The liquorice and the setëwall, 3874 And many a clove-gilofre, 3875 And nutëmeg to put in ale, Whether it be moist 3876 or stale, Or for to lay in coffer. The birdës sang, it is no nay, The sperhawk 3877 and the popinjay, That joy it was to hear; The throstle-cock made eke his lay, The woodë-dove upon the spray She sang full loud and clear. Sir Thopas fell in love-longíng All when he heard the throstle sing, And prick’d as he were wood; 3878 His fairë steed in his pricking So sweated, that men might him wring, His sidës were all blood.