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! Eh, you mad fool! go to your straw, and hide.” Now with this speech the cook for rage grew black, And would have stormed, but could not speak, alack! So mumbling something, from his horse fell he, And where he fell, there lay he patiently, Till pity on his shame his fellows took. Here was a pretty horseman of a cook! Alas! that he had held not by his ladle! And ere again they got him on his saddle, There was a mighty shoving to and fro To lift him up, and muckle care and woe, So heavy was this carcase of a ghost. Then to the Manciple thus spake our host:— “Since drink upon this man hath domination, By nails! and as I reckon my salvation, I trow he would have told a sorry tale; For whether it be wine, or it be ale, That he hath drank, he speaketh through the nose, And sneezeth much, and he hath got the pose, [19] And also hath given us business enow To keep him on his horse, out of the slough; He’ll fall again, if he be driven to speak, And then, where are we, for a second week? Why, lifting up his heavy drunken corse! Tell on thy tale, and look we to his horse. Yet, Manciple, in faith thou art too nice Thus openly to chafe him for his vice. Perchance some day he’ll do as much for thee, And bring thy baker’s bills in jeopardy, Thy black jacks also, and thy butcher’s matters, And whether they square nicely with thy platters.” “Mine,” quoth the Manciple, “were then the mire! Much rather would I pay his horse’s hire, And that will be no trifle, mud and all, Than risk the peril of so sharp a fall. I did but jest. Score not, ye’ll be not scored. And guess ye
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