The Cook's Tale
A prentys whilom dwelled in oure citee,
4365
And of a craft of vitailliers was hee.
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Gaillard he was as goldfynch in the shawe,
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Broun as a berye, a propre short felawe,
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With lokkes blake, ykembd ful fetisly.
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Dauncen he koude so wel and jolily
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That he was cleped perkyn revelour.
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He was as ful of love and paramour
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As is the hyve ful of hony sweete:
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Wel was the wenche with hym myghte meete. Page 61
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At every bridale wolde he synge and hoppe;
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He loved bet the taverne than the shoppe.
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For whan ther any ridyng was in chepe,
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Out of the shoppe thider wolde he lepe --
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Til that he hadde al the sighte yseyn,
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And daunced wel, he wolde nat come ayeyn --
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And gadered hym a meynee of his sort
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To hoppe and synge and maken swich disport;
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And ther they setten stevene for to meete,
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To pleyen at the dys in swich a streete.
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For in the toune nas ther no prentys
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That fairer koude caste a paire of dys
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Than perkyn koude, and therto he was free
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Of his dispense, in place of pryvetee.
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That fond his maister wel in his chaffare;
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For often tyme he foond his box ful bare.
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For sikerly a prentys revelour
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That haunteth dys, riot, or paramour.
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His maister shal it in his shoppe abye,
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Al have he no part of the mynstralcye.
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For thefte and riot, they been convertible,
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Al konne he pleye on gyterne or ribible.
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Revel and trouthe, as in a lowe degree,
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They been ful wrothe al day, as men may see.
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this joly prentys with his maister bood,
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Til he were ny out of his prentishood,
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Al were he snybbed bothe erly and late,
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And somtyme lad with revel to newegate.
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But atte laste his maister him bithoghte.
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Upon a day, whan he his papir soghte,
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Of a proverbe that seith this same word,
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Wel bet is roten appul out of hoord
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Than that it rotie al the remenaunt.
4407
So fareth it by a riotous servaunt;
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It is ful lasse harm to lete hym pace,
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Than he shende alle the servantz in the place.
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Therfore his maister yaf hym acquitance,
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And bad hym go, with sorwe and with meschance!
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And thus this joly prentys hadde his leve.
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Now lat hym riote al the nyght or leve.
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And for ther is no theef withoute a lowke,
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That helpeth hym to wasten and to sowke
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Of that he brybe kan or borwe may,
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Anon he sente his bed and his array
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Unto a compeer of his owene sort,
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That lovede dys, and revel, and disport,
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And hadde a wyf that heeld for contenance
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A shoppe, and swyved for hir sustenance.
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