By that the Manciple his tale had ended, The sunnë from the south line was descended So lowë, that it was not to my sight Degreës nine-and-twenty as in height. Four of the clock it was then, as I guess, For eleven foot, a little more or less, My shadow was at thilkë time, as there, Of such feet as my lengthë parted were In six feet equal of proportión. Therewith the moonë’s exaltatión, In meanë Libra, gan alway ascend, As we were ent’ring at a thorpë’s end. For which our Host, as he was wont to gie, As in this case, our jolly company, Said in this wisë; “Lordings every one, Now lacketh us no morë tales than one. Fulfill’d is my senténce and my decree; I trow that we have heard of each degree. Almost fulfilled is mine ordinance; I pray to God so give him right good chance That telleth us this talë lustily. Sir Priest,” quoth he, “art thou a vicary? Or art thou a Parson? say sooth by thy fay. Be what thou be, breakë thou not our play; For every man, save thou, hath told his tale. Unbuckle, and shew us what is in thy mail. For truëly me thinketh by thy cheer Thou shouldest knit up well a great mattére. Tell us a fable anon, for cockë’s bones.”
This Parson him answered all at ones; “Thou gettest fable none y-told for me, For Paul, that writeth unto Timothy, Reproveth them that weivë soothfastness, And tellë fables, and such wretchedness. Why should I sowë draff out of my fist, When I may sowë wheat, if that me list? For which I say, if that you list to hear Morality and virtuous mattére, And then that ye will give me audiénce, I would full fain at Christë’s reverénce Do you pleasáncë lawful, as I can. But, trustë well, I am a southern man, I cannot gest, rom, ram, ruf, by my letter; And, God wot, rhyme hold I but little better. And therefore if you list, I will not glose, I will you tell a little tale in prose, To knit up all this feast, and make an end. And Jesus for his gracë wit me send To shewë you the way, in this voyáge, Of thilkë perfect glorious pilgrimage, That hight Jerusalem celestiál. And if ye