|
"Now, sires," quod he, "if that ye be so leef |
| 475 | To fynde Deeth, turne up this croked wey, |
| For in that grove I lafte hym, by my fey, |
| Under a tree, and there he wole abyde; |
| Noght for your boost he wole him no thyng hyde. |
| Se ye that ook? Right ther ye shal hym fynde. |
| 480 | God save yow that boghte agayn mankynde, |
| And yow amende!" Thus seyde this olde man; |
| And everich of thise riotoures ran |
| Til he cam to that tree, and ther they founde |
| Of floryns fyne of gold ycoyned rounde |
| 485 | Wel ny an eighte busshels, as hem thoughte. |
| No lenger thanne after Deeth they soughte, |
| But ech of hem so glad was of that sighte, |
| For that the floryns been so faire and brighte, |
| That doun they sette hem by this precious hoord. |
| 490 | The worste of hem, he spak the firste word. |
|
|
"Now, sirs," said he, "if you're so keen, in brief, |
| 475 | To find out Death, turn up this crooked way, |
| For in that grove I left him, by my fay, |
| Under a tree, and there he will abide; |
| Nor for your boasts will he a moment hide. |
| See you that oak? Right there you shall him find. |
| 480 | God save you, Who redeemed all humankind, |
| And mend your ways!"- thus said this ancient man. |
| And every one of these three roisterers ran |
| Till he came to that tree; and there they found, |
| Of florins of fine gold, new-minted, round, |
| 485 | Well-nigh eight bushels full, or so they thought. |
| No longer, then, after this Death they sought, |
| But each of them so glad was of that sight, |
| Because the florins were so fair and bright, |
| That down they all sat by this precious hoard. |
| 490 | The worst of them was first to speak a word. |
|
