Fro Calidone, to maken hem alliance:

And whan he came, it happed him par chance,
That all the gretest that were of that lond
Yplaying atte hasard he hem fond.
For which, as sone as that it mighte be,
He stale him home agein to his contree,
And sayde ther, I wol not lese my name,
Ne wol not take on me so gret defame,
You for to allie unto non hasardours.
Sendeth som other wise embassadours,
For by my trouthe, me were lever die,
Than I you shuld to hasardours allie.
For ye, that ben so glorious in honours,
Shal not allie you to non hasardours,
As by my wille, ne as by my tretee.
This wise philosophre thus sayd he.

Loke eke how to the king Demetrius
The king of Parthes, as the book sayth us,
Sent him a pair of dis of gold in scorne,
For he had used hasard therbeforne:
For which he held his glory and his renoun
At no value or reputatioun.
Lordes may finden other maner play
Honest ynough to drive the day away.

Now wol I speke of others false and grete
A word or two, as olde bookes trete.
Gret swering is a thing abhominable,
And false swering is yet more reprevable.
The highe God forbad swering at al,
Witnesse on Mathew: but in special
Of swering sayth the holy Jeremie,

Thou shalt swere soth thin othes, and not lie ;
And swere in dome, and eke in rightwisnesse;
But idel swering is a cursednesse.

Behold and see, that in the firste table
Of highe Goddes hestes honourable,
How that the second hest of him is this,
Take not my name in idel or amis.
Lo, rather he forbedeth swiche swering,
Than homicide, or many an other thing.
I say that as by ordre thus it stondeth ;
This knoweth he that his hestes understondeth,
How that the second hest of God is that.
And forthermore, I wol thee tell all plat,
That vengeance shal not parten from his hous
That of his othes is outrageous.

By Goddes precious herte, and by his nailes,
And by the blood of Crist, that is in Hailes,
Seven is my chance, and thin is cink and treye :
By Goddes armes, if thou falsely pleye,
This dagger shal thurghout thin herte go.
This fruit cometh of the bicchel bones two,
Forswering, ire, falsenesse, and homicide.

Now for the love of Crist that for us dide,
Leteth your othes, bothe gret and smale.
But, sires, now wol I tell you forth my tale.
Thise riotoures three, of which I tell,
Long erst or prime rong of any bell,
Were set hem in a taverne for to drinke:
And as they sat, they herd a belle clinke
Beforn a corps, was caried to his grave:
That on of hem gan callen to his knave,
Go bet, quod he, and axe redily,

What corps is this, that passeth here forth by :
And loke that thou report his name wel.

Sire, quod this boy, it nedeth never a del;
It was me told or ye came here two houres;
He was parde an old felaw of youres,
And sodenly he was yslain to-night,
Fordronke as he sat on his benche upright,

Ther came a privee theef, men clepen Deth,
That in this contree all the peple sleth,
And with his spere he smote his herte atwo,
And went his way withouten wordes mo.
He hath a thousand slain this pestilence :
And, maister, or ye come in his presence,
Me thinketh that it were ful necessarie,
For to beware of swiche an adversarie:
Beth redy for to mete him evermore.
Thus taughte me my dame, I say no more.

By Seinte Marie, sayd this tavernere,
The child sayth soth, for he hath slain this yere
Hens over a mile, within a gret village,

Both man and woman, child, and hyne, and page,

I trowe his habitation be there:
To ben avised gret wisdome it were,
Or that he did a man a dishonour.

Ye, Goddes armes, quod this riotour,
Is it swiche peril with him for to mete?
I shal him seke by stile and eke by strete.
I make a vow by Goddes digne bones.
Herkeneth, felawes, we three ben all ones:
Let eche of us hold up his hond to other,
And eche of us becomen others brother,
And we wol slen this false traitour deth :
He shal be slain, he that so many sleth,
By Goddes dignitee, or it be night.

Togeder han thise three hir trouthes plight
To live and dien eche of hem for other,
As though he were his owen boren brother.
And up they stert al dronken in this rage,
And forth they gon towardes that village,
Of which the taverner had spoke beforn,
And many a grisly oth than have they sworn,
And Cristes blessed body they to-rent;
Deth shal be ded, if that we may him hent.

Whan they han gon not fully half a mile,
Right as they wold han troden over a stile,
An olde man and a poure with hem mette.
This olde man ful mekely hem grette,
And sayde thus ; Now, lordes, God you see.

The proudest of thise riotoures three Answerd agen; What? cherl, with sory grace, Why art thou all forwrapped save thy face? Why livest thou so longe in so gret age?

