed?
Did not thy gospels sweet,
And mumbling oft, make me believe
A devil was no sprete?
Didst thou not seek me every hour
To show me thy good will?
And brought me grapes and goodly fruits
Among my gossips still?
Thou car'st not if ten couple of hounds
Did follow me full fast,
And I a fox were in the field,
Since now thy gear is past.
Did not thy fleering face full oft
Frame me thus to thy fist?
Then wast thou hot, now art thou cold,
Or warms thee where thou list.
A warming place within the town
Hereafter mayst thou lack,
And miss perchance so meet a seat
To drink a cup of sack.
Thou keepst not such a diet still,
Nor art not so precise,
But as the thirst doth come again
Thy appetite will rise.
I pray to God it be my lot
To see thee at that stay!"
So thus the woman held her peace,
And out she went her way
Unto the market, for to seek
Such things as housewives do:
You know, that have more skill than I,
What doth belong thereto.
The poor man brought the friar his shoes,
And thought no harm therein,
And to his labour did return,
His living for to win.
His wife and he, as they were wont,
Full quiet days did lead:
He ne'er perceived by her shoe
Where she awry did tread.
She went as upright in the street
And with as good a grace,
And set upon her follies past
Indeed as bold a face,
As she that never made offence;
For custom breeds a law,
And makes them keep their count'nance trim
That once have broke a straw.
Well, all the winter passed forth
This couple at their will;
The wife her counsel kept full close,
The poor man meant none ill.
But as the spring came on apace
The friar waxed wanton too,
And fain would nag; but credit lost,
He knew not where to woo;
And so bethought him of the prank
He played in way of sport,
And sought to salve the sore again
With words and medicines short.
So he devised amends to make,
And turn it to a jest,
And thought to laugh the matter out,
As it was meet and best.
And as by chance he met this wife,
" God speed, sweet heart", quod he,
" I marvel why these many days
You are so strange to me."
The fowler's merry whistle now
Must needs betray the bird;
The wily wife now shaped her tongue
To give the friar a gird.
" Not strange", quod she, " but that in faith
I did unkindly take
The part ye played; and yet I thought
It was for favour's sake,
Or for some mirth; for if of spite
It had been wrought, I know
I should have had some shame ere this,
But sure I find not so."
" I swear by good saint Francis, dame,
The truth thou say'st indeed;
Wherefore let pass such follies old
That may new quarrels breed,
And be my friend; thou hast good wit,
Thou know'st now what I mean:
Let all old jests, long gone and past,
Be now forgotten clean."
The wife, thus finding fortune good
To compass that she would,
A gentle limetwig gan she make
To take the friar in hold;
Yet shaped to save them harmless both
From blot and worldly shame,
And quit the knack, so she might laugh,
And have thereat some game.
" Well, sir", quoth she, " I know at full
The meaning of your mind,
And would to God some honest way
For you now I might find.
My husband haply may me miss
If I should come to you;
Then, our old fatches will not serve,
We must devise anew.
A colour must the painter cast
On posts and painted walls;
Who takes away a stumbling stock
Shall freely scape from falls.
A jealous toy is taken soon,
A trifle breeds mistrust;
Great danger follows foul delights,
As slander follows lust.
If will be won with worldly shame,
The pleasures turns to pain;
Wherefore we need a double clock
To keep us from the rain.
When that my husband is in shop,
If you the pains will take
To come unto my house betimes,
There we will merry make.
But come as soon, and if you may,
As any day appears;
The way ye know unto my house,
It standeth by the Freres."
" I will", said he, and sighed therewith,
So wrung her by the hand;
But little of the matter yet
The fool did understand.
As beetle-brains are brought in briars
Before they see the snare,
So this wise woodcock in a net
Was caught ere he was ware.
The time came on, the friar was there,
And up the stairs he went.
" A cup of malmsey", quod the wife,
" Now would us both content.
The little boy that is beneath
Shall soon go fetch the same."
