Geoffrey Chaucer

For she was so charitable and so pitous She wolde wepe, if that she sawe a mous Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. Of smale houndes hadde she, that she fedde With rosted flessh, or milk and wastel-breed.

He was a Reve, a sly and a trechour, And by his maister knew he every flour.

A gentil Maunciple was ther of a temple, Of which achatours myghte take exemple For to be wise in byynge of vitaille.

This somnour was a gentil harlot and a kynde; A bettre felawe sholde men noght fynde.

Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, That of hir smylyng was ful symple and coy.

And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly, After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, For Frenssh of Parys was to hir unknowe.

He had maad ful many a mariage Of yonge wommen at his owne cost.

Of remedies of love she knew al chaunce, For she koude of that art the olde daunce.

And yet he was but of litel stature; But al he hadde, it was as he were wood.

His mouth as greet was as a greet forneys.

He was a maister-hand at stelen corn, And that he gat, he wolde it wel defende.

For he hadde yeve his lord, and that of grace, The pleyn felicitee of his richesse.

He knew hir conseil, and hir pryvetee, And for to been a maister of his craft, Ful ofte hadde this man bigiled his maister.

And evere he rood the hyndreste of oure route.

He coude songes make and wel endite, Juste and eek daunce, and wel purtreye and write.

And everich of us to lighten his herte, And of his tale anothere for to telle.

He was a Reve, and a sclendre colerik man. His berd was shave as ny as ever he kan.

And al be that he was a worthy man, He loved gold in special.

Upon the cop right of his nose he hade A werte, and theron stood a tuft of heres rede, As bristles of a sowes eerys olde.

His eyen twinkled in his heed aright As doon the sterres in the frosty nyght.