The Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale: The Tale

With this Canon I dwelt have seven year,And of his science am I ne’er the nearAll that I had I have lost thereby,And, God wot, so have many more than I.Where I was wont to be right fresh and gayOf clothing, and of other good arrayNow may I wear an hose upon mine head;And where my colour was both fresh and red,Now is it wan, and of a leaden hue(Whoso it useth, sore shall he it rue);And of my swink yet bleared is mine eye;Lo what advantage is to multiply!That sliding science hath me made so bare,That I have no good, where that ever I fare;And yet I am indebted so therebyOf gold, that I have borrow’d truely,That, while I live, I shall it quite never;Let every man beware by me for ever.What manner man that casteth him thereto,If he continue, I hold his thrift y-do;So help me God, thereby shall he not win,But empty his purse, and make his wittes thin.And when he, through his madness and folly,Hath lost his owen good through jupartie,Then he exciteth other men thereto,To lose their good as he himself hath do’.For unto shrewes joy it is and easeTo have their fellows in pain and disease.Thus was I ones learned of a clerk;Of that no charge; I will speak of our work.

When we be there as we shall exerciseOur elvish craft, we seeme wonder wise,Our termes be so clergial and quaint.I blow the fire till that mine hearte faint.Why should I tellen each proportionOf thinges, whiche that we work upon,As on five or six ounces, may well be,Of silver, or some other quantity?And busy me to telle you the names,As orpiment, burnt bones, iron squames,That into powder grounden be full small?And in an earthen pot how put is all,And, salt y-put in, and also peppere,Before these powders that I speak of here,And well y-cover’d with a lamp of glass?And of much other thing which that there was?And of the pots and glasses engluting,That of the air might passen out no thing?And of the easy fire, and smart also,Which that was made? and of the care and woeThat we had in our matters subliming,And in amalgaming, and calciningOf quicksilver, called mercury crude?For all our sleightes we can not conclude.Our orpiment, and sublim’d mercury,Our ground litharge eke on the porphyry,Of each of these of ounces a certain,Not helpeth us, our labour is in vain.Nor neither our spirits’ ascensioun,Nor our matters that lie all fix’d adown,May in our working nothing us avail;For lost is all our labour and travail,And all the cost, a twenty devil way,Is lost also, which we upon it lay.

There is also full many another thingThat is unto our craft appertaining,Though I by order them not rehearse can,Because that I am a lewed man;Yet will I tell them as they come to mind,Although I cannot set them in their kind,As sal-armoniac, verdigris, borace;And sundry vessels made of earth and glass;Our urinales, and our descensories,Phials, and croslets, and sublimatories,Cucurbites, and alembikes eke,And other suche, dear enough a leek,It needeth not for to rehearse them all.Waters rubifying, and bulles’ gall,Arsenic, sal-armoniac, and brimstone,And herbes could I tell eke many a one,As egremoine, valerian, and lunary,And other such, if that me list to tarry;Our lampes burning bothe night and day,To bring about our craft if that we may;Our furnace eke of calcination,And of waters albification,Unslaked lime, chalk, and glair of an ey,Powders diverse, ashes, dung, piss, and clay,Seared pokettes, saltpetre, and vitriol;And divers fires made of wood and coal;Sal-tartar, alkali, salt preparate,And combust matters, and coagulate;Clay made with horse and manne’s hair, and oilOf tartar, alum, glass, barm, wort, argoil,Rosalgar, and other matters imbibing;And eke of our matters encorporing,And of our silver citrination,Our cementing, and fermentation,Our ingots, tests, and many thinges mo’.I will you tell, as was me taught also,The foure spirits, and the bodies seven,By order, as oft I heard my lord them neven.The first spirit Quicksilver called is;The second Orpiment; the third, y-wis,Sal-Armoniac, and the fourth Brimstone.The bodies sev’n eke, lo them here anon.Sol gold is, and Luna silver we threpeMars iron, Mercury quicksilver we clepe;Saturnus lead, and Jupiter is tin,And Venus copper, by my father’s kin.

