Cook's Tale in Modern English - CHAUCERIAN FABLIAUX ENDING SUPPLIED

Discover a great modern American poetic treasure Ellin Anderson

Richard Brodie's modern English translation of
The Cook's Tale
from Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales

Also completed: General Prologue, Knight, Miller, Reeve, Man of Law, Prioress

The Cook of Londoun, whil the Reve spak,
For joye him thoughte he clawed him on the bak.
"Ha! ha!" quod he, "For Cristes passion,
This millere hadde a sharp conclusion
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
Whom that he 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 a-werk.
He hadde a jape of malice in the derk.
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."
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.
Of many a pilgrym 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.
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,
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 therwithal he lough and made cheere,
And seyde his tale, as ye shul after heere.

The Cook felt, at this tale the Reeve had hatched,
As though an itch from head to tail was scratched.
“Ha!” said he, “In the name of God’s anointed,
This miller learned a lesson very pointed
On taking lodgers to be housed and fed.
As Solomon inimitably said:
‘Be careful whom you offer board and bed.’
Providing lodging can be pretty scary.
Of who stays with you for the night be wary;
Don’t take in any old Tom, Dick, or Harry.
May I by Care and Misery be claimed
If I have ever heard, since I was named
Roger of Ware, about a miller thief
So well worked over, getting well-earned grief.
But God forbid at this we leave it, so
If on me you the honor would bestow
To hear a poor man’s tale, I’ll let you know
Of an amazing caper that went down,
That I’m aware of, one time in our town.”
“You’re on,” the Host said, “Roger, but take pains
To make sure what you tell us entertains.
For many a dinner have you served up cold,
And many a pie or pastry you have sold
That should be warm, but was too hot to hold.
And many a pilgrim on your cooking rag,
As on your parsley garnishing they gag
That they have eaten with your ill-fed goose;
For in your kitchen many a fly is loose.
Go on now, Roger, and don’t take offense
If we ourselves amuse at your expense,
For when we joke around, the truth comes out.”
“You speak the truth,” said Roger, “I don’t doubt.
But ‘true jest, bad jest’, as the French would say;
Ain’t that right, Harry Bailey? By the way,
Don’t you be angry either, ere we leave,
For my tale of a Host will put the Reeve
To shame, and when my story you have heard,
You’ll get what’s coming to you, mark my word.”
With that he laughed, and passed around the beer,
And told his lusty tale, as next you’ll hear.

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,
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;
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 --
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,
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.
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,
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.
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,
Upon a day, whan he his papir soghte,
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;
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.
Now lat hym riote al the nyght 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
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.

Chaucer’s tale ends here

Completion by Richard Brodie

Once an apprentice to our town retired,
Who to a food-preparing guild aspired.
Gay as a gold finch in the woods he dressed,
Tanned, handsome, but in height a bit compressed.
Combed elegantly was his jet-black hair;
His heels he could kick up with so much flair
That he as Perkin Reveler was known.
With pleasure he could make a woman moan;
His ways were sweet as honey from a hive;
With him a girl could really feel alive.
He’d sing and dance at parties for a bride;
A tavern he would rather be inside,
Than in the shop. When a parade he saw
In Cheapside, it for him was such a draw
That all his work he suddenly would drop
To watch, and not come back into the shop
Until a bunch of guys like him he’d found
To laugh and sing and dance and play around;
With whom he then would set a time to meet
For playing dice at such and such a street.
If in this town apprentices amassed,
Not one a better pair of dice could cast.
And while his winnings make the others cringe,
They for him finance many a shopping binge.
With access to his master’s cash accounts,
They often come up short by large amounts.
With an apprentice to high living prone,
Who gambles, and can’t leave the girls alone,
His master can expect to foot the bills,
Without participating in the thrills.
For hand in hand go living wild and theft.
Though at the fiddle and guitar he’s deft,
The trait of honesty we never find
Shown by such low-life dregs of humankind.
While Perkin with his master is remaining,
As he comes near the end of all his training,
Though warned to be from revelry refraining,
He once again is thrown into the clink.
This gives his master cause to stop and think,
Upon that day when Perkin would be sprung,
About a proverb dealing with the young:
“Better a rotten apple is ejected
Than let the barrel all become infected.”
A servant riotous should be rejected;
It’s better he should take a hike, this clown,
Than stick around and drag all others down.
And so for him the master posted bail,
And bade him go some other place to fail.
Thus this apprentice had to go away.
Now if he likes, the whole night he can play.
Partners in crime with thieves are always there,
Eager to get in on the take, and share
Together their ill-gotten dividends.
He right away his clothes and bedding sends
Unto a friend like him, whom he knew well
Enjoyed a game of dice, and raising hell,
Whose wife a shop kept, for appearance sake,
But who by screwing did her living make.

