In youth he had learned a good trade:
He was a fine craftsman, a carpenter.
This reeve sat upon a full good farm horse
That was all dappled gray and named Scot.
A long coat of blue upon him he had,
And by his side he wore a rusty blade.
Of Norfolk was this reeve of whom I tell,
Bisyde a toun men clepen Baldeswelle.
Tukked he was, as is a frere, aboute,
And ever he rood the hindreste of our route.

A SOMNOUR was ther with us in that place,
That hadde a fyr-reed cherubinnes face,
For sawcefleem he was, with eyen narwe.
As hoot he was, and lecherous, as a sparwe;
With scalled browes blake, and piled berd;
Of his visage children were aferd.
Ther nas quik-silver, litarge, ne brimstoon,
Boras, ceruce, ne oille of tartre noon,
Ne oynement that wolde clense and byte,
That him mighte helpen of his whelkes whyte,
Nor of the knobbes sittinge on his chekes.
Wel loved he garleek, oynons, and eek lekes,
And for to drinken strong wyn, reed as blood.
Than wolde he speke, and crye as he were wood.
And whan that he wel dronken hadde the wyn,
Than wolde he speke no word but Latyn.
A fewe termes hadde he, two or three,
That he had lerned out of som decree;
No wonder is, he herde it al the day;
And eek ye knowen wel, how that a jay
Can clepen “Watte,” as well as can the pope.
But who-so coude in other thing him grope,
Thanne hadde he spent al his philosophye;
Ay “Questio quid iuris” wolde he crye.
He was a gentil harlot and a kinde;
A bettre felawe sholde men noght finde.
He wolde suffre, for a quart of wyn,
A good felawe to have his concubyn
A twelf-month, and excuse him atte fulle:
Ful prively a finch eek coude he pulle.
And if he fond o-wher a good felawe,
He wolde techen him to have non awe,
In swich cas, of the erchedeknes curs,
But-if a mannes soule were in his purs;
For in his purs he sholde y-punisshed be.
“Purs is the erchedeknes helle,” seyde he.
From near a town men call Bawdeswell.
Belted he was as is a friar;
And he rode always the hindmost of our group.

A SUMMONER WaS there with us in that place,
Who had a fire-red cherubim’s face,
For pimpled he was, with eyes narrow.
As hotblooded he was and lecherous as a sparrow,
With scabby black eyebrows, and scraggly beard;
Of his face children were afraid.
There was no quicksilver, lead oxide nor brimstone,
Borax, white lead, nor oil of tartar lotion,
Nor ointment that would cleanse and bite,
That might help him of his pimples cure,
Nor of the bumps sitting on his cheeks.
Well loved he garlic, onions and also leeks,
And for to drink strong wine, red as blood.
Then would he speak, and shout as if he were deranged;
And when he had drunk enough wine,
Then would he speak no word but in Latin.
A few phrases had he, two or three,
That he had learned out of some decree—
No wonder it is, he heard it all the day;
And you know well, how a bird
Can call Walter! as well as can the Pope.
But if you would in other things him query,
Then he’d used up all his philosophy;
Ever Questio quid iuris38 would he cry.
He was a worthy rascal and also kind;
A better pal could no man find:
He would allow, for a quart of wine,
A buddy to have his concubine
For a year, and excuse him in full;
Full secretly a young thing could he seduce.
And if he found somewhere a pal,
He would teach him to have no fear
With regard to the Archdeacon’s curse,39
Unless a man’s soul were in his purse,
For then in his purse should he punished be.
“Purse is the Archdeacon’s hell,” said he.
But wel I woot he lyed right in dede;
Of cursing oghte ech gilty man him drede—
For curs wol slee, right as assoilling saveth—
And also war him of a significavit.
In daunger hadde he at his owne gyse
The yonge girles of the diocyse,
And knew hir counseil, and was al hir reed.
A gerland hadde he set up-on his heed,
As greet as it were for an ale-stake;
A bokeler hadde he maad him of a cake.

With him ther rood a gentil PARDONER
Of Rouncival, his freend and his compeer,
That streight was comen fro the court of Rome.