This cursed craft whoso will exercise,He shall no good have that him may suffice;For all the good he spendeth thereabout,He lose shall, thereof have I no doubt.Whoso that list to utter his folly,Let him come forth and learn to multiply:And every man that hath aught in his coffer,Let him appear, and wax a philosopher;Ascaunce that craft is so light to lear.Nay, nay, God wot, all be he monk or frere,Priest or canon, or any other wight;Though he sit at his book both day and night;In learning of this elvish nice lore,All is in vain; and pardie muche more,Is to learn a lew’d man this subtlety;Fie! speak not thereof, for it will not be.And conne he letterure, or conne he none,As in effect, he shall it find all one;For bothe two, by my salvation,Concluden in multiplicationAlike well, when they have all y-do;This is to say, they faile bothe two.Yet forgot I to make rehearsaleOf waters corrosive, and of limaile,And of bodies’ mollification,And also of their induration,Oiles, ablutions, metal fusible,To tellen all, would passen any BibleThat owhere is; wherefore, as for the best,Of all these names now will I me rest;For, as I trow, I have you told enoughTo raise a fiend, all look he ne’er so rough.

Ah! nay, let be; the philosopher’s stone,Elixir call’d, we seeke fast each one;For had we him, then were we sicker enow;But unto God of heaven I make avow,For all our craft, when we have all y-do,And all our sleight, he will not come us to.He hath y-made us spende muche good,For sorrow of which almost we waxed wood,But that good hope creeped in our heart,Supposing ever, though we sore smart,To be relieved by him afterward.Such supposing and hope is sharp and hard.I warn you well it is to seeken ever.That future temps hath made men dissever,In trust thereof, from all that ever they had,Yet of that art they cannot waxe sad,For unto them it is a bitter sweet;So seemeth it; for had they but a sheetWhich that they mighte wrap them in at night,And a bratt to walk in by dayelight,They would them sell, and spend it on this craft;They cannot stint, until no thing be laft.And evermore, wherever that they gon,Men may them knowe by smell of brimstone;For all the world they stinken as a goat;Their savour is so rammish and so hot,That though a man a mile from them be,The savour will infect him, truste me.Lo, thus by smelling and threadbare array,If that men list, this folk they knowe may.And if a man will ask them privily,Why they be clothed so unthriftily,They right anon will rownen in his ear,And sayen, if that they espied were,Men would them slay, because of their science:Lo, thus these folk betrayen innocence!

Pass over this; I go my tale unto.Ere that the pot be on the fire y-doOf metals, with a certain quantityMy lord them tempers, and no man but he(Now he is gone, I dare say boldely);For as men say, he can do craftily,Algate I wot well he hath such a name,And yet full oft he runneth into blame;And know ye how? full oft it happ’neth so,The pot to-breaks, and farewell! all is go’.These metals be of so great violence,Our walles may not make them resistence,But if they were wrought of lime and stone;They pierce so, that through the wall they gon;And some of them sink down into the ground(Thus have we lost by times many a pound),And some are scatter’d all the floor about;Some leap into the roof withoute doubt.Though that the fiend not in our sight him show,I trowe that he be with us, that shrew;In helle, where that he is lord and sire,Is there no more woe, rancour, nor ire.When that our pot is broke, as I have said,Every man chides, and holds him evil apaid.Some said it was long on the fire-making;Some saide nay, it was on the blowing(Then was I fear’d, for that was mine office);“Straw!” quoth the third, “ye be lewed and nice,It was not temper’d as it ought to be.”“Nay,” quoth the fourthe, “stint and hearken me;Because our fire was not y-made of beech,That is the cause, and other none, so the’ch.I cannot tell whereon it was along,But well I wot great strife is us among.”“What?” quoth my lord, “there is no more to do’n,Of these perils I will beware eftsoon.I am right sicker that the pot was crazed.Be as be may, be ye no thing amazed.As usage is, let sweep the floor as swithe;Pluck up your heartes and be glad and blithe.”

