His typet was ay farsëd ful of knyfes
And pynnës, for to yivë fairë wyfes.

And certeynly he hadde a mery note;
Wel couthe he synge and pleyen on a rote'.
Of yeddynges he bar utterly the prys.
His nekke whit was as the flour-de-lys.
Therto he strong was as a champioun.
He knew the tavernes wel in every toun,
And everych hostiler and tappestere,
Bet then a lazer, or a beggestere,
For unto such a worthy man as he
Acorded not, as by his faculté,
To han with sikë lazars aqueyntaunce.
It is not honest, it may not avaunce,
For to delen with no such poraille3,
But al with riche, and sellers of vitaille.
And overal, ther as profyt schulde arise,
Curteys he was, and lowly of servyse.
Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous.
He was the bestë beggere in his hous,
For though a widewe haddë noght oo schoo,
So plesaunt was his In principio*,

Yet wolde he have a ferthing or he wente.
His purchas was wel better than his rente.

5

And rage he couthe as it were right a whelpe,
In love-dayës couthe he mochel helpe.

6

For ther he was not lik a cloysterer,

With a thredbare cope as is a poure scoler,
But he was lik a maister or a pope.
Of double worsted was his semy-cope,
That rounded as a belle out of the presse.
Somwhat he lipsede, for his wantownesse,
To make his Englissch swete upon his tunge;
And in his harpyng, whan that he hadde sunge,
His eyën twynkled in his heed aright,

As don the sterrës in the frosty night.

This worthy lymytour was cleped Huberd.
A MARCHAUNT was ther with a forked berd,
In mottëleye, and high on hors he sat,
Upon his heed a Flaundrisch bevere hat;
His botës clapsed faire and fetysly.
His resons he spak ful solempnëly,
Sownynge alway thencres1 of his wynnynge.
He wolde the see were kept for 2

eny thinge
Betwixe Middelburgh and Orëwelle.

Wel couthe he in eschaungë scheeldës selle.

This worthi man ful wel his wit bisette;
Ther wistë no wight that he was in dette,
So estatly was he of governaunce,

With his bargayns, and with his chevysaunce‘.
For sothe he was a worthy man withalle,
But soth to sayn, I not how men him calle.

A CLERK ther was of Oxenford also,

That unto logik haddë longe i-go.
As lenë was his hors as is a rake,
And he was not right fat, I undertake;
But lokëde holwe, and therto soberly.
Ful thredbar was his overest courtepy".
For he hadde geten him yit no benefice,

Ne was so worldly for to have office.

For him was levere have at his beddës heede
Twenty bookës, clad in blak or reede,

Of Aristotle and his philosophyë,

Then robës riche, or fithele, or gay sawtryë3.
But al be that he was a philosophre,

Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre;

But al that he mighte of his frendës hente,
On bookës and on lernyng he it spente,

And busily gan for the soulës preye
Of hem that yaf him wherwith to scoleye;
Of studie took he most cure and most heede.
Not oo word spak he more than was neede,

And that was seid in forme and reverence
And schort and quyk, and ful of high sentence.
Sownynge in1 moral vertu was his speche,
And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.

*

A good man was ther of religioun,
And was a pourë PERSOUN of a toun;
But riche he was of holy thought and werk.
He was also a lerned man, a clerk,
That Cristës gospel trewëly wolde preche;
His parischens devoutly wolde he teche.
Benigne he was, and wonder diligent,
And in adversité ful pacient ;

And such he was i-provëd oftë sithes.
Ful loth were him to cursë for his tythes.
But rather wolde he yeven, out of dowte,
Unto his pourë parisschens aboute,
Of his offrynge, and eek of his substaunce.
He cowde in litel thing han suffisaunce.
Wyd was his parische, and houses fer asonder,
But he ne laftë not for reyne ne thonder,

In siknesse nor in meschief to visite

The ferreste in his parissche, moche and lite3,
Upon his feet, and in his hond a staf.
This noble ensample to his scheep he yaf,

That first he wroughte, and afterward he taughte,
Out of the gospel he tho wordës caughte,
And this figure he addede eek therto,
That if gold rustë, what schal yren doo?
For if a prest be foul, on whom we truste,
No wonder is a lewëd man to ruste;
And schame it is, if that a prest tak keep,
A [filthy] schepherde and a clenë scheep;
Wel oughte a prest ensample for to yive,

By his clennesse, how that his scheep schulde lyve.
He settë not his benefice to hyre,

And leet his scheep encombred in the myre,

And ran to Londone, unto seyntë Poules,
To seeken him a chaunterie for soules1,
Or with a bretherhede to ben withholde;
But dwelte at hoom, and keptë wel his folde,
So that the wolf ne made it not myscarye;
He was a schepherd and no mercenarie.
And though he holy were, and vertuous,
He was to sinful man nought despitous,
Ne of his spechë daungerous' ne digne3,
But in his teching discret and benigne.
To drawë folk to heven by fairnesse
By good ensample, this was his busynesse:
But it were eny persone obstinat,
What so he were, of high or lowe estat,
Him wolde he snybbë scharply for the nonës.
A better preest, I trowe, ther nowher non is.
He waytede after no pompe and reverence,
Ne makede him a spiced conscience,
But Cristës lore, and his apostles twelve,
He taughte, but first he folwede it himselve.

1

THE TALE OF THE MAN OF LAWE.

[Custance is falsely charged with the murder of Dame Hermengild. The Knight who charges her is struck down for his perjury.]

Allas! Custance! thou hast no champioun

Ne fyghtë canstow nought, so weylawey!
But he, that starf for our redempcioun,
And bond Sathan (and yit lyth ther" he lay)
So be thy strongë champioun this day!
For, but if Crist open miracle kythe,
Withouten gilt thou shalt he slayn as swythe'.

She sette her doun on knees, and thus she sayde, 'Immortal god, that sauedest Susanne

Fro false blame, and thow, merciful mayde,
Mary I menë, doughter to Seint Anne,
Bifore whos child aungelës singe Osanne,
If I be giltlees of this felonye,

My socour be, for elles I shal dye!'

Haue ye not seyn som tyme a palë face,
Among a prees, of him that hath be lad
Toward his deth, wher as him gat no grace,
And swich a colour in his face hath had,
Men myghtë knowe his face, that was bistad',
Amongës alle the faces in that route:
So stant Custance, and looketh hir aboute.

O queenës, lyuinge in prosperitee,
Duchesses, and ladyës euerichone,
Haueth som rewthe on hir aduersitee;
An emperourës doughter stant allone;

She hath no wight to whom to make hir mone.
O blood roial! that stondest in this drede,
Fer ben thy frendës at thy gretë nede!

This Alla king hath swich compassioun,
As gentil herte is fulfild of pitee,
That from his yën ran the water doun.
'Now hastily do fecche a book,' quod he,
'And if this knyght wol sweren how that she
This womman slow 2, yet wole we vs auyse
Whom that we wole that shal ben our Iustyse.'

A Briton book, writen with Euangyles,
Was fet, and on this book he swor anoon
She gilty was, and in the menë ̧ whyles
A hand him smot vpon the nekkë-boon,
That doun he fel atonës as a stoon,
And both his yën braste out of his face
In sight of euery body in that place.

1 in sore peril.

2 slew.

• fetched.