Classic Poem

Oure Hoste gan to swere as he were wood;
"Harrow," quod he, "by nailes and by blood,
This was a fals cherl and a fals justice.
As shameful deeth as herte may devise
Come to thise juges and hir advocats.
Algate this sely maide is slain, allas!
Allas, too dere boughte she beautee!
Wherfore I saye alday that men may see
The yiftes of Fortune and of Nature
Been cause of deeth to many a creature.
As bothe yiftes that I speke of now,
Men han ful ofte more for harm than prow.
"But trewely, myn owene maister dere,
This is a pitous tale for to heere.
But nathelees, passe over, is no fors:
I praye to God so save thy gentil cors,
And eek thine urinals and thy jurdones,
Thyn ipocras and eek thy galiones,
And every boiste ful of thy letuarye--
God blesse hem, and oure lady Sainte Marye.
So mote I theen, thou art a propre man,
And lik a prelat, by Saint Ronian!
Saide I nat wel? I can nat speke in terme
But wel I woot, thou doost myn herte to erme
That I almost have caught a cardinacle.
By corpus bones, but if I have triacle.
Or elles a draughte of moiste and corny ale,
Or but I heere anoon a merye tale,
Myn herte is lost for pitee of this maide.
"Thou bel ami, thou Pardoner," he saide,
"Tel us som mirthe or japes right anoon."
"It shal be doon," quod he, "by Saint Ronion.
But first," quod he, "here at this ale-stake
I wol bothe drinke and eten of a cake."
And right anoon thise gentils gan to crye,
"Nay, lat him telle us of no ribaudye.
Tel us som moral thing that we may lere,
Som wit, and thanne wol we gladly heere."
"I graunte, ywis," quod he, "but I moot thinke
Upon som honeste thing whil that I drinke.