The wordes of the Host to the Phisicien and the Pardoner. Our Hoste gan to swere as he were wood, 'Harrow!' quod he, 'by nayles and by blood!. This was a fals cherl and a fals Iustyse! As shamful deeth as herte may devyse Come to thise Iuges and hir advocats! Algate this sely mayde is slayn, allas! Allas! to dere boghte she beautee! Wherfore I seye al day, as men may see, That yiftes of fortune or of nature Ben cause of deeth to many a creature. Hir beautee was hir deeth, I dar wel sayn; Allas! so pitously as she was slayn! Of bothe yiftes that I speke of now Men han ful ofte more harm than prow. But trewely, myn owene mayster dere, This is a pitous tale for to here. But natheles, passe over, is no fors; I prey to god, so save thy gentil cors, And eek thyne urinals and thy Iordanes, Thyn Ypocras, and eek thy Galianes, And every boist ful of thy letuarie; God blesse hem, and our lady seinte Marie! So mot I theen, thou art a propre man, And lyk a prelat, by seint Ronyan! Seyde I nat wel? I can nat speke in terme; But wel I woot, thou doost my herte to erme, That I almost have caught a cardiacle. By corpus bones! but I have triacle, Or elles a draught of moyste and corny ale, Or but I here anon a mery tale, Myn herte is lost for pitee of this mayde. Thou bel amy, thou Pardoner,' he seyde, 'Tel us som mirthe or Iapes right anon.' 'It shall be doon,' quod he, 'by seint Ronyon! But first,' quod he, 'heer at this ale-stake I wol both drinke, and eten of a cake.'   But right anon thise gentils gonne to crye, 'Nay! lat him telle us of no ribaudye; Tel us som moral thing, that we may lere Som wit, and thanne wol we gladly here.' 'I graunte, y-wis,' quod he, 'but I mot thinke Up-on som honest thing, whyl that I drinke. Here folweth the Prologe of the Pardoners Tale. Radix malorum est Cupiditas: Ad Thimotheum, sexto. 'Lordings,' quod he, 'in chirches whan I preche, I peyne me to han an hauteyn speche, And ringe it out as round as gooth a belle, For I can al by rote that I telle. My theme is alwey oon, and ever was— "Radix malorum est Cupiditas."   First I pronounce whennes that I come, And than my bulles shewe I, alle and somme. Our lige lordes seel on my patente, That shewe I first, my body to warente, That no man be so bold, ne preest ne clerk, Me to destourbe of Cristes holy werk; And after that than telle I forth my tales, Bulles of popes and of cardinales, Of patriarkes, and bishoppes I shewe; And in Latyn I speke a wordes fewe, To saffron with my predicacioun, And for to stire men to devocioun. Than shewe I forth my longe cristal stones, Y-crammed ful of cloutes and of bones; Reliks been they, as wenen they echoon. Than have I in latoun a sholder-boon Which that was of an holy Iewes shepe. "Good men," seye I, "tak of my wordes kepe; If that this boon be wasshe in any welle, If cow, or calf, or sheep, or oxe swelle That any worm hath ete, or worm y-stonge, Tak water of that welle, and wash his tonge, And it is hool anon; and forthermore, Of pokkes and of scabbe, and every sore Shal every sheep be hool, that of this welle Drinketh a draughte; tak kepe eek what I telle. If that the good-man, that the bestes oweth, Wol every wike, er that the cok him croweth, Fastinge, drinken of this welle a draughte, As thilke holy Iewe our eldres taughte, His bestes and his stoor shal multiplye. And, sirs, also it heleth Ialousye; For, though a man be falle in Ialous rage, Let maken with this water his potage, And never shal he more his wyf mistriste, Though he the sooth of hir defaute wiste; Al had she taken preestes two or three.   Heer is a miteyn eek, that ye may see. He that his hond wol putte in this miteyn, He shal have multiplying of his greyn, Whan he hath sowen, be it whete or otes, So that he offre pens, or elles grotes.   Good men and wommen, o thing warne I yow, If any wight be in this chirche now, That hath doon sinne horrible, that he Dar nat, for shame, of it y-shriven be, Or any womman, be she yong or old, That hath y-maad hir housbond cokewold, Swich folk shul have no power ne no grace To offren to my reliks in this place. And who-so findeth him out of swich blame, He wol com up and offre in goddes name, And I assoille him by the auctoritee Which that by bulle y-graunted was to me."   