Her skin was soft and fair, her name was Scarlet;
She was indeed a most attractive harlot.
She wore a dress of gingham bright and gay,
And charged a pretty penny for a lay.
This girl was a discriminating whore,
For not just anyone came through her door.
Her john most honored was the Cook’s new neighbor,
The Host of Cheapside Inn named Leary Haybir,
A married man with quite a lovely bride,
But not in sex completely satisfied -
That’s why he seeks to get some on the side.

Tight fisted was he, and deep in his gut
He felt that wages were a loss to cut;
But while his help he chisels on their checks,
He adds weight to the burden on their necks.
He makes them harder work, and longer too,
And criticizes everything they do.
The Cook for some time had been working there,
And for the clientele preparing fare.
About the way in which he ran his kitchen
This rich, nit-picking Host was always bitchin’.
His lemons were to sour, his sauce too salty,
His pudding sucked, his choice of wines was faulty.
No matter what he did, try as he might,
He never could get anything quite right.
The Host a speck of food sees, and: “God dang!”
He’d launch into his cleanliness harangue,
And say that at the filth he was appalled;
That many a cockroach on the counters crawled.

Perkin had seen this Haybir’s wife one time.
She was so beautiful it seemed a crime
That such a woman’s charms should go to waste.
Her full breasts proud upon her chest were placed,
And curly golden locks her temples graced,
Which roused in him desire her love to taste.
A short red dress and thin white blouse she wore.
Her legs were long and slim; her name, Lenore.
A metaphor most odd to him occurred
Which seemed at first to be a bit absurd:
He likens her, not to a lovely bird,
Nor to a gorgeous rose of yellow hue;
Instead an outhouse he compares her to,
Not made of wooden planks all worn and old,
But built of brick, and with a roof of gold.

He’d often seen her husband come and go
While visiting his roommate’s little ho;
And thus he thinks: “I’ll try and make a pass.
I just might get myself a piece of ass.”
So one day, while the Host with Scarlet played,
He went and to Lenore a visit paid.
There in the dining hall, a vision stunning,
He found her, and began to speak with cunning:
“Good day, madam. Do you remember me?
I’m Perkin, and if I may forward be,
Your husband does another woman see.”
“I don’t believe you.” she replies, but he
Continues, till she says, with eyes all teary,
“Could this be true? It would explain why Leary
Of late has been so distant and so cool.”

“I hate to see him play you for a fool,”
Are Perkins soothing words in her distress.
His arms go round her in a soft caress,
As him against her she does closely press.
Just like an ember hot deprived of air,
Into a fiery flame when fanned will flare,
This woman who’s been starved for love’s affection,
When feeling this young Perkin’s hard erection,
Rips off her blouse, her breasts enormous baring.
He startled and elated at them staring,
Has this one word of exclamation: “Wow!”
Just like some mermaid’s on a Grecian prow,
With splendor statuesque they thrusted high.
So hastily they to her bedroom fly.

The door into the kitchen from the hall
Was very slightly cracked, and through it all
That had transpired the Cook did well observe,
As he the next meal did prepare to serve.
He also saw as, from her room emerging,
They planned, with passion’s heaving tides still surging,
To supplement their little hasty snack
With a full meal, much longer in the sack.
“I’ll go now, Habir might be coming back.”
Said Perkin. “Yes,” she said, “but I’ve a scheme.
Of love’s fresh milk we both shall sip the cream;
With morsels sweet our plate of love will teem.
The next time Leary leaves for London on
A business trip, and for three days he’s gone,
I’ll send you word, and you may come to me
That evening. But so that no one will see,
Around the back you’ll go, where there will be
An orchard gate secured, and when you knock
I’ll come to you, and will the latch unlock.”
To all of this the Reveler agreed,
And from the Inn with haste he did proceed.

As out the door he went the Host he sees
Approaching from the east, so west he flees;
But him the Host observes, and wonders why
He is in such a hurry off to fly.
Once Leary is inside he goes to find
The Cook, who’s ready with revenge in mind
For all the meanness and the words unkind.
He wastes no time as to the Host he mentions
All of Lenore’s designs, all her intentions;
On Leary by this Cook no love is lost.
The Host thinks on this as the salad’s tossed;
And as he watches while the broth is stirred,
He wonders whether he should trust the word
Of one who, with the cunning of a fox,
Might like to see his marriage on the rocks;
And who, for criticism he resented,
Would like to see him by his wife tormented.
“Trouble,” he thought, “this Cook might want to stir;
Whether his story’s true I can’t be sure.
But since I saw the young man running off,
At its veracity I’m loath to scoff.”
So he concocts a very clever plan,
The cleverest, he thinks, since time began,
To trap and catch them in the act; a plot
To put his wife and Perkin on the spot.
But as you’ll see, the cunning of Lenore
Does far exceed that of her husband, for
Women have been the masters of deceit
Since Eve made Adam of the apple eat.
And even Argus with his hundred eyes
Could not prevent a woman bent on lies.

