WEET* ye not where there stands a little town, *know Which that y-called is Bob-up-and-down, <1> Under the Blee, in Canterbury way? There gan our Hoste for to jape and play, And saide, 'Sirs, what? Dun is in the mire.
<2> Is there no man, for prayer nor for hire, That will awaken our fellow behind? A thief him might full* rob and bind *easily See how he nappeth, see, for cocke’s bones, As he would falle from his horse at ones.
Is that a Cook of London, with mischance? <3> Do* him come forth, he knoweth his penance; *make For he shall tell a tale, by my fay,* *faith Although it be not worth a bottle hay.
Awake, thou Cook,' quoth he; 'God give thee sorrow What aileth thee to sleepe *by the morrow? * *in the day time* Hast thou had fleas all night, or art drunk?
Or had thou with some quean* all night y-swunk,** *whore **laboured So that thou mayest not hold up thine head?
' The Cook, that was full pale and nothing red, Said to Host, 'So God my soule bless, As there is fall’n on me such heaviness, I know not why, that me were lever* sleep, *rather Than the best gallon wine that is in Cheap.
' 'Well,' quoth the Manciple, 'if it may do ease To thee, Sir Cook, and to no wight displease Which that here rideth in this company, And that our Host will of his courtesy, I will as now excuse thee of thy tale; For in good faith thy visage is full pale: Thine eyen daze,* soothly as me thinketh, *are dim And well I wot, thy breath full soure stinketh, That sheweth well thou art not well disposed; Of me certain thou shalt not be y-glosed.
* *flattered See how he