This olde man gan loke in his visage,
And sayde thus; For I ne cannot finde
A man, though that I walked into Inde,
Neither in citee, ne in no village,
That wolde change his youthe for min age;
And therfore mote I han min age still
As longe time as it is Goddes will.
Ne deth, alas! ne will not han my lif
Thus walke I like a resteles caitif,
And on the ground, which is my modres gate,
I knocke with my staf, erlich and late,
And say to hire, Leve mother, let me in.
Lo, how I vanish, flesh, and blood, and skin.
Alas! whan shul my bones ben at reste?
Mother, with you wold I changen my cheste,
That in my chambre longe tiae hath be,
Ye, for an heren clout to wrap in me.
But yet to me she wol not don that grace,
For which ful pale and welked is my face.
But, sires, to you it is no curtesie
To speke unto an olde man vilanie,
But he trespase in word or elles in dede.
In holy writ ye moun yourselven rede;
Ageins an olde man, hore upon his hede,
Ye shuld arise: therfore I yeve you rede,

Had I not don a frendes turn to thee?

Ne doth unto an olde man non harm now,
No more than that ye wold a man did you
In age, if that ye may so long abide.
And God be with you, wher ye go or ride.
I moste go thider as I have to go.

Nay, olde cherl, by God thou shalt not so,
Sayde this other hasardour anon;
Thou partest not so lightly by Seint John.
Thou spake right now of thilke traitour deth,
That in this contree all our frendes sleth;
Have here my trouth as thou art his espie ;
Tell wher he is, or thou shalt it abie,
By God and by the holy Sacrement;
For sothly thou art on of his assent
To slen us yonge folk, thou false thefe.

Now, sires, quod he, if it be you so lefe
To finden deth, tourne up this croked way,
For in that grove I left him by my fay
Under a tree, and ther he wol abide ;
Ne for your bost he wol him nothing hide.
Se ye that oke? right ther ye shuln him find.
God save you, that bought agen mankind,
And you amende; thus sayd this olde man.
And everich of thise riotoures ran,

Til they came to the tree, and ther they found
Of Floreins fine of gold ycoined round,
Wel nigh an eighte bushels, as hem thought.
No lenger as than after dethe they sought,
But eche of hem so glad was of the sight,
For that the floreins ben so faire and bright,
That doun they sette hem by the precious hord.
The werste of hem he spake the firste word.

Brethren, quod he, take kepe what I shal say;
My wit is gret, though that I bourde and play.
This tresour hath fortune unto us yeven
In mirth and jolitee our lif to liven,
And lightly as it cometh, so wol we spend.
Ey, Goddes precious dignitee, who wend
To-day, that we shuld han so faire a grace?
But might this gold be caried fro this place
Home to myn hous, or elles unto youres,
(For wel I wote that all this gold is oures)
Thanne were we in high felicitee.
But trewely by day it may not be ;

Men wolden say that we were theeves strong,
And for our owen tresour don us hong.,
This tresour must ycaried be by night
As wisely and as sleighly as it might.
Wherfore I rede, that cut among us alle
We drawe, and let see wher the cut wol falle:
And he that hath the cut, with herte blith,
Shal rennen to the toun, and that ful swith,
And bring us bred and win ful prively:
And two of us shal kepen subtilly
This tresour wel: and if he wol not tarien,
Whan it is night, we wol this tresour carien
By on assent, wher as us thinketh best.

That on of hem the cut brought in his fest,
And bad hem drawe and loke wher it wold falle,
And it fell on the yongest of hem alle :
And forth toward the toun he went anon.
And al so sone as that he was agon,
That on of hem spake thus unto that other;
Thou wotest wel thou art my sworen brother,
Thy profite wol I tell thee right anon.
Thou wost wel that our felaw is agon,
And here is gold, and that ful gret plentee,
That shal departed ben among us three.
But natheles, if I can shape it so,
That it departed were among us two,

