honoúr. God liketh not, that men us Rabbi call, Neither in market, nor in your large hall.” “No force,” quoth he; “but tell me all your grief.” “Sir,” quoth this friar, “an odious mischíef This day betid is to mine order and me, And so par consequence to each degree Of holy churchë, God amend it soon.” “Sir,” quoth the lord, “ye know what is to doon: Distemp’r you not, ye be my confessoúr. Ye be the salt of th’ earth, and the savoúr; For Goddë’s love your patiénce now hold; Tell me your grief.” And he anon him told As ye have heard before, ye know well what. The lady of the house aye stillë sat, Till she had heardë what the friar said. “Hey, Goddë’s mother;” quoth she, “blissful maid, Is there ought ellës? tell me faithfully.” “Madame,” quoth he, “how thinketh you thereby?” “How thinketh me?” quoth she; “so God me speed, I say, a churl hath done a churlish deed, What should I say? God let him never thé; His sickë head is full of vanity; I hold him in a manner phrenesy.” “Madame,” quoth he, “by God, I shall not lie, But I in other wise may be awreke, I shall defame him ov’r all there I speak; This falsë blasphemoúr, that charged me To partë that will not departed be, To every man alikë, with mischance.”
The lord sat still, as he were in a trance, And in his heart he rolled up and down, “How had this churl imaginatioún To shewë such a problem to the frere. Never ere now heard I of such mattére; I trow the Devil put it in his mind. In all arsmetrik shall there no man find, Before this day, of such a questión. Who shouldë make a demonstratión, That every man should have alike his part As of the sound and savour of a fart? O nice proudë churl, I shrew his face. Lo, Sirës,” quoth the lord, “with hardë grace, Who ever heard of such a thing ere now? To every man alikë? tell me how. It is impossible, it may not be. Hey nicë churl, God let him never thé. The rumbling of a fart, and every soun’, Is but of air reverberatioún, And ever wasteth lite and lite away; There is no man can deemen, by my fay, If that it were departed equally. What? lo, my churl, lo yet how shrewedly Unto my confessoúr to-day he spake; I hold him certain a demoniac. Now eat your meat, and let the churl go play, Let him go hang himself a devil way!”