Playful Poems Part 4

"Thanks," quoth the Sumner; "merry be our meeting."

So in each other's hand their troths they lay, And swear accord: and forth they ride and play.

This Sumner then, which was as full of stir, And prate, and prying, as a woodp.e.c.k.e.r, And ever inquiring upon everything, Said, "Brother, where is thine inhabiting, In case I come to find thee out some day?"

This yeoman dropped his speech in a soft way, And said, "Far in the north. But ere we part, {42} I trow thou shalt have learnt it so by heart, Thou mayst not miss it, be it dark as pitch."

"Good," quoth the Sumner. "Now, as thou art rich, Show me, dear brother, riding thus with me, Since we are bailiffs both, some subtlety, How I may play my game best, and may win: And spare not, pray, for conscience or for sin, But, as my brother, tell me how do ye."

"Why, 'faith, to tell thee a plain tale," quoth he, "As to my wages, they be poor enough; My lord's a dangerous master, hard and chuff; And since my labour bringeth but abortion, I live, so please ye, brother, by extortion, I take what I can get; that is my course; By cunning, if I may; if not, by force; So cometh, year by year, my salary."

"Now certes," quote the Sumner, "so fare I.

I lay my hands on everything, G.o.d wot, Unless it be too heavy or too hot.

What I may get in counsel, privily, I feel no sort of qualm thereon, not I.

Extortion or starvation;--that's my creed.

Repent who list. The best of saints must feed.

That's all the stomach that my conscience knoweth.

Curse on the a.s.s that to confession goeth.

Well be we met, 'Od's heart! and by my dame!

But tell me, brother dear, what is thy name?"

Now ye must know, that right in this meanwhile, This yeoman 'gan a little for to smile.

"Brother," quoth he, "my name, if I must tell - I am a fiend: my dwelling is in h.e.l.l: And here I ride about my fortuning, To wot if folk will give me anything.

To that sole end ride I, and ridest thou; And, without pulling rein, will I ride now To the world's end, ere I will lose a prey."

"G.o.d bless me," quoth the Sumner, "what d'ye say?

I thought ye were a yeoman verily.

Ye have a man's shape, sir, as well as I.

Have ye a shape then, pray, determinate In h.e.l.l, good sir, where ye have your estate?"

"Nay, certainly," quoth he, "there have we none; But whoso liketh it, he taketh one; And so we make folk think us what we please.

Sometimes we go like apes, sometimes like bees, Like man, or angel, black dog, or black crow:- Nor is it wondrous that it should be so.

A sorry juggler can bewilder thee; And 'faith, I think I know more craft than he."

"But why," inquired the Sumner, "must ye don So many shapes, when ye might stick to one?"

"We suit the bait unto the fish," quoth he.

"And why," quoth t'other, "all this slavery?"

"For many a cause, Sir Sumner," quoth the fiend; "But time is brief--the day will have an end; And here jog I, with nothing for my ride; Catch we our fox, and let this theme abide: For, brother mine, thy wit it is too small To understand me, though I told thee all; And yet, as toucheth that same slavery, A devil must do G.o.d's work, 'twixt you and me; For without Him, albeit to our loathing, Strong as we go, we devils can do nothing; Though to our prayers, sometimes, He giveth leave Only the body, not the soul, to grieve.

Witness good Job, whom nothing could make wrath; And sometimes have we power to hara.s.s both; And, then again, soul only is possest, And body free; and all is for the best.

Full many a sinner would have no salvation, Gat it he not by standing our temptation: Though G.o.d He knows, 'twas far from our intent To save the man:- his howl was what we meant.

Nay, sometimes we be servants to our foes: Witness the saint that pulled my master's nose; And to the apostle servant eke was I."

"Yet tell me," quoth this Sumner, "faithfully, Are the new shapes ye take for your intents Fresh every time, and wrought of elements?"

"Nay," quoth the fiend, "sometimes they be disguises; And sometimes in a corpse a devil rises, And speaks as sensibly, and fair, and well, As did the Pythoness to Samuel: And yet will some men say, it was not he!

Lord help, say I, this world's divinity.

Of one thing make thee sure; that thou shalt know, Before we part, the shapes we wear below.

Thou shalt--I jest thee not--the Lord forbid!

Thou shalt know more than ever Virgil did, Or Dante's self. So let us on, sweet brother, And stick, like right warm souls, to one another: I'll never quit thee, till thou quittest me."