The mullok on a heap y-sweeped was,And on the floor y-cast a canevas,And all this mullok in a sieve y-throw,And sifted, and y-picked many a throw.“Pardie,” quoth one, “somewhat of our metalYet is there here, though that we have not all.And though this thing mishapped hath as now,Another time it may be well enow. at presentWe muste put our good in adventure; A merchant, pardie, may not aye endure,Truste me well, in his prosperity:Sometimes his good is drenched in the sea,And sometimes comes it safe unto the land.”“Peace,” quoth my lord; “the next time I will fandTo bring our craft all in another plight,And but I do, Sirs, let me have the wite;There was default in somewhat, well I wot.”Another said, the fire was over hot.But be it hot or cold, I dare say this,That we concluden evermore amiss;We fail alway of that which we would have;And in our madness evermore we rave.And when we be together every one,Every man seemeth a Solomon.But all thing, which that shineth as the gold,It is not gold, as I have heard it told;Nor every apple that is fair at eye,It is not good, what so men clap or cry.Right so, lo, fareth it amonges us.He that the wisest seemeth, by Jesus,Is most fool, when it cometh to the prefe;And he that seemeth truest, is a thief.That shall ye know, ere that I from you wend;By that I of my tale have made an end.

There was a canon of religiounAmonges us, would infect all a town,Though it as great were as was Nineveh,Rome, Alisandre, Troy, or other three.His sleightes and his infinite falsenessThere coulde no man writen, as I guess,Though that he mighte live a thousand year;In all this world of falseness n’is his peer.For in his termes he will him so wind,And speak his wordes in so sly a kind,When he commune shall with any wight,That he will make him doat anon aright,But it a fiende be, as himself is. fond of himFull many a man hath he beguil’d ere this,And will, if that he may live any while;And yet men go and ride many a mileHim for to seek, and have his acquaintance,Not knowing of his false governance.And if you list to give me audience,I will it telle here in your presence.But, worshipful canons religious,Ne deeme not that I slander your house,Although that my tale of a canon be.Of every order some shrew is, pardie;And God forbid that all a companyShould rue a singular manne’s folly.To slander you is no thing mine intent;But to correct that is amiss I meant.This tale was not only told for you,But eke for other more; ye wot well howThat amonges Christe’s apostles twelveThere was no traitor but Judas himselve;Then why should all the remenant have blame,That guiltless were? By you I say the same.Save only this, if ye will hearken me,If any Judas in your convent be,Remove him betimes, I you rede,If shame or loss may causen any dread.And be no thing displeased, I you pray;But in this case hearken what I say.

In London was a priest, an annualere,That therein dwelled hadde many a year,Which was so pleasant and so serviceableUnto the wife, where as he was at table,That she would suffer him no thing to payFor board nor clothing, went he ne’er so gay;And spending silver had he right enow;Thereof no force; will proceed as now,And telle forth my tale of the canon,That brought this prieste to confusion.This false canon came upon a dayUnto the prieste’s chamber, where he lay,Beseeching him to lend him a certainOf gold, and he would quit it him again.“Lend me a mark,” quoth he, “but dayes three,And at my day I will it quite thee.And if it so be that thou find me false,Another day hang me up by the halse.”This priest him took a mark, and that as swithe,And this canon him thanked often sithe,And took his leave, and wente forth his way;And at the thirde day brought his money;And to the priest he took his gold again,Whereof this priest was wondrous glad and fain.“Certes,” quoth he, “nothing annoyeth meTo lend a man a noble, or two, or three,Or what thing were in my possession,When he so true is of condition,That in no wise he breake will his day;To such a man I never can say nay.”“What,” quoth this canon, “should I be untrue?Nay, that were thing y-fallen all of new!Truth is a thing that I will ever keep,Unto the day in which that I shall creepInto my grave; and elles God forbid;Believe this as sicker as your creed.God thank I, and in good time be it said,That there was never man yet evil apaidFor gold nor silver that he to me lent,Nor ever falsehood in mine heart I meant.And Sir,” quoth he, “now of my privity,Since ye so goodly have been unto me,And kithed to me so great gentleness,Somewhat, to quite with your kindeness,I will you shew, and if you list to lear,I will you teache plainly the mannereHow I can worken in philosophy.Take good heed, ye shall well see at eyeThat I will do a mas’try ere I go.”“Yea,” quoth the priest; “yea, Sir, and will ye so?Mary! thereof I pray you heartily.”“At your commandement, Sir, truely,”Quoth the canon, “and elles God forbid.”Lo, how this thiefe could his service bede!

