| Sire Monk, namoore of this, so God yow blesse! |
| Youre tale anoyeth al this compaignye; |
| Swich talkyng is nat worth a boterflye, |
| 25 | For therinne is ther no desport ne game. |
| Wherfore, sire Monk, or daun Piers by youre name, |
| I pray yow hertely, telle us somwhat elles, |
| For sikerly, nere clynkyng of youre belles |
| That on your bridel hange on every syde, |
| 30 | By hevene kyng, that for us alle dyde, |
| I sholde er this han fallen doun for sleepe, |
| Althogh the slough had never been so deepe; |
| Thanne hadde your tale al be toold in veyn. |
| For certeinly, as that thise clerkes seyn, |
| 35 | Whereas a man may have noon audience, |
| Noght helpeth it to tellen his sentence. |
| And wel I woot the substance is in me, |
| If any thyng shal wel reported be. |
| Sir, sey somwhat of huntyng, I yow preye." |
|
| Sir Monk, no more of this, so God you bless! |
| Your tale annoys the entire company; |
| Such talking is not worth a butterfly; |
| 25 | For in it is no sport nor any game. |
| Wherefore, sir monk, Don Peter by your name, |
| I pray you heartily tell us something else, |
| For truly, but for clinking of the bells |
| That from your bridle hang on either side, |
| 30 | By Heaven's king, Who for us all has died, |
| I should, before this, have fallen down for sleep, |
| Although the mud had never been so deep; |
| Then had your story all been told in vain. |
| For certainly, as all these clerks complain, |
| 35 | 'Whenas a man has none for audience, |
| It's little help to speak his evidence.' |
| And well I know the substance is in me |
| To judge of things that well reported be. |
| Sir, tell a tale of hunting now, I pray." |
|
