Tukked he was as is a Frere aboute And euere he rood the hyndreste of oure route A Somonour was ther with vs in that place That hadde a fyr reed Cherubynnes face For Sawceflewm he was with eyen narwe And hoot he was and lecherous as a Sparwe With scaled browes blake and pyled berd Of his visage children weere aferd Ther nas quyk siluer lytarge ne Brymstoon Borace Ceruce ne Oille of Tartre noon Ne oynement that wolde clense and byte That hym myghte helpen of his whelkes whyte Nor of the knobbes sittynge on his chekes Wel loued he garlek oynons and eek lekes And for to drynke strong wyn reed as blood Thanne wolde he speke and crye as he were wood And whan that he wel dronken hadde the wyn Than wolde he speke no word but latyn A fewe termes hadde he two or thre That he hadde lerned out of som decree No wonder is he herde it al the day And eek ye knowen wel how that a Iay Kan clepen watte as wel as kan the Pope But who so koude in oother thyng hym grope Thanne hadde he spent al his philosophie Ay Questio quid iuris wolde he crye He was a gentil harlot and a kynde A bettre felawe sholde men noght fynde He wolde suffre for a quart of wyn A good felawe to haue his concubyn