" Take money with thee", quod the frere.
So thus goes down the dame
Unto the boy, and bade him run
Unto the shop above,
And bid his master come in haste
If he his wife did love,
For sick she was. " But, boy", quod she,
" Then, trudge thou for the drink.
Oh boy, I fear that I shall sound
Before thou come, I think."
Out flings the lad, up goes the wife,
And at a window pried,
Until at length far off full well
Her husband had she spied.
" Alas, go hide thee quickly, frere",
Said she, " if that thou can,
For here at hand, I do not feign,
There cometh my good man.
Here is no corner to get out,
Full woe is me therefore!
Now shall we buy our pastime dear
And pay for pleasures sore.
Now all the mischief will be mine,
Because I have thee here;
Now shall my honest name be brought
In question by a frere.
Well, now there is no nother shift
But here the brunt to bide —
Except that in this little chest
Thyself now canst thou hide.
Now choose thou whether open blame
Or secret prison sweet
In these extremes and haste is most
For present mischief meet."
The friar to find some ready help
Was pleased and well apaid,
So in the chest this great wise man
Is crept full sore afraid.
She locked the same, and clapped the keys
Close under bolster sure,
So laid her down upon the bed
And did sore fits endure,
Or feigned to feel, about her breast;
Such gripes she said she felt,
The groaning of the same did make
Her husband's heart to melt.
" How now, dear wife! what aileth thee?"
The simple soul said then.
" Fie, wife! pluck up a woman's heart."
" Yea, husband, God knows when",
Quoth she, " if aquavitae now
I drink not out of hand,
I have a stitch so sore, God wot,
I can nor sit nor stand."
" Thou hast a bottle in the house,
I dare well say", quod he.
" Of aquavitae lately bought
There may no better be
Within thy chest. Where are thy keys?"
" I know not, by my life",
Said she, " you set more by a lock
Than you do by your wife.
Ye wus and ye were sick, I should
The lock right soon up break."
" That shall be done", quod he, " you need
Thereof no more to speak."
A hatchet took he in his hand,
And struck it such a blow
The chamber shaked, the friar he quaked,
And stank for fear and woe.
The chest with iron bars was bound,
Which made the goodman sweat:
The friar, like doctor Dolt, lay still,
In dread and danger great.
And durst not stir for all the world,
His courage quite was gone.
The poor man had a pig in poke,
Had he looked well thereon.
The lock was good, that knew the wife,
Who bade her husband strike:
He laid on load, the friar within
That sport did little like.
At length the bands began to loose:
The wife had eye thereto;
She feared if he did strike again
The lock would sure undo.
Then thought she on a woman's wile,
Which never fails at need:
If friar were seen, then was she shamed;
No, no, she took more heed.
" Oh hold your hand! You kill my head",
Quod she, " to hear you knock.
Now am I eased; great harm it were
To spill so good a lock.
My stitch is gone, then let me sleep
And rest myself a while."
The goodman went unto his shop;
The wife began to smile.
When she had sent away the boy
All things in quiet were;
She rose and went to ease the friar
That lay half dead for fear:
Which resurrection who had seen
Must needs have laughed at least —
First how he lay, then how he looked
And trembled like a beast.
" Now am I quit", quod she, " sir frere,
And yet you are not shamed,
And through a woman who you scorned
Your folly now is tamed."
This tale so ends, and by the same
You see what friars have bin;
And how their outward holy lives
Was but a cloak for sin.
Here may you see how plain poor men
That labours for their food
Are soon deceived with subtle snakes
Of wicked serpents' brood.
Here, under cloud of matter light,
Some words of weight may pass,
To make the lewd abhor foul life
And see themselves in glass.
Here is no terms to stir up vice;
The writer meant not so,
For by the foil that folly takes
The wise may blotless go.
The more we see the wicked plagued
And painted plain to sight,
The more we pace the path of grace
And seek to walk upright.