Geoffrey Chaucer

The smyler with the knyf under the cloke.

And for ther is so gret diversite In termes and in expressing of it.

In the olde dayes of Kyng Arthur.

This world is but a thurghfare ful of wo, And we been pilgrymes, passinge to and fro.

But for to tellen you of his array, His hors were goode, but he was nat gay.

A knyght ther was, and that a worthy man.

He loved chivalrie, Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie.

At Cristes table he sat with prelatis.

Wel loved he garlek, oynons, and eek lekes, And for to drynken strong wyn, reed as blood.

A clerk ther was of Oxenforde also.

Of his array telle I no lenger tale.

A good man was ther of religioun.

Ful semely hir wimpel pinched was, Hir nose tretis, hir eyen greye as glas.

Ther was also a Reve and a Millere, A Somnour, and a Pardoner also.

A Frere ther was, a wantowne and a merye.

He was the beste beggere in his hous.

And yet he hadde a thombe of gold, pardee.

A sergeant of the lawe, war and wys.

No-wher so bisy a man as he ther nas.

An housholdere and that a greet was he; Seint Julian he was in his contree.