The Tale

leave to sorrow him to bring. For this was utterly his full intent To slay them both, and never to repent. And forth he went, no longer would he tarry, Into the town to an apothecáry, And prayed him that he him wouldë sell Some poison, that he might his rattës quell, And eke there was a polecat in his haw, That, as he said, his capons had y-slaw: And fain he would him wreak, if that he might, Of vermin that destroyed him by night. Th’ apothecary answer’d, “Thou shalt have A thing, as wisly God my soulë save, In all this world there is no creatúre That eat or drank hath of this cónfectúre, Not but the mountance of a corn of wheat, That he shall not his life anon forlete; Yea, sterve he shall, and that in lessë while Than thou wilt go apace nought but a mile: This poison is so strong and violent.” This cursed man hath in his hand y-hent This poison in a box, and swift he ran Into the nextë street, unto a man, And borrow’d of him largë bottles three; And in the two the poison poured he; The third he keptë clean for his own drink, For all the night he shope him for to swink In carrying off the gold out of that place. And when this riotoúr, with sorry grace, Had fill’d with wine his greatë bottles three, To his fellóws again repaired he.