For catel hadde they y-nogh and rente,
And eek hir wyves wolde it wel assente;
And elles certein were they to blame.
It is ful fair to been y-clept “ma dame,”
And goon to vigilyës al bifore,
And have a mantel royalliche y-bore.

A COOK they hadde with hem for the nones,
To boille the chiknes with the marybones,
And poudre-marchant tart, and galingale.
Wel coude he knowe a draughte of London ale.
He coude roste, and sethe, and broille, and frye,
Maken mortreux, and wel bake a pye.
But greet harm was it, as it thoughte me,
That on his shine a mormal hadde he;
So varied his dinner and his supper.
Full many a fat partridge had he in coop,
And many a bream and many a pike in pond.
Woe to his cook, unless his sauces were
Pungent and sharp, and ever-ready all his pans and pots.
His table in his dining hall
Stood always for his dinner set.22
At meetings of local justices there he was lord and sire;
Full often time he was MP for the shire.
A dagger and a purse all of silk
Hung at his waist, white as morning milk.
A sheriff had he been, and an auditor;
Was nowhere such a worthy landowner.

A HABERDASHER and a CARPENTER,
A WEAVER, a DYER and a TAPESTRY-MAKER,
Were with us also, all clothed in the livery
Of a distinguished and great parish guild.23
Full fresh and new their dress uniform was;
Their knives were mounted not with brass,
But all with silver, full well made and brightly
Polished, as were their belts and purses.
Well seemed each of them a fair burgher
To sit in guildhall in a place of honor.
Each one of them could have been
An alderman.
For property had they enough and income,
And their wives would say the same;
Or else certain were they to blame.
It is full fair to be called “Madame,”
And go to church at procession’s head,
And have a mantle like royalty carried.

A COOK they had with them for their travel,
To boil the chickens with the marrowbones
And spices—poudre-marchant tart and galingale.
Well could he identify a draught of London ale.
He could roast and boil and broil and fry,
Make stews and well bake a pie.
But great misfortune was it, as it seemed to me,
That on his shin an open sore had he.
For blankmanger, that made he with the beste.

A SHIPMAN was ther, woning fer by weste:
For aught I woot, he was of Dertemouthe.
He rood up-on a rouncy, as he couthe,
In a gowne of falding to the knee.
A daggere hanging on a laas hadde he
Aboute his nekke under his arm adoun.
The hote somer had maad his hewe al broun;
And, certeinly, he was a good felawe.
Ful many a draughte of wyn had he y-drawe
From Burdeux-ward, whyl that the chapman sleep.
Of nyce conscience took he no keep.
If that he faught, and hadde the hyer hond,
By water he sente hem hoom to every lond.
But of his craft to rekene wel his tydes,
His stremes and his daungers him bisydes,
His herberwe and his mone, his lode-menage,
Ther nas noon swich from Hulle to Cartage.
Hardy he was, and wys to undertake;
With many a tempest hadde his berd been shake.
He knew wel alle the havenes, as they were,
From Gootlond to the cape of Finistere,
And every cryke in Britayne and in Spayne;
His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne.

With us ther was a DOCTOUR OF PHISYK,
In al this world ne was ther noon him lyk
To speke of phisik and of surgerye;
For he was grounded in astronomye.
He kepte his pacient a ful greet del
In houres, by his magik naturel.
Wel coude he fortunen the ascendent
Of his images for his pacient.
He knew the cause of everich maladye,
Were it of hoot or cold, or moiste, or drye,
And where engendred, and of what humour;
He was a verrey parfit practisour.