Strange & Unusual Sayings

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.

And yet he was but of litel stature.

A clerk, that was of Oxenford also, / Unto the world as in a cloystre he go.

Of his complexioun he was sangwyn.

For he was Epicurus owene sone.

And certeinly, as I have herd it tolde, / Ther was no wight that he ne ferde as a folde.

A baggepipe wel koude he blowe and sowne, / And therwithal he broghte us out of towne.

For in this world, certeyn, no wight there is / That he ne dooth or seith somtyme amis.

And yet he was a trewe persoun and a good, / And hated swearing, and was not so wood.

And he hadde been somtyme in chyvachie / In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Pycardie, / And born hym wel, as of so litel space.

A fair fordoon hir beautee was al newe.

He knew the cause of every maladye, / Were it of hoot, or coold, or moyste, or drye, / And where engendred, and of what humour.

Of remedies of love he knew al chaunce, / And everich of hem knew he bet than his page.

He wolde make a good confessorie, / If a man had a soule, and that he were / A good man, and coude wel here / Confessiouns, and have a good memorie.

For in his male he hadde a pilwe-beer, / Which that he seyde was Oure Lady veyl.