Full sooth it is that such proffer’d serviceStinketh, as witnesse these olde wise;And that full soon I will it verifyIn this canon, root of all treachery,That evermore delight had and gladness(Such fiendly thoughtes in his heart impress)How Christe’s people he may to mischief bring.God keep us from his false dissimuling!What wiste this priest with whom that he dealt?Nor of his harm coming he nothing felt.O sely priest, O sely innocent!With covetise anon thou shalt be blent;O graceless, full blind is thy conceit!For nothing art thou ware of the deceitWhich that this fox y-shapen hath to thee;His wily wrenches thou not mayest flee.Wherefore, to go to the conclusiounThat referreth to thy confusion,Unhappy man, anon I will me hieTo telle thine unwit and thy folly,And eke the falseness of that other wretch,As farforth as that my conning will stretch.This canon was my lord, ye woulde ween;Sir Host, in faith, and by the heaven’s queen,It was another canon, and not he,That can an hundred fold more subtlety.He hath betrayed folkes many a time;Of his falseness it doleth me to rhyme.And ever, when I speak of his falsehead,For shame of him my cheekes waxe red;Algates they beginne for to glow,For redness have I none, right well I know,In my visage; for fumes diverseOf metals, which ye have me heard rehearse,Consumed have and wasted my redness.Now take heed of this canon’s cursedness.

“Sir,” quoth he to the priest, “let your man gonFor quicksilver, that we it had anon;And let him bringen ounces two or three;And when he comes, as faste shall ye seeA wondrous thing, which ye saw ne’er ere this.”“Sir,” quoth the priest, “it shall be done, y-wis.”He bade his servant fetche him this thing,And he all ready was at his bidding,And went him forth, and came anon againWith this quicksilver, shortly for to sayn;And took these ounces three to the canoun;And he them laide well and fair adown,And bade the servant coales for to bring,That he anon might go to his working.The coales right anon weren y-fet,And this canon y-took a crosseletOut of his bosom, and shew’d to the priest.“This instrument,” quoth he, “which that thou seest,Take in thine hand, and put thyself thereinOf this quicksilver an ounce, and here begin,In the name of Christ, to wax a philosopher.There be full few, which that I woulde profferTo shewe them thus much of my science;For here shall ye see by experienceThat this quicksilver I will mortify,Right in your sight anon withoute lie,And make it as good silver, and as fine,As there is any in your purse, or mine,Or elleswhere; and make it malleable,And elles holde me false and unableAmonge folk for ever to appear.I have a powder here that cost me dear,Shall make all good, for it is cause of allMy conning, which that I you shewe shall.Voide your man, and let him be thereout;And shut the doore, while we be aboutOur privity, that no man us espy,While that we work in this phiosophy.”All, as he bade, fulfilled was in deed.This ilke servant right anon out yede,And his master y-shut the door anon,And to their labour speedily they gon.

