A Friar there was, a wanton and a merry, A limitour, a full solemnë man. In all the orders four is none that can So much of dalliance and fair languáge. He had y-made full many a marriáge Of youngë women, at his owen cost. Unto his order he was a noble post; Full well belov’d, and familiár was he With franklins over all in his countrý, And eke with worthy women of the town: For he had power of confessión, As said himselfë, more than a curáte, For of his order he was licentiate. Full sweetëly heard he confession, And pleasant was his absolution. He was an easy man to give penánce, There as he wist to have a good pittánce: For unto a poor order for to give Is signë that a man is well y-shrive. For if he gave, he durstë make avant, He wistë that the man was repentant. For many a man so hard is of his heart, He may not weep although him sorë smart. Therefore instead of weeping and prayéres, Men must give silver to the poorë freres.
His tippet was aye farsed full of knives, And pinnës, for to give to fairë wives; And certainly he had a merry note: Well could he sing and playen on a rote; Of yeddings he bare utterly the prize. His neck was white as is the fleur-de-lis. Thereto he strong was as a champion, And knew well the tavérns in every town. And every hosteler and gay tapstére, Better than a lazar or a beggére, For unto such a worthy man as he Accordeth not, as by his faculty, To havë with such lazars acquaintánce. It is not honest, it may not advance, As for to dealë with no such pouraille, But all with rich, and sellers of vitaille. And ov’r all there as profit should arise, Courteous he was, and lowly of servíce; There n’as no man nowhere so virtuous. He was the bestë beggar in all his house: And gave a certain farmë for the grant, None of his bretheren came in his haunt. For though a widow haddë but one shoe, So pleasant was his In principio , Yet would he have a farthing ere he went; His purchase was well better than his rent. And rage he could and play as any whelp, In lovëdays; there could he muchel help. For there was he not like a cloisterer, With threadbare cope, as is a poor scholer, But he was like a master or a pope. Of double worsted was his semicope, That rounded was as a bell out of press.