|
The lord sat stille as he were in a traunce, |
| And in his herte he rolled up and doun, |
| "How hadde this cherl ymaginacioun |
| 555 | To shewe swich a probleme to the frere? |
| Nevere erst er now herde I of swich mateere. |
| I trowe the devel putte it in his mynde. |
| In ars-metrike shal ther no man fynde, |
| Biforn this day, of swich a question. |
| 560 | Who sholde make a demonstracion |
| That every man sholde have yliche his part |
| As of the soun or savour of a fart? |
| O nyce, proude cherl, I shrewe his face! |
| Lo, sires," quod the lord, "with harde grace! |
| 565 | Who evere herde of swich a thyng er now? |
| To every man ylike, tel me how? |
| It is an inpossible, it may nat be. |
| Ey, nyce cherl, God lete him nevere thee! |
| The rumblynge of a fart, and every soun, |
| 570 | Nis but of eir reverberacioun, |
| And evere it wasteth litel and litel awey. |
| Ther is no man kan deemen, by my fey, |
| If that it were departed equally. |
| What, lo, my cherl, lo, yet how shrewedly |
| 575 | Unto my confessour to-day he spak! |
| I holde hym certeyn a demonyak! |
| Now ete youre mete, and lat the cherl go pleye; |
| Lat hym go honge hymself a devel weye!" |
|
| The lord sat still as he were in a trance, |
| And in his mind he rolled it up and down: |
| "How had this churl imagination grown |
| 555 | To pose so fine a problem to the friar? |
| I never heard the like, or I'm a liar; |
| I think the devil stuck it in his mind. |
| And in arithmetic did no man find, |
| Before this day, such puzzling question shown. |
| 560 | Who could be able, now, to make it known |
| How every man should have an equal part |
| Of both the sound and savour of a fart? |
| O scrupulous proud churl, beshrew his face! |
| Lo, sirs," this lord said then, with hard grimace, |
| 565 | "Who ever heard of such a thing ere now? |
| To every man alike? But tell me how! |
| Why it's impossible, it cannot be! |
| Exacting churl, God give him never glee! |
| The rumbling of a fart, and every sound, |
| 570 | Is but the air's reverberation round, |
| And ever it wastes, by little and little, away. |
| There is no man can judge, aye, by my fay, |
| Whether it were divided equally. |
| Behold, my church And yet how cursedly |
| 575 | To my confessor has he made this crack! |
| I hold him surely a demoniac! |
| Now eat your meat and let the churl go play, |
| Let him go hang himself, the devil's way!" |
|
