that we may him hent.” When they had gone not fully half a mile, Right as they would have trodden o’er a stile, An old man and a poorë with them met. This oldë man full meekëly them gret, And saidë thus; “Now, lordës, God you see!” The proudest of these riotoúrës three Answér’d again; “What? churl, with sorry grace, Why art thou all forwrapped save thy face? Why livest thou so long in so great age?” This oldë man gan look on his viságe, And saidë thus; “For that I cannot find A man, though that I walked unto Ind, Neither in city, nor in no villáge, That wouldë change his youthë for mine age; And therefore must I have mine agë still As longë time as it is Goddë’s will. And Death, alas! he will not have my life. Thus walk I like a restëless caitífe, And on the ground, which is my mother’s gate, I knockë with my staff, early and late, And say to her, ‘Leve mother, let me in. Lo, how I wanë, flesh, and blood, and skin; Alas! when shall my bonës be at rest? Mother, with you I wouldë change my chest, That in my chamber longë time hath be, Yea, for an hairy clout to wrap in me.’ But yet to me she will not do that grace, For which fall pale and welked is my face. But, Sirs, to you it is no courtesy To speak unto an old man villainy, But he trespass in word or else in deed. In Holy Writ ye may yourselvës read; ‘Against an old man, hoar upon his head, Ye should arisë:’ therefore I you rede, Ne do unto an old man no harm now, No morë than ye would a man did you In age, if that ye may so long abide. And God be with you, whether ye go or ride. I must go thither as I have to go.”
“Nay, oldë churl, by God thou shalt not so,” Saidë this other hazardor anon; “Thou partest not so lightly, by Saint John. Thou spakest right now of that traitor Death, That in this country all our friendës slay’th; Have here my troth, as thou art his espy; Tell where he is, or thou shalt it abie, By God and by the holy sacrament; For soothly thou art one of his assent To slay us youngë folk, thou falsë thief.” “Now, Sirs,” quoth he, “if it be you so lief To findë Death, turn up this crooked way, For in that grove I left him, by my fay, Under a tree, and there he will abide; Nor for your boast he will him nothing hide. See ye that oak? right there ye shall