It is nat honeste it may noght auaunce For to deelen with no swich poraille But al with riche and sellerys of vitaille And oueral ther as profit sholde aryse Curteys he was and lowely of seruyse Ther was no man nowheer so vertuous He was the beste beggere of his hous And yaf a certeyn ferme for the graunt Noon of his bretheren cam ther in his haunt For thogh a wydwe hadde noght a sho So plesant was his In principio Yet wolde he haue a ferthyng er he wente His purchaas was wel bettre than his rente And rage he koude as it weere right a whelp In louedayes koude he muchel help For there he was nat lyk a cloystrer With a threedbare cope as is a poure scoler But he was lyk a maister or a Pope Of double worstede was his semycope And rounded as a belle out of the presse Somwhat he lypsed for his wantownesse To make his englyssh sweete vpon his tonge And in his harpyng whan that he hadde songe Hise eyen twynkled in his heed aryght As doon the sterres in the frosty nyght This worthy lymytour was cleped Huberd A Marchant was ther with a forked berd In motlee and hye on hors he sat Vpon his heed a Flaundryssh beuere hat His bootes clasped faire and fetisly