MODERNISED BY LEIGH HUNT.

There lived, sirs, in my country, formerly,
A wondrous great archdeacon,—who but he?
Who boldly did the work of his high station
In punishing improper conversation,
And all the slidings thereunto belonging;
Witchcraft, and scandal also, and the wronging
Of holy Church, by blinking of her dues
In sacraments and contracts, wills and pews;
Usury furthermore, and simony;
But people of ill lives most loathÉd he:
Lord! how he made them sing if they were caught.
And tithe-defaulters, ye may guess, were taught
Never to venture on the like again;
To the last farthing would he rack and strain.
For stinted tithes, or stinted offering,
He made the people piteously to sing.
He left no leg for the good bishop’s crook;
Down went the black sheep in his own black book;
For when the name gat there, such dereliction
Came, you must know, sirs, in his jurisdiction.

He had a Sumner ready to his hand;
A slyer bully filched not in the land;
For in all parts the villain had his spies
To let him know where profit might arise.
Well could he spare ill livers, three or four,
To help his net to four-and-twenty more.
’Tis truth. Your Sumner may stare hard for me;
I shall not screen, not I, his villainy;
For heaven be thanked, laudetur Dominus,
They have no hold, these cursed thieves, on us;
Nor never shall have, let ’em thieve till doom.

[“No,” cried the Sumner, starting from his gloom,
“Nor have we any hold, Sir Shaven-crown,
On your fine flock, the ladies of the town.”
“Peace, with a vengeance,” quoth our Host, “and let
The tale be told. Say on, thou marmoset,
Thou lady’s friar, and let the Sumner sniff.”]

“Well,” quoth the Friar; “this Sumner, this false thief,
Had scouts in plenty ready to his hand,
Like any hawks, the sharpest in the land,
Watching their birds to pluck, each in his mew,
Who told him all the secrets that they knew,
And lured him game, and gat him wondrous profit;
Exceeding little knew his master of it.
Sirs, he would go, without a writ, and take
Poor wretches up, feigning it for Christ’s sake,
And threatening the poor people with his curse,
And all the while would let them fill his purse,
And to the alehouse bring him by degrees,
And then he’d drink with them, and slap his knees
For very mirth, and say ’twas some mistake.
Judas carried the bag, sirs, for Christ’s sake,
And was a thief; and such a thief was he;
His master got but sorry share, pardie.
To give due laud unto this Satan’s imp,
He was a thief, a Sumner, and a pimp.

Wenches themselves were in his retinue;
So whether ’twas Sir Robert, or Sir Hugh,
Or Jack, or Ralph, that held the damsel dear,
Come would she then, and tell it in his ear:
Thus were the wench and he of one accord;
And he would feign a mandate from his lord,
And summon them before the court, those two,
And pluck the man, and let the mawkin go.
Then would he say, “Friend, for thine honest look,
I save thy name, this once, from the black book;
Thou hear’st no further of this case.”—But, Lord!
I might not in two years his bribes record.
There’s not a dog alive, so speed my soul,
Knoweth a hurt deer better from a whole
Than this false Sumner knew a tainted sheep,
Or where this wretch would skulk, or that would sleep,
Or to fleece both was more devoutly bent;
And reason good; his faith was in his rent.

And so befell, that once upon a day,
This Sumner, prowling ever for his prey,
Rode forth to cheat a poor old widowed soul,
Feigning a cause for lack of protocol,
And as he went, he saw before him ride
A yeoman gay under the forest side.
A bow he bare, and arrows bright and keen;
And he was clad in a short cloak of green,
And wore a hat that had a fringe of black.

“Sir,” quoth this Sumner, shouting at his back,
“Hail, and well met.”—“Well met,” like shouteth he;
“Where ridest thou under the greenwood tree?
Goest thou far, thou jolly boy, to-day?”
This bully Sumner answered, and said, “Nay,
Only hard-by, to strain a rent.”—“Hoh! hoh!
Art thou a bailiff then?”—“Yea, even so.”
For he durst not, for very filth and shame,
Say that he was a Sumner, for the name.
“Well met, in God’s name,” quoth black fringe; “why, brother,
Thou art a bailiff then, and I’m another;
But I’m a stranger in these parts; so, prythee,
Lend me thine aid, and let me journey with thee.
I’ve gold and silver, plenty, where I dwell;
And if thou hap’st to come into our dell,
Lord! how we’ll do our best to give thee greeting!”
“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 woodpecker,
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, God 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 ass 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 hell:
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.”

“God 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 hell, 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 God’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 harass 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 God 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 hell,
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, God 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 pricked 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 God 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 prick 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, God 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?
God 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 pricketh 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 scrape 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.”
“Repent!” the Sumner cried; “pay up your rent,
Old fool; and don’t stand preaching here to me.
I would I had thy whole inventory,
The smock from off thy back, and every cloth.”

“Now, brother,” quoth the devil, “be not wroth;
Thy body and this pan be mine by right,
And thou shalt straight to hell with me to-night,
Where thou shalt know what sort of folk we be,
Better than Oxford university.”

And with that word the fiend him swept below,
Body and soul. He went where Sumners go.