The next day in the early afternoon
He told Lenore that he’d be leaving soon.
“I need to go to London town,” said Leary,
“I trust you’ll be a loyal wife, my dearie,
And take good care of things while I’m away;
I don’t know how long I will have to stay.”
“I shall, my lord,” she dutifully replied.
Off with his porters he prepared to ride,
Explaining that, his trip to expedite,
He’d travel several miles, then spend the night.
So far, so good. His wife was not aware
Of his intent to catch her in a snare.
And so at once she sends her lover word -
The thing for which they’d hoped had now occurred.

And so when Leary reached a little town
About three miles away, they settled down
To spend the night; his porters all in bed,
Back to the orchard gate with haste he sped.
His wife, who’s looking on with passions fired,
Runs out to him, seductively attired.
Not seeing who it was beneath the hat,
She took him in her arms, believing that
This man who waited for her was her lover.
That he was Leary she would soon discover.
She barely heard his greeting, as he tried
His true identity from her to hide.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Lenore unto him said,
As him along the orchard path she led.
He tried his best to keep his face concealed,
But very soon the truth would be revealed,
For while he kept his head turned to the side,
This lady peered around, his face espied,
And without question she did realize
That it was Leary in his crude disguise.

At this discovery she might have recoiled,
And thus his little ruse at once have spoiled;
But though he tried to take her for a fool,
She stayed composed and did not lose her cool;
And from the moment that she knew his game,
Thought, “I will show him, I can play the same.”

“It’s good,” she said, “tonight to have you here,
And hold you tight, and make love without fear.
And if you’ll tell no one that we have met,
I’ll help with funds to bail you out of debt.
Come now, I have a room upstairs for you,
Where you’ll be hidden safely out of view.
Be patient; when with eating all are through
I’ll quietly come up and with my key
Unlock the door; then you’ll come down with me.
Into my bedroom you and I will go,
And that you’re with me, not a soul will know.
“That’s very good,” with muffled voice he said.
Little he knew what went on in her head,
And what a painful lesson he would learn
As round on him the tables she would turn.
The lady had him locked him inside her pen,
And knew that he would not get out again.

Now unbeknownst to them, while looking through
A small crack, as he stood there stirring stew,
The Cook had noticed all of this, and who
The man was that walked up with her he knew.

When she had turned the key and thus secured
Her cheating husband, whom she there had lured,
She hurried back down to the orchard gate
Where Perkin stood, by chance a little late.
“Come in.” she said, with an inviting glance;
Her soft hand slipping down inside his pants.
This second guest, for whose love she did thirst,
Shall this night fare much better than the first.
She’d gladly let the one who was less favored,
Stew, while the other one’s hot love she savored.
Inside the house her lover then she led
Into her chamber where, upon her bed,
She had already folded back the spread.
They eagerly leaped in without delay
And both began the game of love to play.
He thinks, as o’er her breasts his fingers stray:
“For other games I wouldn’t give a fig.
I’ve never seen a gal with boobs so big.
I’m really stoked these hooters huge to handle.
To this dice-throwing cannot hold a candle.”
They had a lot of fun in love’s embraces,
Kissing each other’s lips, and other places.
“My darling, I must leave you now,” she said,
“And make sure all my household guests are fed.
But when from all my duties I’m released,
Then you and I shall have a luscious feast
Tonight in perfect privacy, my dear.”
Said he. “I’ll gladly wait for you right here.”

And so she went into the dining hall
And did her very best to please them all.
The people guzzled beer to slake their thirst
And gorged themselves until they nearly burst.
Then just before the company dispersed
The lady asked them for a while to stay,
For there was something that she had to say.
Two of her husband’s nephews were on hand,
His niece, three chambermaids, two valets, and
A handyman and waterboy as well.
“God save you all,” she said; a silence fell;
Thus when she spoke, she didn’t have to yell.
“Some of you may have noticed a young guest
Who has of late been here, a real pest!
He pleads, and gives me not a moment’s rest;
He begs for love in poetry and prose,
To which I’ve given him a thousand “No!”’s.
I’ve had to waste time dealing with this jerk,
Which makes it so I can’t do any work.
I realized I’d get no rest unless
I threw some bait to him, by saying “Yes.”
And so I promised, as I led him on,
I’d do his bidding when my lord was gone
(He’s on his way, may God protect him now!)
That pesterer, who holds me to my vow,
Is upstairs at this moment, out of sight,
And thinks that with me he will spend the night.
I need some help; all those who’ll volunteer
Shall get a full keg of our finest beer.
This fellow needs a thrashing most severe.
Arise now! He’s locked in the upstairs room.
Go beat him to a pulp with club and broom;
Pummel him with your fists till down he goes,
And make him black and blue from head to toes,
So that, unto a self-respecting lady,
No more will he make propositions shady!”

