Whilom there was dwelling in my countrý An archdeacon, a man of high degree, That boldëly did executión, In punishing of fornicatión, Of witchëcraft, and eke of bawdery, Of defamation, and adultery, Of churchë-reevës, and of testaments, Of contracts, and of lack of sacraments, And eke of many another manner crime, Which needeth not rehearsen at this time, Of usury, and simony also; But, certes, lechours did he greatest woe; They shouldë singen, if that they were hent; And smallë tithers werë foul y-shent, If any person would on them complain; There might astert them no pecunial pain. For smallë tithës, and small offering, He made the people piteously to sing; For ere the bishop caught them with his crook, They weren in the archëdeacon’s book; Then had he, through his jurisdictión, Power to do on them correctión.
He had a Sompnour ready to his hand, A slier boy was none in Engleland; For subtlely he had his espiaille, That taught him well where it might aught avail. He couldë spare of lechours one or two, To teachë him to four and twenty mo’. For—though this Sompnour wood be as a hare— To tell his harlotry I will not spare, For we be out of their correctión, They have of us no jurisdictión, Ne never shall have, term of all their lives.
“Peter; so be the women of the stives,” Quoth this Sompnour, “y-put out of our cure.”
“Peace, with mischance and with misáventure,” Our Hostë said, “and let him tell his tale. Now tellë forth, and let the Sompnour gale, Nor sparë not, mine owen master dear.”
This falsë thief, the Sompnour (quoth the Frere), Had always bawdës ready to his hand, As any hawk to lure in Engleland, That told him all