With Modern English Translation
By Charles M. Sumid
Copyright 2025 Original written 1970 Revised 2014

The Prologue

When the Miller had finished telling his tale,
Our Host laughed and swore, “By God’s bones, hale!
That was a lively tale for now, indeed!
Now listen,” said he, “Master Scrivener, heed—
You sit there still as any stone or post.
Tell us a tale, as was agreed by most.
You write down other men’s words every day—
Now speak your own, I beg you, if I may!”

This Scrivener was lean and pale of face,
His fingers stained with ink, his eyes misplaced—
Half-blind from peering at his parchment scroll.
“Sir Host,” said he, “I have a little tale
Of two who loved, but dared not speak it true,
And how their letters went astray, askew,
By one who could not write nor even read—
A tale of love entangled through misdeed.”

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The Tale

In London once there dwelled a merchant rich,
Who had a daughter fairer than the moon,
Named Custance, for she bore a saintly pitch
Of grace and poise, like holy women’s boon.
A clerk there was who served within the same
Counting-house of this merchant, day and night,
Called Thomas—poor, but of a worthy name—
And he loved Custance with his heart’s full might.

But for his poverty, he dared not say
His love to her or to her father bold.
So secretly he wrote, day after day,
Epistles to his lady, fierce yet cold,
With fire from Ovid and old poets’ lore:
“O Custance,” wrote he, “queen of all my heart,
Your beauty holds my soul in prison sore—
Have mercy on your servant, love impart!”

Now hear how this poor letter went astray:
Thomas had none to bear his private note
Except for Willelm, merchant’s knave, who may
Not read nor write, nor even letters quote.
“Take this to her, my lady dear,” said he,
“And say no more but that it comes from one
Who loves her truly, wholly, faithfully.”
Willelm took the letter and was gone.

But Willelm loved a girl—a baker’s maid—
Named Custance too, by Saint Loy’s blessed name!
So to the bakery he quickly strayed,
And gave the letter, flushed with joy and flame.
“A man has sent this letter unto thee,”
Said he, “I know not who, but he’s in love.”
The girl received it with delight and glee,
Though she could not read what it spoke of.

She brought it to her priest to understand
What strange and secret words the letter bore.
The priest was young, and Custance fair of hand—
His heart was moved, and stirred to love once more.
“My child,” said he, “this letter says that he
Who wrote it is a noble lord’s own son,
And he would wed you, if you would agree,
With gold and land to make your fortune run.”

The girl was glad—what baker’s daughter would
Not wish to be a lady, if she might?
“Father,” said she, “tell this lord, I should
Be his true wife, and pledge myself outright.”
The priest then wrote an answer, full of lies:
“My lord, your letter I have well received.
Come to my father’s house, and there advise
Of marriage, and you shall not be deceived.”

When Thomas got this letter, oh, his joy!
He went unto the merchant’s house, so proud,
In his best coat, without a hint of coy,
And knocked upon the door, his love avowed.
“What knave is this?” the merchant cried in rage,
“That dares to knock so boldly at my gate?”
“I come to ask your daughter’s hand in wage,”
Said Thomas, “as she bade me, soon of late.”

The merchant laughed, “My daughter sent for you?
A poor clerk? You are mad, or else a fool!
Be gone!” But Custance heard the noise, and flew
To see what stir disturbed the house’s rule.
When Thomas saw his lady at the door,
He showed the letter—“Lady, see your hand!”
She took the note, confused and more and more:
“I wrote no such—I do not understand!”

In all this noise came Willelm running fast:
“O Master Thomas, how goes your affair?
I gave your letter to Custance at last—
The baker’s daughter—she was mute, but fair,
And glad to have a letter from a lord!”
“What say you, knave? What Custance?” Thomas cried.
“The baker’s girl, who lives beside the ford—
To her I gave your letter, as you said!”

The merchant and his daughter laughed aloud,
And Thomas stood as if he’d lost his mind.
“Now by my staff,” the merchant said, so proud,
“This beats all tricks and tales I’ve ever signed!
A letter gone astray, two Custances,
A lying priest, a knave who cannot read—
This is a tale to tell through ages hence!
But for your honest love, Thomas, take heed.

You are a worthy clerk, though poor in gold,
And love is better than wealth, as men say.
If my daughter loves you, then be bold—
I shall not stop true love, not now, nor day.”
And Custance, blushing red as any rose,
Said, “Father, I have loved this clerk so long,
But for his poverty, I dared not suppose
That you would let us wed and live among.”

So they were wed with music, joy, and song,
And Willelm? He was wed to his own maid—
The baker’s Custance, happy all along
To have a man, though barely he had trade.
The priest? He fled to Canterbury town,
Afraid his lies would soon be brought to light.
And thus two loves were lost and then were found
Through one poor letter sent in wrongful flight.

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The Epilogue

“Now, good men, this tale I tell to show
How often words go wrong, as you may know.
We write one thing, another man may read
A different meaning in that text, indeed.
So be you wise, and write your letters plain,
And trust them not to folk who cannot read—
Or else your love may turn to grief and pain,
And all your purpose shift to other need.

But yet, through God’s own grace and providence,
True love found its way unto its end.
And he who meant but lies and false pretense
Was brought to naught, as God will all amend.
For love will out, as men may see and hear,
Though it go by the baker’s shop, I fear!
And true folk shall have their lady dear,
Though letters go astray by two or three!”

“Amen!” said our Host, “by God’s own bones,
That was a merry tale of twists and tones!
These clerks and all their letters, for the nonce,
Make many men to suffer grief at once!
Now ride we forth, the sun is in the west—
Sir Priest,” said he, “your tale shall now be told,
And pray it be not dull, for I suggest
We’ve had enough of letters, truth be bold!”