Geoffrey Chaucer

And al was conscience and tendre herte.

Of smale houndes hadde she, that she fedde / With rosted flessh, or milk and wastel-breed.

He knew the tavernes wel in every toun / And every hostiler and tappestere / Bet than a lazar or a beggestere.

But al be that he was a philosophre, / Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre.

And yet he was to hym a greet encressour. / Noon auditour koude on his word so wel / Have caught hym in his sleighte, ne in his trayne.

For hooly chirche's right is to be fed, / Or elles wolde he have his breed of whete, / And of the flour of his owene seed, / And of his corn a very large meel.

He loved hotte and to have his lecherye.

A good felawe, ye, a verray charitee!

And if he foond owher a good felawe, / He wolde techen hym to have noon awe / In swich caas of the ercedekenes curs, / But if a man's purs were in his ers.

For though a wydwe hadde noght a sho, / So plesaunt was his 'In principio' / Yet wolde he have a ferthyng, er he wente.

This somnour bar to hym a stif burdoun; / Was nevere trompe of half so greet a soun.

And al was fals, but that I have herd say.

For pitee renneth soone in gentil herte.

If gold ruste, what shal iren do?

He was a maister of his craft, I dar wel seye.

He hadde a forhead reed as any glede, / With eyen narwe, and hoote as any goot.

A voys he hadde as smal as hath a goot.

I trowe he were a geldyng or a mare.

He wolde suffer for a quart of wyn / A good felawe to have his concubyn / A twelf-month, and excuse hym atte fulle.

He was a verray, parfit praktisour.