garlic, onións, and leeks, And for to drink strong wine as red as blood. Then would he speak, and cry as he were wood; And when that he well drunken had the wine, Then would he speakë no word but Latin. A fewë termës knew he, two or three, That he had learned out of some decree; No wonder is, he heard it all the day. And eke ye knowen well, how that a jay Can clepen “Wat,” as well as can the Pope. But whoso would in other thing him grope, Then had he spent all his philosophy, Aye, Questio quid juris , would he cry.
He was a gentle harlot and a kind; A better fellów should a man not find. He wouldë suffer, for a quart of wine, A good fellow to have his concubine A twelvemonth, and excuse him at the full. Full privily a finch eke could he pull. And if he found owhere a good felláw, He wouldë teachë him to have none awe In such a case of the archdeacon’s curse; But if a mannë’s soul were in his purse; For in his purse he should y-punished be. “Purse is the archëdeacon’s hell,” said he. But well I wot, he lied right indeed: Of cursing ought each guilty man to dread, For curse will slay right as assoiling saveth; And also ’ware him of a significavit.
In danger had he at his owen guise The youngë girlës of the diocese, And knew their counsel, and was of their rede. A garland had he set upon his head, As great as it were for an alëstake: A buckler had he made him of a cake.
With him there rode a gentle Pardonere Of Ronceval, his friend and his compere, That straight was comen from the court of Romë. Full loud he sang, “Come hither, lovë, tó me.” This Sompnour bare to him a stiff burdoun, Was never trump of half so great a soun’. This Pardoner had hair as yellow as wax, But smooth it hung, as doth a strike of flax: By ounces hung his lockës that he had, And therewith he his shoulders oversprad. Full thin it lay, by culpons one and one, But hood for jollity, he weared none, For it was trussed up in his wallét. Him thought he rode all of the newë get, Dishevel, save his cap, he rode all bare. Such glaring