| 20 |
This Cook that was ful pale, and no thyng reed, |
| Seyde to oure Hoost, "So God my soule blesse, |
| As ther is falle on me swich hevynesse, |
| Noot I nat why, that me were levere slepe |
| Than the beste galon wyn in Chepe." |
| 25 | "Wel," quod the Maunciple, "if it may doon ese |
| To thee, sire Cook, and to no wight displese |
| Which that heere rideth in this compaignye, |
| And that oure Hoost wole of his curteisye, |
| I wol as now excuse thee of thy tale, |
| 30 | For, in good feith, thy visage is ful pale. |
| Thyne eyen daswen eek, as that me thynketh, |
| And wel I woot, thy breeth ful soure stynketh. |
| That sheweth wel thou art nat wel disposed, |
| Of me, certeyn, thou shalt nat been yglosed. |
| 35 | See how he ganeth, lo, this dronken wight! |
| As though he wolde swolwe us anonright. |
| Hoold cloos thy mouth, man, by thy fader kyn, |
| The devel of helle sette his foot therin. |
| Thy cursed breeth infecte wole us alle, |
| 40 | Fy, stynkyng swyn! Fy, foule moothe thou falle! |
| A, taketh heede, sires, of this lusty man! |
| Now, sweete sire, wol ye justen atte fan? |
| Therto me thynketh ye been wel yshape, |
| I trowe that ye dronken han wyn ape, |
| 45 | And that is, whan men pleyen with a straw." |
| And with this speche the Cook wax wrooth and wraw, |
| And on the Manciple he gan nodde faste, |
| For lakke of speche, and doun the hors hym caste, |
| Where as he lay til that men up hym took; |
| 50 | This was a fair chyvachee of a Cook! |
| Allas, he nadde holde hym by his ladel! |
| And er that he agayn were in his sadel |
| Ther was greet showvyng bothe to and fro, |
| To lifte hym up, and muchel care and wo, |
| 55 | So unweeldy was this sory palled goost. |
| And to the Manciple thanne spak oure hoost, |
|
| 20 |
The cook, who was all pale and nothing red, |
| Said to our host: "So may God my soul bless, |
| As there is on me such a drowsiness, |
| I know not why, that I would rather sleep |
| Than drink a gallon of best wine in Cheap." |
| 25 | "Well," said the manciple, "if 'twill give ease |
| To you, sir cook, and in no way displease |
| The folk that ride here in this company, |
| And if our host will, of his courtesy, |
| I will, for now, excuse you from your tale. |
| 30 | For in good faith, your visage is full pale, |
| Your eyes are bleary also, as I think, |
| And I know well your breath right sour does stink, |
| All of which shows that you are far from well; |
| No flattering lies about you will I tell. |
| 35 | See how he yawns. Just look, the drunken wight, |
| As if he'd swallow all of us outright. |
| Now close your mouth, man, by your father's kin; |
| Ah, may hell's devil set his foot therein! |
| Your cursed breath will soon infect us all; |
| 40 | Fie, stinking swine, fie! Evil you befall! |
| Ah, take you heed, sirs, of this lusty man. |
| Now, sweet sir, would you like to ride at fan? |
| It seems to me you're in the proper shape! |
| You've drunk the wine that makes a man an ape, |
| 45 | And that is when a man plays with a straw." |
| The cook grew wroth, for this had touched the raw, |
| And at the manciple he nodded fast |
| For lack of speech, and him his horse did cast, |
| And there he lay till up the rest him took, |
| 50 | Which was a feat of riding for a cook! |
| Alas! That he had kept not to his ladle! |
| For before he was again within his saddle, |
| There was a mighty shoving to and fro |
| To lift him up, and hugeous care and woe, |
| 55 | So all unwieldy was this sorry ghost. |
| And to the manciple then spoke our host: |
|
