And though he was brave, he was wise,
And of his manner as meek as is a maid.
He was never rude
In all his life to any sort of person.
He was a true, perfect, noble knight.
But to tell you of his attire,
His horses were good, but his clothes not bright.
Of rough cloth he wore a tunic
All ruststained by his coat of mail,
For he was late y-come from his viage,
And wente for to doon his pilgrimage.

With him ther was his sone, a yong SQUYER,
A lovyere, and a lusty bacheler,
With lokkes crulle, as they were leyd in presse
Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse.
Of his stature he was of evene lengthe,
And wonderly deliver, and greet of strengthe.
And he had been somtyme in chivachye,
In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Picardye,
And born him wel, as of so litel space,
In hope to stonden in his lady grace.
Embrouded was he, as it were a mede
Al ful of fresshe floures, whyte and rede.
Singinge he was, or floytinge, all the day;
He was as fresh as is the month of May.
Short was his goune, with sieves longe and wyde.
Wel coude he sitte on hors, and faire ryde.
He coude songes make and wel endyte,
Juste and eek daunce, and wel purtreye and wryte.
So hote he lovede, that by nightertale
He sleep namore than dooth a nightingale.
Curteys he was, lowly, and servisable,
And carf biforn his fader at the table.

A YEMAN hadde he, and servaunts namo
At that tyme, for him liste ryde so;
And he was clad in cote and hood of grene;
A sheef of pecok-arwes brighte and kene
Under his belt he bar ful thriftily;
(Wel coude he dresse his takel yemanly:
His arwes drouped noght with fetheres lowe),
And in his hand he bar a mighty bowe.
A not-heed hadde he, with a broun visage.
Of wode-craft wel coude he al the usage.
Upon his arm he bar a gay bracer,
And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler,
And on that other syde a gay daggere,
Harneised wel, and sharp as point of spere;
A Cristofre on his brest of silver shene.
For he’d no sooner returned from his voyage,
Than he set out to make his pilgrimage.

With him there was his son, a young SQUIRE,
A lover, and a knight he would become,
With locks so curly, you’d think them curling-ironed.
Of twenty years of age he was, I guess.
Of his stature he was average height,
And wonderfully agile, and of great strength.
And he had spent some time in combat
In Flanders, Artois and Picardy,5
And carried himself well, for a beginner,
In hope to stand in his lady’s grace.
Embroidered was he, as if a meadow
All full of fresh flowers, white and red.
Singing he was, or piping all the day;
He was as fresh as is the month of May.
Short was his gown, with sleeves long and wide.
Well could he sit a horse and well ride.
He could songs make and poetry indite,
Joust and dance, draw well and write.
So hotly he loved all through the night
He slept no more than a nightingale.
Courteous he was, humble and himself useful made,
And carved meat for his father at the table.

A YEOMAN had he, and servants no more
At that time, for it pleased him to ride so;
And he was clad in coat and hood of green.
A sheaf of peacock-arrows sharp and bright
Under his belt he carried with care.
Well could he keep his gear:
His arrows drooped not with feathers low,
And in his hand he bore a mighty bow.