"Nay," quoth the Sumner, "that can never be; I am a man well known, respectable; And though thou wert the very lord of h.e.l.l, Hold thee I should as mine own plighted brother: Doubt not we'll stick right fast, each to the other: And, as we think alike, so will we thrive: We twain will be the merriest devils alive.

Take thou what's given; for that's thy mode, G.o.d wot; And I will take, whether 'tis given or not.

And if that either winneth more than t'other, Let him be true, and share it with his brother."

"Done," quoth the fiend, whose eyes in secret glowed; And with that word they p.r.i.c.ked along the road: And soon it fell, that entering the town's end, To which this Sumner shaped him for to wend, They saw a cart that loaded was with hay, The which a carter drove forth on his way.

Deep was the mire, and sudden the cart stuck: The carter, like a madman, smote and struck, And cried, "Heit, Scot; heit, Brock! What! is't the stones?

The devil clean fetch ye both, body and bones: Must I do nought but bawl and swinge all day?

Devil take the whole--horse, harness, cart, and hay."

The Sumner whispered to the fiend, "I' faith, We have it here. Hear'st thou not what he saith?

Take it anon, for he hath given it thee, Live stock and dead, hay, cart, and horses three!"

"Nay," quoth the fiend, "not so;--the deuce a bit.

He sayeth; but, alas! not meaneth it: Ask him thyself, if thou believ'st not me; Or else be still awhile, and thou shalt see."

Thwacketh the man his horses on the croup, And they begin to draw now, and to stoop.

"Heit there," quoth he; "heit, heit; ah, matthywo.

Lord love their hearts! how prettily they go!

That was well twitched, methinks, mine own grey boy: I pray G.o.d save thy body, and Saint Eloy.

Now is my cart out of the slough, pardie."

"There," quoth the fiend unto the Sumner; "see, I told thee how 'twould fall. Thou seest, dear brother, The churl spoke one thing, but he thought another.

Let us p.r.i.c.k on, for we take nothing here."

And when from out the town they had got clear, The Sumner said, "Here dwelleth an old witch, That had as lief be tumbled in a ditch And break her neck, as part with an old penny.

Nathless her twelve pence is as good as any, And I will have it, though she lose her wits; Or else I'll cite her with a score of writs: And yet, G.o.d wot, I know of her no vice.

So learn of me, Sir Fiend: thou art too nice."

The Sumner clappeth at the widow's gate.

"Come out," he saith, "thou hag, thou quiver-pate: I trow thou hast some friar or priest with thee."

"Who clappeth?" said this wife; "ah, what say ye?

G.o.d save ye, masters: what is your sweet will?"

"I have," said he, "of summons here a bill: Take care, on pain of cursing, that thou be To-morrow morn, before the Archdeacon's knee, To answer to the court of certain things."

"Now, Lord," quoth she, "sweet Jesu, King of kings, So help me, as I cannot, sirs, nor may: I have been sick, and that full many a day.

I may not walk such distance, nay, nor ride, But I be dead, so p.r.i.c.keth it my side.

La! how I cough and quiver when I stir! - May I not ask some worthy officer To speak for me, to what the bill may say?"

"Yea, certainly," this Sumner said, "ye may, On paying--let me see--twelve pence anon.

Small profit cometh to myself thereon: My master hath the profit, and not I.

Come--twelve pence, mother--count it speedily, And let me ride: I may no longer tarry."

"Twelve pence!" quoth she; "now may the sweet Saint Mary So wisely help me out of care and sin, As in this wide world, though I sold my skin, I could not sc.r.a.pe up twelve pence, for my life.

Ye know too well I am a poor old wife: Give alms, for the Lord's sake, to me, poor wretch."

"Nay, if I quit thee then," quoth he, "devil fetch Myself, although thou starve for it, and rot."

"Alas!" quoth she, "the pence I have 'em not."

"Pay me," quoth he, "or by the sweet Saint Anne, I'll bear away thy staff and thy new pan For the old debt thou ow'st me for that fee, Which out of pocket I discharged for thee, When thou didst make thy husband an old stag."

"Thou liest," quoth she; "so leave me never a rag, As I was never yet, widow nor wife, Summonsed before your court in all my life, Nor never of my body was untrue.

Unto the devil, rough and black of hue, Give I thy body, and the pan to boot."

And when this devil heard her give the brute Thus in his charge, he stooped into her ear, And said, "Now, Mabily, my mother dear, Is this your will in earnest that ye say?"

"The devil," quoth she, "so fetch him cleanaway, Soul, pan, and all, unless that he repent."