When ended was the life of Saint Cecile, Ere we had ridden fully fivë mile, At Boughton-under-Blee us gan o’ertake A man, that clothed was in clothës black, And underneath he wore a white surplíce. His hackenay, which was all pomely-gris, So sweated, that it wonder was to see; It seem’d as he had pricked milës three. The horse eke that his yeoman rode upon So sweated, that unnethës might he gon. About the peytrel stood the foam full high; He was of foam, as flecked as a pie. A mailë twyfold on his crupper lay; It seemed that he carried little array; All light for summer rode this worthy man. And in my heart to wonder I began What that he was, till that I understood How that his cloak was sewed to his hood; For which, when I had long advised me, I deemed him some Canon for to be. His hat hung at his back down by a lace, For he had ridden more than trot or pace; He haddë pricked like as he were wood. A clote-leaf he had laid under his hood, For sweat, and for to keep his head from heat. But it was joyë for to see him sweat; His forehead dropped as a stillatory Were full of plantain or of paritory. And when that he was come, he gan to cry, “God save,” quoth he, “this jolly company. Fast have I pricked,” quoth he, “for your sake, Becausë that I would you overtake, To riden in this merry company.” His Yeoman was eke full of courtesy, And saidë, “Sirs, now in the morning tide Out of your hostelry I saw you ride, And warned here my lord and sovereign, Which that to ridë with you is full fain, For his disport; he loveth dalliance.” “Friend, for thy warning God give thee good chance,” Said ourë Host; “certáin it wouldë seem Thy lord were wise, and so I may well deem; He is full jocund also, dare I lay; Can he aught tell a merry tale or tway, With which he gladden may this company?”
“Who, Sir? my lord? Yea, Sir, withoutë lie, He can of mirth and eke of jollity Not but enough; also, Sir, trustë me, An’ ye him knew all so well as