That other answerd, I n'ot how that may be: He wote wel that the gold is with us tweye. What shuln we don? what shuln we to him seye? Shal it be conseil ? sayd the firste shrewe; And I shal tellen thee in wordes fewe What we shul don, and bring it wel aboute. I grante, quod that other, out of doute, That by my trouth I wol thee not bewreie. Now, quod the first, thou wost wel we ben twee, And tweie of us shul strenger be than on. Loke, whan that he is set, thou right anon Arise, as though thou woldest with him play; And I shal rive him thurgh the sides tway, While that thou stroglest with him as in game, And with thy dagger loke thou do the same; And than shal all this gold departed be, My dere frend, betwixen thee and me: Than moun we bothe our lustes al fulfille, And play at dis right at our owen wille. And thus accorded ben thise shrewes tweye, To slen the thridde, as ye han herd me seye. This yongest, which that wente to the toun, Ful oft in herte he rolleth up and doun The beautee of thise floreins newe and bright. O Lord, quod he, if so were that I might Have all this tresour to myself alone, Ther n'is no man that liveth under the trone Of God, that shulde live so mery as I. And at the last the fend our enemy Putte in his thought, that he shuld poison beye, With which he mighte slen his felaws tweye. For why, the fend fond him in swiche living, That he had leve to sorwe him to bring. For this was outrely his ful entente To slen hem both, and never to repente.

And forth he goth, no lenger wold he tary,
Into the toun unto a Potecary,

And praied him that he him wolde sell
Som poison, that he might his ratouns quell.
And eke ther was a polkat in his hawe,
That, as he sayd, his capons had yslawe:
And fayn he wolde him wreken, if he might,
Of vermine, that destroied hem by night.

The Potecary answerd, Thou shalt have
A thing, as wisly God my soule save,
In all this world ther n'is no creature,
That ete or dronke hath of this confecture,
Not but the mountance of a corne of whete,
That he ne shal his lif anon forlete;
Ye, sterve he shal, and that in lesse while,
Than thou wolt gon a pas not but a mile:
This poison is so strong and violent.

This cursed man hath in his hond yhent
This poison in a box, and swithe he ran
Into the nexte strete unto a man,
And borwed of him large botelles three;
And in the two the poison poured he;
The thridde he kepte clene for his drinke,
For all the night he shope him for to swinke
In carying of the gold out of that place.

And whan this riotour, with sory grace.
Hath filled with win his grete boteiles three,
To his felawes agen repaireth he.

What nedeth it therof to sermon more? For right as they had cast his deth before, Right so they han him slain, and that anon. And whan that this was don, thus spake that on ; Now let us sit and drinke, and make us mery, And afterward we wiln his body bery.

H

And with that word it happed him par cas,
To take the botelle, ther the poison was,
And dronke, and yave his felaw drinke also,
For which anon they storve bothe two.

But certes I suppose that Avicenne
Wrote never in no canon, ne in no fenne,
Mo wonder signes of empoisoning,
Than had thise wretches two or hir ending.
Thus ended ben thise homicides two,
And eke the false empoisoner also.

O cursednesse of alle cursednesse !
O traitours homicide! O wickednesse !
O glotonie, luxurie, and hasardrie !
Thou blasphemour of Crist with vilanie,
And othes grete, of usage and of pride!
Alas! mankinde, how may it betide,

That to thy Creatour, which that thee wrought,
And with his precious herte-blood thee bought,
Thou art so false and so unkind, alas !

Now, good men, God foryeve you your trespas,
And ware you fro the sinne of avarice.
Min holy pardon may you all warice,
So that ye offre nobles or starlinges,
Or elles silver broches, spones, ringes.
Boweth your hed under this holy Bulle.
Cometh up, ye wives, and offreth of your wolle ;
Your names I entre here in my roll anon;
Into the blisse of heven shul ye gon:
I you assoile by min high powere,

You that wiln offre, as clene and eke as clere
As ye were borne. Lo, sires, thus I preche;
And Jesu Crist, that is our soules leche,
So graunte you his pardon to receive;
For that is best, I wol you not deceive.

But, sires, o word forgate I in my tale;
I have relikes and pardon in my male,
As faire as any man in Englelond,
Which were me yeven by the Popes hond.
If any of you wol of devotion
Offren, and han min absolution,
Cometh forth anon, and kneleth here adoun,
And mekely receiveth my pardoun.

Or elles taketh pardon, as ye wende,
Al newe and freshe at every tounes ende,
So that ye offren alway newe and newe,
Nobles or pens, which that ben good and trewe.
It is an honour to everich that is here,
That ye moun have a suffisant pardonere
To assoilen you in contree as ye ride,
For aventures, which that moun betide.
Paraventure ther may falle on, or two,
Doun of his hors, and breke his necke atwo.
Loke, which a seurtee is it to you alle,
That I am in your felawship yfalle,
That may assoile you bothe more and lasse,
Whan that the soule shal fro the body passe.
I rede that our hoste shal beginne,
For he is most envoluped in sinne.
Come forth, sire hoste, and offre first anon,
And thou shalt kisse the relikes everich on,
Ye for a grote ; unbokel anon thy purse.

