“Sir Nunnë’s Priest,” our Hostë said anon, “Y-blessed be thy breech, and every stone; This was a merry tale of Chanticleer. But by my truth, if thou wert seculére, 4433 Thou wouldest be a treadëfowl 4434 aright; For if thou have couráge as thou hast might, Thee werë need of hennës, as I ween, Yea more than seven timës seventeen. See, whatë brawnës 4435 hath this gentle priest, So great a neck, and such a largë breast! He looketh as a sperhawk with his eyen; Him needeth not his colour for to dyen With Brazil, nor with grain of Portugale. But, Sirë, fairë fall you for your tale.” And, after that, he with full merry cheer Said to another, as ye shallë hear. 4436 ⋮