This priest, at this cursed canon’s biddIng,Upon the fire anon he set this thing,And blew the fire, and busied him full fast.And this canon into the croslet castA powder, I know not whereof it wasY-made, either of chalk, either of glass,Or somewhat elles, was not worth a fly,To blinden with this priest; and bade him hieThe coales for to couchen all above lay in orderThe croslet; “for, in token I thee love,”Quoth this canon, “thine owen handes twoShall work all thing that here shall be do’.”“Grand mercy,” quoth the priest, and was full glad,And couch’d the coales as the canon bade.And while he busy was, this fiendly wretch,This false canon (the foule fiend him fetch),Out of his bosom took a beechen coal,In which full subtifly was made a hole,And therein put was of silver limaileAn ounce, and stopped was withoute failThe hole with wax, to keep the limaile in.And understande, that this false ginWas not made there, but it was made before;And other thinges I shall tell you more,Hereafterward, which that he with him brought;Ere he came there, him to beguile he thought,And so he did, ere that they went atwin;Till he had turned him, could he not blin.It doleth me, when that I of him speak;On his falsehood fain would I me awreak,If I wist how, but he is here and there;He is so variant, he abides nowhere.

But take heed, Sirs, now for Godde’s love.He took his coal, of which I spake above,And in his hand he bare it privily,And while the prieste couched busilyThe coales, as I tolde you ere this,This canon saide, “Friend, ye do amiss;This is not couched as it ought to be,But soon I shall amenden it,” quoth he.“Now let me meddle therewith but a while,For of you have I pity, by Saint Gile.Ye be right hot, I see well how ye sweat;Have here a cloth, and wipe away the wet.”And while that the prieste wip’d his face,This canon took his coal, — with sorry grace, —And layed it above on the midward attend him!Of the croslet, and blew well afterward,Till that the coals beganne fast to brenn.“Now give us drinke,” quoth this canon then,“And swithe all shall be well, I undertake.Sitte we down, and let us merry make.”And whenne that this canon’s beechen coalWas burnt, all the limaile out of the holeInto the crosselet anon fell down;And so it muste needes, by reasoun,Since it above so even couched was;But thereof wist the priest no thing, alas!He deemed all the coals alike good,For of the sleight he nothing understood.

And when this alchemister saw his time,“Rise up, Sir Priest,” quoth he, “and stand by me;And, for I wot well ingot have ye none;Go, walke forth, and bring me a chalk stone;For I will make it of the same shapeThat is an ingot, if I may have hap.Bring eke with you a bowl, or else a pan,Full of water, and ye shall well see thanHow that our business shall hap and preveAnd yet, for ye shall have no misbelieveNor wrong conceit of me, in your absence,I wille not be out of your presence,But go with you, and come with you again.”The chamber-doore, shortly for to sayn,They opened and shut, and went their way,And forth with them they carried the key;And came again without any delay.Why should I tarry all the longe day?He took the chalk, and shap’d it in the wiseOf an ingot, as I shall you devise;I say, he took out of his owen sleeveA teine of silver (evil may he cheve!)Which that ne was but a just ounce of weight.And take heed now of his cursed sleight;He shap’d his ingot, in length and in bredeOf this teine, withouten any drede,So slily, that the priest it not espied;And in his sleeve again he gan it hide;And from the fire he took up his mattere,And in th’ ingot put it with merry cheer;And in the water-vessel he it cast,When that him list, and bade the priest as fastLook what there is; “Put in thine hand and grope;There shalt thou finde silver, as I hope.”What, devil of helle! should it elles be?Shaving of silver, silver is, pardie.He put his hand in, and took up a teineOf silver fine; and glad in every veinWas this priest, when he saw that it was so.“Godde’s blessing, and his mother’s also,And alle hallows, have ye, Sir Canon!”Saide this priest, “and I their malisonBut, an’ ye vouchesafe to teache meThis noble craft and this subtility,I will be yours in all that ever I may.”Quoth the canon, “Yet will I make assayThe second time, that ye may take heed,And be expert of this, and, in your need,Another day assay in mine absenceThis discipline, and this crafty science.Let take another ounce,” quoth he tho,“Of quicksilver, withoute wordes mo’,And do therewith as ye have done ere thisWith that other, which that now silver is. “

