Geoffrey Chaucer

He wolde have the fyn for his concubyn, / A twelf-monthe, and excuse hym atte fulle.

And if that he forbede it, wolde he say, / 'A man may do no synne, but if he may / Nat touche a womman, for al his lyf.'

He was an outridere, that loved venerie; / A manly man, to been an abbot able.

Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in stable, / And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel heere / Gynglen in a whistlynge wynd as cleere.

His palfrey was as broun as is a berye.

He was a shrewe, and a greet market-betere.

In al the parisshe wif ne was ther noon / That to the offrynge bifore hire sholde goon.

She hadde passed many a straunge strem; / Hire hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed, / Ful streite yteyd, and shoes ful moyste and newe.

And trewely she hadde a greet talent / To laughe and for to carpe in compaignye.

She koude muchel of wandrynge by the weye. / Gat-tothed was she, soothly for to seye.

What sholde I speke of the synne of glotonye, that is so greet a synne?

Therfore, for to speke of the horrible sweryng of the Sowdan, and of the horrible cursedness of his lyf, I holde it nat pertinent to my tale.

For whoso wol no wyf, he is no man.

A good wyf was ther, of biside Bathe, But she was somdel deef, and that was scathe.

For trewely, I dar wel seye, to make it short, He was a verray parfit gentil knyght.

And thogh a widwe hadde but o sho, So plesaunt was hire song, she wolde have two.

This goode wyf, that was so trewe and kynde, Hadde in hir lyf ful many a joly tyde.

Experience, thogh noon auctoritee Were in this world, is right ynogh for me To speke of wo that is in mariage.

I grante it yow, I have noon other lyf, But if that I do feele my wyves knyf.

For love is blynd alday, and may nat see.