And on a day befell, that in that houre, Whan that his mete wont was to be brought, The gailer shette the dores of the toure; He hered it wel, but he spake right nought. And in his herte anon ther fell a thought, That they for hunger wolden do him dien; Alas! quod he, alas that I was wrought! Therwith the teres fellen fro his eyen.

His yonge sone, that three yere was of age, Unto him said, fader, why do ye wepe? Whan will the gailer bringen our potage? Is ther no morsel bred that ye do kepe? I am so hungry, that I may not slepe. Now wolde God that I might slepen ever, Than shuld not hunger in my wombe crepe; Ther n’is no thing, sauf bred, that me were lever.