The priest him busied, all that e’er he can,To do as this canon, this cursed man,Commanded him, and fast he blew the fireFor to come to th’ effect of his desire.And this canon right in the meanewhileAll ready was this priest eft to beguile,and, for a countenance, in his hande bareAn hollow sticke (take keep and beware);Of silver limaile put was, as beforeWas in his coal, and stopped with wax wellFor to keep in his limaile every deal.And while this priest was in his business,This canon with his sticke gan him dressTo him anon, and his powder cast in,As he did erst (the devil out of his skinHim turn, I pray to God, for his falsehead,For he was ever false in thought and deed),And with his stick, above the crosselet,That was ordained with that false get,He stirr’d the coales, till relente ganThe wax against the fire, as every man,But he a fool be, knows well it must need.And all that in the sticke was out yede,And in the croslet hastily it fell.Now, goode Sirs, what will ye bet than well?When that this priest was thus beguil’d again,Supposing naught but truthe, sooth to sayn,He was so glad, that I can not expressIn no mannere his mirth and his gladness;And to the canon he proffer’d eftsoonBody and good. “Yea,” quoth the canon soon,“Though poor I be, crafty thou shalt me find;I warn thee well, yet is there more behind.Is any copper here within?” said he.“Yea, Sir,” the prieste said, “I trow there be.”“Elles go buy us some, and that as swithe.Now, goode Sir, go forth thy way and hie thee.”He went his way, and with the copper came,And this canon it in his handes name,And of that copper weighed out an ounce.Too simple is my tongue to pronounce,As minister of my wit, the doublenessOf this canon, root of all cursedness.He friendly seem’d to them that knew him not;But he was fiendly, both in work and thought.It wearieth me to tell of his falseness;And natheless yet will I it express,To that intent men may beware thereby,And for none other cause truely.He put this copper in the crosselet,And on the fire as swithe he hath it set,And cast in powder, and made the priest to blow,And in his working for to stoope low,As he did erst, and all was but a jape;Right as him list the priest he made his ape.And afterward in the ingot he it cast,And in the pan he put it at the lastOf water, and in he put his own hand;And in his sleeve, as ye beforehandHearde me tell, he had a silver teine;He silly took it out, this cursed heine(Unweeting this priest of his false craft),And in the panne’s bottom he it laftAnd in the water rumbleth to and fro,And wondrous privily took up alsoThe copper teine (not knowing thilke priest),And hid it, and him hente by the breast,And to him spake, and thus said in his game;“Stoop now adown; by God, ye be to blame;Helpe me now, as I did you whilere;Put in your hand, and looke what is there.”

This priest took up this silver teine anon;And thenne said the canon, “Let us gon,With these three teines which that we have wrought,To some goldsmith, and weet if they be aught:For, by my faith, I would not for my hood worth anythingBut if they were silver fine and good,And that as swithe well proved shall it be.”Unto the goldsmith with these teines threeThey went anon, and put them in assayTo fire and hammer; might no man say nay,But that they weren as they ought to be.This sotted priest, who gladder was than he?Was never bird gladder against the day;Nor nightingale in the season of MayWas never none, that better list to sing;Nor lady lustier in carolling,Or for to speak of love and womanhead;Nor knight in arms to do a hardy deed,To standen in grace of his lady dear,Than had this priest this crafte for to lear;And to the canon thus he spake and said;“For love of God, that for us alle died,And as I may deserve it unto you,What shall this receipt coste? tell me now.”“By our Lady,” quoth this canon, “it is dear.I warn you well, that, save I and a frere,In Engleland there can no man it make.”“No force,” quoth he; “now, Sir, for Godde’s sake,What shall I pay? telle me, I you pray.”“Y-wis,” quoth he, “it is full dear, I say.Sir, at one word, if that you list it have,Ye shall pay forty pound, so God me save;And n’ere the friendship that ye did ere thisTo me, ye shoulde paye more, y-wis.”This priest the sum of forty pound anonOf nobles fet, and took them every oneTo this canon, for this ilke receipt.All his working was but fraud and deceit.“Sir Priest,” he said, “I keep to have no losOf my craft, for I would it were kept close;And as ye love me, keep it secre:For if men knewen all my subtlety,By God, they woulde have so great envyTo me, because of my philosophy,I should be dead, there were no other way.”“God it forbid,” quoth the priest, “what ye say.Yet had I lever spenden all the goodWhich that I have (and elles were I wood),Than that ye shoulde fall in such mischief.”“For your good will, Sir, have ye right good prefe,”Quoth the canon; “and farewell, grand mercy.”He went his way, and never the priest him sey After that day; and when that this priest shouldMaken assay, at such time as he would,Of this receipt, farewell! it would not be.Lo, thus bejaped and beguil’d was he;Thus made he his introductionTo bringe folk to their destruction.

