"Now, fair sirs," quoth this Oswald, the old Reve,
"I pray you all that you yourselves ne'er grieve,
Though my reply should somewhat fret his nose;
For lawful 'tis with force, force to oppose.
This drunken Miller hath informed us here
How that some folks beguiled a carpenter -
Perhaps in scorn that I of yore was one.
So, by your leave, him I'll requite anon.
In his own churlish language will I speak,
And pray to Heaven besides his neck may break.
A small stalk in mine eye he sees, I deem,
But in his own he cannot see a beam.


THE REVE'S TALE.


At Trumpington, near Cambridge, if you look,
There goeth a bridge, and under that a brook,
Upon which brook there stood a flour-mill;
And this is a known fact that now I tell.
A Miller there had dwelt for many a day;
As any peacock he was proud and gay.
He could pipe well, and fish, mend nets, to boot,
Turn cups with a lathe, and wrestle well, and shoot.
A Norman dirk, as brown as is a spade,
Hung by his belt, and eke a trenchant blade.
A jolly dagger bare he in his pouch:
There was no man, for peril, durst him touch.