Since that it is the best rime that I can?"
"Mass!" quoth our Host, "if that I hear aright,
Thy scraps of rhyming are not worth a mite;
Thou dost nought else but waste away our time:-
Sir, at one word, thou shalt no longer rhyme."



CHAUCER'S FRIAR'S TALE; or, THE SUMNER AND THE DEVIL
MODERNISED BY LEIGH HUNT.


There lived, sirs, in my country, formerly,
A wondrous great archdeacon,--who but he?
Who boldly did the work of his high station
In punishing improper conversation,
And all the slidings thereunto belonging;
Witchcraft, and scandal also, and the wronging
Of holy Church, by blinking of her dues
In sacraments and contracts, wills and pews;
Usury furthermore, and simony;
But people of ill lives most loathed he:
Lord! how he made them sing if they were caught.
And tithe-defaulters, ye may guess, were taught
Never to venture on the like again;
To the last farthing would he rack and strain.
For stinted tithes, or stinted offering,
He made the people piteously to sing.
He left no leg for the good bishop's crook;
Down went the black sheep in his own black book;