Consider, Sirs, how that in each estateBetwixte men and gold there is debate,So farforth that unnethes is there none.This multiplying blint so many a one,That in good faith I trowe that it beThe cause greatest of such scarcity.These philosophers speak so mistilyIn this craft, that men cannot come thereby,For any wit that men have how-a-days.They may well chatter, as do these jays,And in their termes set their lust and pain,But to their purpose shall they ne’er attain.A man may lightly learn, if he have aught,To multiply, and bring his good to naught.Lo, such a lucre is in this lusty game;A manne’s mirth it will turn all to grame,And empty also great and heavy purses,And make folke for to purchase cursesOf them that have thereto their good y-lent.Oh, fy for shame! they that have been brent,Alas! can they not flee the fire’s heat?Ye that it use, I rede that ye it lete,Lest ye lose all; for better than never is late;Never to thrive, were too long a date.Though ye prowl aye, ye shall it never find;Ye be as bold as is Bayard the blind,That blunders forth, and peril casteth none;He is as bold to run against a stone,As for to go beside it in the way:So fare ye that multiply, I say.If that your eyen cannot see aright,Look that your minde lacke not his sight.For though you look never so broad, and stare,Ye shall not win a mite on that chaffare,But wasten all that ye may rape and renn.Withdraw the fire, lest it too faste brenn;Meddle no more with that art, I mean;For if ye do, your thrift is gone full clean.And right as swithe I will you telle hereWhat philosophers say in this mattere.

Lo, thus saith Arnold of the newe town,As his Rosary maketh mentioun,He saith right thus, withouten any lie;“There may no man mercury mortify,But it be with his brother’s knowledging.”Lo, how that he, which firste said this thing,Of philosophers father was, Hermes;He saith, how that the dragon doubtelessHe dieth not, but if that he be slainWith his brother. And this is for to sayn,By the dragon, Mercury, and none other,He understood, and Brimstone by his brother,That out of Sol and Luna were y-draw.“And therefore,” said he, “take heed to my saw.Let no man busy him this art to seech,But if that he th’intention and speechOf philosophers understande can;And if he do, he is a lewed man.For this science and this conning,” quoth he,“Is of the secret of secrets pardie.”Also there was a disciple of Plato,That on a time said his master to,As his book, Senior, will bear witness,And this was his demand in soothfastness:“Tell me the name of thilke privy stone.”And Plato answer’d unto him anon;“Take the stone that Titanos men name.”“Which is that?” quoth he. “Magnesia is the same,”Saide Plato. “Yea, Sir, and is it thus?This is ignotum per ignotius.What is Magnesia, good Sir, I pray?”“It is a water that is made, I say,Of th’ elementes foure,” quoth Plato.“Tell me the roote, good Sir,” quoth he tho,“Of that water, if that it be your will.”“Nay, nay,” quoth Plato, “certain that I n’ill.The philosophers sworn were every one,That they should not discover it to none,Nor in no book it write in no mannere;For unto God it is so lefe and dear,That he will not that it discover’d be,But where it liketh to his deityMan for to inspire, and eke for to defend’Whom that he liketh; lo, this is the end.”

Then thus conclude I, since that God of heavenWill not that these philosophers nevenHow that a man shall come unto this stone,I rede as for the best to let it gon.For whoso maketh God his adversary,As for to work any thing in contraryOf his will, certes never shall he thrive,Though that he multiply term of his live.And there a point; for ended is my tale.God send ev’ry good man boot of his bale.