The Canterbury Tales of Chaucer :: :: University of Virginia Library

Next these a merry Monk appears in Place,
Who follow'd Hunting more than saying Mass.
As bravely Mounted, as a Lord from Court,
No well-fed Abbot bore a comelier Port.
And when in State he ambled, all might hear
The Jingling of his Bridle, loud and clear;
As far, almost, as any Chapel Bell.
This lordly Monk, once Keeper of a Cell,

Held good St. Bennet's Order too severe;
St. Maure to his nice Judgment did appear
Too strict and rigid, for old Dotards fit,
But scorn'd by Priests of Spirit and of Wit.
One Scripture-Text he blotted with his Pen,
That says, all Hunters are ungodly-Men.
What Shoals of Converts would this Doctrine raise!
Shall Monks in Study pass laborious Days?
Turn o'er dull Fathers, and worm-eaten Books,
With dazled Eyes, and melancholy Looks;
Toil with their Hands to make the Garden neat,
Turn Cooks, and baste the Roast with their own Sweat?
This Austin humbly did; Did he? (Saith he)
Austin may do the same again for me.
He lov'd the Chace, the Hound's melodious Cry,
Hounds that ran swiftly as the Swallows fly.
His Sleeves, I saw, with Furs all lin'd within,
From Russia brought, the finest Squirrels Skin;
(Hair Shirts, he said, provok'd the Blood to Sin.)

His Hood beneath, his double Chin to hold,
'Twas fasten'd with a curious Clasp of Gold.
A Love-knot at the greater End there was;
His Head close shav'd, and smooth as any Glass,
His strutting Paunch was seldom disappointed,
His broad full Face shone as it were anointed.
His Eyes were sleepy, rolling in his Head,
That steam'd like Furnaces of Molten Lead.
Supple his Boots, his Horse he proudly sate;
You'd take him for a Bishop by his State:
Fasts had not made him meagre like a Ghost,
But fat he was, and goodly as mine Host.
A fat plump Swan he lov'd, young, but full grown,
His Horse was sleek, and as the Berry brown.