What aileth thee to sleep thus in the day?
Hast thou had fleas all night? or art thou drunk?
Or didst thou sup with my good lord the monk,
And hast a jolly surfeit in thine head?"

This cook that was full pale, and nothing red,
Stared up, and said unto the host, "God bless
My soul, I feel such wondrous heaviness,
I know not why, that I would rather sleep
Than drink of the best gallon-wine in Cheap."

"Well," quoth the Manciple, "if it might ease
Thine head, Sir Cook, and also none displease
Of all here riding in this company,
And mine host grant it, I would pass thee by,
Till thou art better, and so tell MY tale;
For in good faith thy visage is full pale;
Thine eyes grow dull, methinks; and sure I am,
Thy breath resembleth not sweet marjoram,
Which showeth thou canst utter no good matter:
Nay, thou mayst frown forsooth, but I'll not flatter.
See, how he gapeth, lo! this drunken wight;
He'll swallow us all up before he'll bite;
Hold close thy mouth, man, by thy father's kin;
The fiend himself now set his foot therein,
And stop it up, for 'twill infect us all;
Fie, hog; fie, pigsty; foul thy grunt befall.
Ah--see, he bolteth! there, sirs, was a swing;
Take heed--he's bent on tilting at the ring:
He's the shape, isn't he? to tilt and ride!