The Cook had taken all this in with pleasure;
This lady’s cunning genius was a treasure.
He marveled at her plot as it unfurled,
And wouldn’t miss the fun for all the world.
He could have blown the whistle on her plot,
And spared his master a cruel beating. Not!
Instead he’d help; he’d play a vital role,
And triple vengeance wreak upon his soul.

The crowd, on hearing all her clever lies,
In righteous anger like a mob arise.
One grabs a mallet, and one grabs a stick;
Another grabs a pestle, large and thick.
It was unto the Cook she gave the key.
“Go strike so many blows on him,” said she,
“That you will need a counter to keep score.
Make sure he doesn’t slip out through the door,
But keep him there and pulverize him well.”
“By God,” they shouted, “let’s go give him hell!”
They ran upstairs, the Cook unlocked the door;
One of the nephews threw him to the floor.
“You wretched pest, you’ll get some discipline!”
The other nephew said. They all rushed in.
He landed on his face and no one saw
Just who he was. He almost broke his jaw.
To make sure none participating hear
His voice, or chance to see his face and fear
That there has been some terrible mistake,
The Cook his overcoat does quickly take
And yanks it up. His face and throat around
He wraps it so he cannot make a sound.
The rest of them then really start to pound
With all their clubs and sticks; none show restraint.
A picture worse than this I could not paint
If he had paid ten bucks for every blow.
They hit him from above and then below.
Both of his nephews and also his niece
Administered at least ten blows apiece.
The girls and handyman his legs attack;
The waterboy pounds hard upon his back;
The valets whack his buttocks hard with sticks.
The Cook with glee gets in a few good licks.
All limp and bleeding, him they cease to flog,
And drag him down the stairs like some dead dog.
They take him to the orchard where he’s flung
Onto a steaming, smelly pile of dung.

Returning to the house all stand in line
To celebrate their deed with beer and wine
That had for years within the cellar lain.
Bordeaux, red burgundies, and fine champagne
They drank, like they were lords of Charlemagne.
And after setting out a fancy spread
The lady left to go and get in bed,
And spend the night with Perkin having fun,
Till they first saw the rising morning sun.
This young man satisfied so well her lust,
She gave him ten bucks, and she said, “You must
Return and share with me my waiting bed.”
“I shall be at your service ma’am,” he said.

Meanwhile the man who in manure had lain
Began to move his muscles with great pain.
He slowly started on the three-mile crawl
Back to the inn, where “Did you take a fall?”
His porters asked; but when they noticed all
His cuts and bruises, much concern they had;
And when they smelled the stench that was so bad,
They figured that somehow he had been hit
By some big nasty load of fresh bull shit.
They asked of him if he was feeling well.
“You must be kidding. Jeez, I feel like hell!
Just clean off all this crap, and I’m not kidding.
Then take me home.” They quickly did his bidding,
They washed his wounds and then, without delay,
They started back to Cheapside right away.

For all his pain he now had no concern;
His nagging jealousy no more did burn,
For he believed he had a faithful spouse,
And felt himself to be the cheating louse.
He was resolved, the lady of the house,
His true and virtuous and loyal wife,
He would have confidence in all his life.
And when at last he got home late that night,
Lenore saw that he was a sorry sight.
“My dear,” she said, “ you’re really quite a mess.
I’ll make some soothing salves your wounds to dress.”
She questioned him: “How did you come to grief?”
And asked the Cook to make, for his relief,
Some herbal potions. His reply was brief:
“I was assaulted by a ruthless mob,
And now my aching head and body throb.”

Of Perkin Reveler his nephews tell;
Of how they made him with contusions swell;
And how his faithful wife the trap had sprung;
And how they threw him on a pile of dung;
And how from stain her virtue was preserved;
And how he got the thrashing he deserved.

The Host, for being such a stingy bastard,
With many a sore and tender bruise was plastered;
For criticizing how the beef was braised
Instead of praising, many a welt was raised;
And finally he, for cheating on his wife,
Was beaten to within an inch of life!

This husband would suspicious be no more,
Nor critical, nor spying; and Lenore
Would never fail to lie, when he is gone,
With him she loves all night until the dawn.
May all men wary be of women’s wiles,
And on this company, let’s pray God smiles!