“Yea,” quoth our Hostë, “by Saint Paulë’s bell. Ye say right sooth; this monk hath clapped 4238 loud; He spake how Fortune cover’d with a cloud I wot not what, and als’ of a tragédy Right now ye heard: and pardie no remédy It is for to bewailë, nor complain That that is done, and also it is pain, As ye have said, to hear of heaviness. Sir Monk, no more of this, so God you bless; Your tale annoyeth all this company; Such talking is not worth a butterfly, For therein is there no sport nor game; Therefore, Sir Monkë, Dan Piers by your name, I pray you heart’ly, tell us somewhat else, For sickerly, n’ere clinking of your bells, 4239 That on your bridle hang on every side, By heaven’s king, that for us allë died, I should ere this have fallen down for sleep, Although the slough had been never so deep; Then had your talë been all told in vain. For certainly, as thesë clerkës sayn,