Now holde youre mouth, par charitee,
Bothe knyght and lady free,
And herkneth to my spelle;
Of bataille and of chivalry,
And of ladyes love-drury
Anon I wol yow telle.
Men speken of romances of prys,
Of horn child and of ypotys,
Of beves and sir gy,
Of sir lybeux and pleyndamour, --
But sir thopas, he bereth the flour
Of roial chivalry!
His goode steede al he bistrood,
And forth upon his wey he glood
As sparcle out of the bronde;
Upon his creest he bar a tour,
And therinne stiked a lilie flour, --
God shilde his cors for shonde!
And for he was a knyght auntrous,
He nolde slepen in noon hous,
But liggen in his hoode;
His brighte helm was his wonger,
And by hym baiteth his dextrer
Of herbes fyne and goode.
Hymself drank water of the well,
As dide the knyght sire percyvell
So worthy under wede,
Til on a day --