Classic Poem

. . . Wyth that came Ryotte, russhynge all at ones,
A rusty gallande, toragged and torente;
And on the borde he whyrled a payre of bones,
"Quater treye dews!' he clatered as he wente,
"Now have at all, by saynte Thomas of Kente!'
And ever he threwe and kyst I wote nere what:
His here was growen thoroweoute his hat.

Thenne I behelde how he dysgysed was:
His hede was hevy for watchynge over nyghte,
His eyen blereed, his face shone lyke a glas;
His gowne so shorte that it ne cover myghte
His rumpe, he wente so all for somer lyghte;
His hose was garded wyth a lyste of grene,
Yet at the knee they were broken, I wene.

His cote was checked with patches rede and blewe;
Of Kyrkeby Kendall was his shorte demye;
And ay he sange, "In fayth, decon thou crewe';
His elbowe bare, he ware his gere so nye;
His nose a droppynge, his lyppes were full drye;
And by his syde his whynarde and his pouche,
The devyll myghte daunce therein for ony crowche.

Counter he coude O lux upon a potte;
An eestryche fedder of a capons tayle
He set up fresshely upon his hat alofte:
"What, revell-route!' quod he, and gan to rayle
How ofte he hadde hit Jenet on the tayle,
Of Felyce fetewse, and lytell prety Cate,
How ofte he knocked at her klycked gate.

What sholde I tell more of his rebaudrye?
I was ashamed so to here hum prate:
He had no pleasure but in harlotrye.
"Ay,' quod he, "in the devylles date,
What arte thou? I sawe the nowe but late.'
"Forsothe,' quod I, "in this courte I dwell nowe.'
"Welcome,' quod Ryote, "I make God avowe.

"And, syr, in fayth why comste not us amonge,
To make the mery, as other felowes done?
Thou muste swere and stare, man, al daye longe,
And wake all nyghte, and slepe tyll it be none;
Thou mayste not studye, or muse on the mone;
This worlde is nothynge but ete, drynke, and slepe;
And thus with us good company to kepe,

"Pluck up thyne herte upon a mery pyne,
And lete us laugh a placke or tweyne at nale:
What the devyll, man, myrthe was never one!
What, loo, man, see here of dyce a bale!
A brydelynge caste for that is in thy male!
Now have at all that lyeth upon the burde!
Fye on this dyce, they be not worth a turde!

"Have at the hasarde, or at the dosen browne,
Or els I pas a peny to a pounde!
Now, wolde to God thou wolde leye money downe!
Lorde, how that I wolde caste it full rounde!
Ay, in my pouche a buckell I have founde;
The armes of Calyce, I have no coyne nor crosse!
I am not happy, I renne ay on the losse.

"Now renne muste I to the stewys syde,
To wete yf Malkyn, my lemman, have gete oughte:
I lete her to hyre, that men maye on her ryde,
Her harnes easy ferre and nere is soughte:
By Goddis sydes, syns I her thyder broughte,
She hath gote me more money with her tayle
Than hath some shyppe that into Bordews sayle.

"Had I as good an hors as she is a mare,
I durst aventure to journey thorugh Fraunce;
Who rydeth on her, he nedeth not to care,
For she is trussed for to breke a launce;
It is a curtel that wel can wynche and praunce:
To her wyll I nowe all my poverté lege;
And, tyll I come, have here is myne hat to plege.'