“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; 3622 Tell where he is, or thou shalt it abie, 3623 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 3624 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 him find. God savë you, that bought again mankind, And you amend!” Thus said this oldë man; And evereach of these riotoúrës ran, Till they came to the tree, and there they found Of florins fine, of gold y-coined round,