Nay nay, quod he, than have I Cristes curse.
Let be, quod he, it shal not be, so the ich.
Thou woldest make me kisse thin olde brech,
And swere it were a relike of a seint,
Though it were with thy foundement depeint.
But by the crois, which that Seint Heleine fond,
I wolde I had thin coilons in min hond,
Instede of relikes, or of seintuarie.

Let cut hem of, I wol thee help hem carie;
They shul be shrined in an hogges tord.

This Pardoner answered not a word;
So wroth he was, no word ne wolde he say.
Now, quod our hoste, I wol no lenger play
With thee, ne with non other angry man.

But right anon the worthy knight began,
(Whan that he saw that all the peple lough)
No more of this, for it is right ynough.
Sire Pardoner, be mery and glad of chere;
And ye, sire hoste, that ben to me so dere,
I pray you that ye kisse the Pardoner;
And, Pardoner, I pray thee draw thee ner,
And as we diden, let us laugh and play.
Anon they kissed, and riden forth hir way.

THE SHIPMANNES PROLOGUE.

OUR hoste upon his stirrops stode anon,
And saide; Good men, herkeneth everich on,
This was a thrifty tale for the nones.
Sire parish preest, quod he, for Goddes bones,
Tell us a tale, as was thy forward yore:
I see wel that ye lerned men in lore
Can mochel good, by Goddes dignitee.

The Person him answerd, Benedicite!

What eileth the man, so sinfully to swere?

Our hoste answerd, O Jankin, be ye there?

Now, good men, quod our hoste, herkneth to me.
I smell a loller in the wind, quod he.
Abideth for Goddes digne passion,
For we shul han a predication :
This loller here wol prechen us somwhat.

Nay by my father's soule, that shal he nat,
Sayde the Shipman, here shal he nat preche,

He shal no gospel glosen here ne teche.
We leven all in the gret God, quod he.
He wolde sowen som difficultee,
Or springen cockle in our clene corne.
And therfore, hoste, I warne thee beforne,
My joly body shal a tale telle,
And I shal clinken you so mery a belle,
That I shal waken all this compagnie :
But it shal not ben of philosophie,
Ne of physike, ne termes queinte of lawe;
Ther is but litel Latin in my mawe.

THE SHIPMANNES TALE.

A MARCHANT Whilom dwelled at Seint Denise,
That riche was, for which men held him wise.
A wif he had of excellent beautee,
And compaignable, and revelous was she,

Which is a thing that causeth more dispence,
Than worth is all the chere and reverence,
That men hem don at festes and at dances.
Swiche salutations and contenances
Passen, as doth a shadwe upon the wall:
But wo is him that payen mote for all.
The sely husbond algate he mote pay,
He mote us clothe and he mote us array
All for his owen worship richely:
In which array we dancen jolily.
And if that he may not paraventure,
Or elles lust not swiche dispence endure,
But thinketh it is wasted and ylost,
Than mote another payen for our cost,
Or lene us gold, and that is perilous.

This noble Marchant held a worthy hous,
For which he had all day so gret repaire
For his largesse, and for his wif was faire,
That wonder is: but herkeneth to my tale.
Amonges all thise gestes gret and smale,
Ther was a Monk, a faire man and a bold,
I trow a thritty winter he was old,
That ever in on was drawing to that place.
This yonge Monk, that was so faire of face,
Acquainted was so with this goode man,
Sithen that hir firste knowlege began,
That in his hous as familier was he,
As it possible is any frend to be.
And for as mochel as this goode man
And eke this Monk, of which that I began,
Were bothe two yborne in o village,
The Monk him claimeth, as for cosinage,
And he again him sayd not ones nay,
But was as glad therof, as foule of day;
For to his herte it was a gret plesance.

Thus ben they knit with eterne alliance,
And eche of hem gan other for to ensure
Of brotherhed, while that hire lif may dure.
Free was Dan John, and namely of dispence
As in that hous, and ful of diligence
To don plesance, and also gret costage:
He not forgate to yeve the leste page
In all that hous; but, after hir degree,
He yave the lord, and sithen his meinee,
Whan that he came, som maner honest thing;
For which they were as glad of his coming
As foule is fayn, whan that the sonne up riseth.
No more of this as now, for it sufficeth.

