This ilkè monk lette oldè thingès pace,[62]
And held after the newè world the space.
He yaf not of the text a pulled hen,[63]
That saith, that hunters ben not holy men;
Ne that a monk, whan he is reckèles,[64]
Is like to a fish that is waterles;
That is to say, a monk out of his cloistre.
This ilkè text held he not worth an oistre.
And I say his opinion was good.
What? shulde he studie, and make himselven wood[65]
Upon a book in cloistre alway to pore,
Or swinken[66] with his hondès, and laboùre,
As Austin bit?[67] how shal the world be served?
Let Austin have his swink to him reserved.
Therfore he was a prickasoure[68] a right:
Greihoundes he hadde as swift as foul of flight:
Of pricking[69] and of hunting for the hare
Was all his lust, for no cost wolde he spare.
I saw his sleves purfiled[70] at the hond
With gris,[71] and that the finest of the lond.
And for to fasten his hood under his chinne,
He hadde of gold ywrought a curious pinne;
A love-knotte in the greter end ther was.
His hed was balled,[72] and shone as any glas,
And eke his face, as it hadde ben anoint.
He was a lord ful fat and in good point.
His eyen stepe,[73] and rolling in his hed,
That stemed as a forneis of led.[74]
His bootès souple, his hors in gret estat:
Now certainly he was a fayre prelát.