Weet ye not where there stands a little town, Which that y-called is Bob-up-and-down, Under the Blee, in Canterbury way? There gan our Hostë for to jape and play, And saidë, “Sirs, what? Dun is in the mire. Is there no man, for prayer nor for hire, That will awaken our fellów behind? A thief him might full lightly rob and bind. See how he nappeth, see, for cockë’s bones, As he would fallë from his horse at ones. Is that a Cook of London, with mischance? Do him come forth, he knoweth his penánce; For he shall tell a talë, by my fay, Although it be not worth a bottle hay. Awake, thou Cook,” quoth he; “God give thee sorrow! What aileth thee to sleepë by the morrow? Hast thou had fleas all night, or art drunk? Or had thou with some quean all night y-swunk, So that thou mayest not hold up thine head?”
The Cook, that was full pale and nothing red, Said to Host, “So God my soulë bless, As there is fall’n on me such heaviness, I know not why, that me were lever sleep, Than the best gallon wine that is in Cheap.” “Well,” quoth the Manciple, “if it may do ease To thee, Sir Cook, and to no wight displease Which that here rideth in this company, And that our Host will of his courtesy, I will as now excuse thee of thy tale; For in good faith thy visage is full pale: Thine eyen dazë, soothly as me thinketh, And well I wot, thy breath full sourë stinketh, That sheweth well thou art not well disposed; Of me certáin thou shalt not be y-glosed. See how he yawneth, lo, this drunken wight, As though he would us swallow anon right. Hold close thy mouth, man, by thy father’s kin; The devil of hellë set his foot therein! Thy cursed breath infectë will us all: Fy! stinking swine, fy! foul may thee befall. Ah! takë heed, Sirs, of this lusty man. Now, sweetë Sir, will ye joust at the fan? Thereto, me thinketh, ye be well y-shape. I trow that ye have drunken wine of ape, And that is when men playë with a straw.”