For May wol have no slogardie anyght. The sesoun priketh every gentil herte, And maketh hym out of his slep to sterte.

Whoso shal telle a tale after a man, He moot reherce as ny as evere he kan Everich a word, if it be in his charge, Al speke he never so rudeliche and large, Or ellis he moot telle his tale untrewe, Or feyne thyng, or fynde wordes new.

And whan that he wel dronken hadde the wyn, Than wolde he speke no word but Latyn.

Wel loved he garleek, oynons, and eek lekes, And for to drynken strong wyn, reed as blood.

That hadde a fyr-reed cherubynnes face.

But Cristes loore and his apostles twelve He taughte, but first he folwed it hymselve.

And yet he hadde a thombe of gold. 8

This noble ensample to his sheep he yaf, That first he wroghte, and afterward he taughte.

If gold ruste, what shal iren do?

For gold in phisik is a cordial, Therefore he lovede gold in special.