But so befell, this Marchant on a day
Shope him to maken redy his array
Toward the toun of Brugges for to fare,
To byen ther a portion of ware:
For which he hath to Paris sent anon
A messager, and praied hath Dan John
That he shuld come to Seint Denis, and pleie
With him, and with his wif, a day or tweie,
Or he to Brugges went, in alle wise.

This noble Monk, of which I you devise,
Hath of his Abbot, as him list, licence,
(Because he was a man of high prudence,
And eke an officer out for to ride,
To seen hir granges, and hir bernes wide)
And unto Seint Denis he cometh anon.

Who was so welcome as my lord Dan John,
Our dere cousin, ful of curtesie?
With him he brought a jubbe of Malvesie,
And eke another ful of fine Vernage,
And volatile, as ay was his usage:

And thus I let hem ete, and drinke, and pleye, This marchant and this monk, a day or tweye.

The thridde day this marchant up ariseth, And on his nedes sadly him aviseth: And up into his countour hous goth he, To reken with himselven, wel may be, Of thilke yere, how that it with him stood, And how that he dispended had his good, And if that he encresed were or non. His bookes and his bagges many on He layth beforn him on his counting bord. Ful riche was his tresour and his hord; For which ful fast his countour dore he shet; And eke he n'olde no man shuld him let Of his accountes, for the mene time: And thus he sit, til it was passed prime.

Dan John was risen in the morwe also, And in the gardin walketh to and fro, And hath his thinges sayd ful curteisly.

This goode wif came walking prively Into the gardin, ther he waiketh soft, And him salueth, as she hath don oft: A maiden child came in hire compagnie, Which as hire lust she may governe and gie, For yet under the yerde was the maide.

O dere cosin min Dan John, she saide, What aileth you so rathe for to arise?

Nece, quod he, it ought ynough suffise Five houres for to slepe upon a night: But it were for an olde appalled wight, As ben thise wedded men, that lie and dare, As in a fourme sitteth a wery hare,

Were al forstraught with houndes gret and smale.
But, dere nece, why be ye so pale?

I trowe certes, that our goode man
Hath you laboured, sith this night began,
That you were nede to resten hastily.
And with that word he lough ful merily,
And of his owen thought he wexe all red.

This faire wif gan for to shake hire hed,
And saied thus; Ye, God wote áll, quod she.
Nay, cosin min, it stant not so with me.
For by that God, that yave me soule and lif,
In all the reame of Fraunce is ther no wif,
That lasse lust hath to that sory play;
For I may singe alas and wala wa
That I was borne, but to no wight (quod she)
Dare I not tell how that it stant with me.
Wherfore I thinke out of this lond to wende,
Or elles of myself to make an ende,
So ful am I of drede and eke of care.

This monk began upon this wif to stare,
And sayd, Alas! my nece, God forbede,
That ye for any sorwe, or any drede,
Fordo yourself: but telleth me your grefe,
Paraventure I may in your mischefe
Conseile or helpe: and therfore telleth me
All your annoy, for it shal ben secree.
For on my Portos here I make an oth,
That never in my lif, for lefe ne loth,
Ne shal I of no conseil you bewray.

The same agen to you, quod she, I say.
By God and by this Portos I you swere,
Though men me wolden all in peces tere,
Ne shal I never, for to gon to helle,
Bewrey o word of thing that ye me tell,
Nought for no cosinage, ne alliance,
But veraily for love and affiance.

Thus ben they sworne, and hereupon they kiste,
And eche of hem told other what hem liste.
Cosin, quod she, if that I had a space,
As I have non, and namely in this place,

Than wold I tell a legend of my lif,
What I have suffred sith I was a wif
With min husbond, al be he your cosin.

Nay, quod this monk, by God and Seint Martin,
He n'is no more cosin unto me,
Than is the leef that hangeth on the tree:
I clepe him so by Seint Denis of France
To han the more cause of acquaintance
Of you, which I have loved specially
Aboven alle women sikerly,

This swere I you on my professioun:
Telleth your grefe, lest that he come adoun,
And hasteth you, and goth away anon.

My dere love, quod she, o my Dan John,
Ful lefe were me this conseil for to hide,
But out it mote, I may no lenger abide.
Myn husbond is to me the werste man,
That ever was sith that the world began:
But sith I am a wif, it sit not me
To tellen no wight of our privetee,
Neither in bed, ne in non other place;
God shilde I shulde it tellen for his grace;
A wif ne shal not sayn of hire husbond
But all honour, as I can understond;
Save unto you thus moch I tellen shal:
As helpe me God, he is nought worth at all,
In no degree, the value of a flie.
But yet me greveth most his nigardie:
And wel ye wot, that women naturally
Desiren thinges sixe, as wel as I.

They wolden that hir husbondes shulden be
Hardy, and wise, and riche, and therto free,
And buxome to his wif, and fresh a-bedde.
But by that ilke Lord that for us bledde,
For his honour myselven for to array,
A sonday next I muste nedes pay
An hundred franks, or elles am I lorne.
Yet were me lever that I were unborne,
Than me were don a sclandre or vilanie.
And if min husbond eke might it espie,
I n'ere but lost; and therfore I you prey
Lene me this summe, or elles mote I dey.
Dan John, I say, lene me this hundred frankes;
Parde I wol not faille you my thankes,
If that you list to do that I you pray.
For at a certain day I wol you pay,
And do to you what plesance and service
That I may don, right as you list devise:
And but I do, God take on me vengeance,
As foule as ever had Genelon of France.

This gentil monk answerd in this manere;
Now trewely, min owen lady dere,

I have (quod he) on you so grete a routhe,
That I you swere, and plighte you my trouthe,
That whan your husbond is to Flandres fare,
I wol deliver you out of this care,
For I wol bringen you an hundred frankes.
And with that word he caught hire by the flankes,
And hire embraced hard, and kiste hire oft.
Goth now your way, quod he, al stille and soft,
And let us dine as sone as that ye may,
For by my kalender it is prime of day:
Goth now, and beth as trewe as I shal be.
Now elles God forbede, sire, quod she;
And forth she goth, as joly as a pie,
And bad the cokes that they shuld hem hie,
So that men mighten dine, and that anon.
Up to hire husbond is this wif ygon,
And knocketh at his countour boldely.
Qui est la ? quod he. Peter, it am I,

Quod she. What, sire, how longe wol ye fast!
How longe time wol ye reken and cast
Your summes, and your bookes, and your thinges!
The devil have part of all swiche rekeninges.
Ye han ynough parde of Goddes sonde.
Come doun to-day, and let your bagges stonde.
Ne be ye not ashamed, that Dan John
Shal fasting all this day elenge gon?
What? let us here a masse, and go we dine.
Wif, quod this man, litel canst thou divine
The curious besinesse that we have:
For of us chapmen, all so God me save,
And by that lord that cleped is Seint Ive,
Scarsly amonges twenty ten shul thrive
Continuelly, lasting unto oure age.

We moun wel maken chere and good visage,
And driven forth the world as it may be,
And kepen oure estat in privitee,
Til we be ded, or elles that we play
A pilgrimage, or gon out of the way.
And therfore have I gret necessitee
Upon this queinte world to avisen me.
For evermore mote we stond in drede
Of hap and fortune in our chapmanhede.

To Flandres wol I go to-morwe at day,
And come agein as sone as ever I may :
For which, my dere wif, I thee beseke
As be to every wight buxom and meke,
And for to kepe our good be curious,
And honestly governe wel our hous.
Thou hast ynough, in every maner wise,
That to a thrifty houshold may suffice.
Thee lacketh non array, ne no vitaille;
Of silver in thy purse shalt thou not faille.
And with that word his countour dore he shette,
And doun he goth; no lenger wold he lette;
And hastily a masse was ther saide,
And spedily the tables were ylaide,
And to the diner faste they hem spedde,
And richely this monk the chapman fedde.
And after diner Dan John sobrely
This chapman toke apart, and prively
He said him thus; Cosin, it stondeth so,
That, wel I see, to Brugges ye wol go,
God and Seint Austin spede you and gide.
I pray you, cosin, wisely that ye ride;
Governeth you also of your diete
Attemprely, and namely in this hete.
Betwix us two nedeth no strange fare;
Farewel, cosin, God shilde you fro care.
If any thing ther be by day or night,
If it lie in my power and my might,
That ye me wol command in any wise,
It shal be don, right as ye wol devise.

But o thing or ye go, if it may be,

I wolde prayen you for to lene me
An hundred frankes for a weke or tweye,
For certain bestes that I muste beye,
To storen with a place that is oures:
(God helpe me so, I wold that it were youres)
I shal not faille surely of my day,

Not for a thousand frankes, a mile way.
But let this thing be secree, I you preye;
For yet to-night thise bestes mote I beye.
And fare now wel, min owen cosin dere,
Grand mercy of your cost and of your chere.
This noble marchant gentilly anon
Answerd and said, O cosin min Dan John,
Now sikerly this is a smal requeste :
My gold is youres, whan that it you leste,