By this gaude have I wonne, yeer by yeer, An hundred mark sith I was Pardoner. I stonde lyk a clerk in my pulpet, And whan the lewed peple is doun y-set, I preche, so as ye han herd bifore, And telle an hundred false Iapes more. Than peyne I me to strecche forth the nekke, And est and west upon the peple I bekke, As doth a dowve sitting on a berne. Myn hondes and my tonge goon so yerne, That it is Ioye to see my bisinesse. Of avaryce and of swich cursednesse Is al my preching, for to make hem free To yeve her pens, and namely un-to me. For my entente is nat but for to winne, And no-thing for correccioun of sinne. I rekke never, whan that they ben beried, Though that her soules goon a-blakeberied! For certes, many a predicacioun Comth ofte tyme of yvel entencioun; Som for plesaunce of folk and flaterye, To been avaunced by ipocrisye, And som for veyne glorie, and som for hate. For, whan I dar non other weyes debate, Than wol I stinge him with my tonge smerte In preching, so that he shal nat asterte To been defamed falsly, if that he Hath trespased to my brethren or to me. For, though I telle noght his propre name, Men shal wel knowe that it is the same By signes and by othere circumstances. Thus quyte I folk that doon us displesances; Thus spitte I out my venim under hewe Of holynesse, to seme holy and trewe.   But shortly myn entente I wol devyse; I preche of no-thing but for coveityse. Therfor my theme is yet, and ever was— "Radix malorum est cupiditas." Thus can I preche agayn that same vyce Which that I use, and that is avaryce. But, though my-self be gilty in that sinne, Yet can I maken other folk to twinne From avaryce, and sore to repente. But that is nat my principal entente. I preche no-thing but for coveityse; Of this matere it oughte y-nogh suffyse.   Than telle I hem ensamples many oon Of olde stories, longe tyme agoon: For lewed peple loven tales olde; Swich thinges can they wel reporte and holde. What? trowe ye, the whyles I may preche, And winne gold and silver for I teche, That I wol live in povert wilfully? Nay, nay, I thoghte it never trewely! For I wol preche and begge in sondry londes; I wol not do no labour with myn hondes, Ne make baskettes, and live therby, Because I wol nat beggen ydelly. I wol non of the apostles counterfete; I wol have money, wolle, chese, and whete, Al were it yeven of the povrest page, Or of the povrest widwe in a village, Al sholde hir children sterve for famyne. Nay! I wol drinke licour of the vyne, And have a Ioly wenche in every toun. But herkneth, lordings, in conclusioun; Your lyking is that I shal telle a tale. Now, have I dronke a draughte of corny ale, By god, I hope I shal yow telle a thing That shal, by resoun, been at your lyking. For, though myself be a ful vicious man, A moral tale yet I yow telle can, Which I am wont to preche, for to winne. Now holde your pees, my tale I wol beginne. Here biginneth the Pardoners Tale. In Flaundres whylom was a companye Of yonge folk, that haunteden folye, As ryot, hasard, stewes, and tavernes, Wher-as, with harpes, lutes, and giternes, They daunce and pleye at dees bothe day and night, And ete also and drinken over hir might, Thurgh which they doon the devel sacrifyse With-in that develes temple, in cursed wyse, By superfluitee abhominable; Hir othes been so grete and so dampnable, That it is grisly for to here hem swere; Our blissed lordes body they to-tere; Hem thoughte Iewes rente him noght y-nough; And ech of hem at otheres sinne lough. And right anon than comen tombesteres Fetys and smale, and yonge fruytesteres, Singers with harpes, baudes, wafereres, Whiche been the verray develes officeres To kindle and blowe the fyr of lecherye, That is annexed un-to glotonye; The holy writ take I to my witnesse, That luxurie is in wyn and dronkenesse.   Lo, how that dronken Loth, unkindely, Lay by his doghtres two, unwitingly; So dronke he was, he niste what he wroghte.   Herodes, (who-so wel the stories soghte), Whan he of wyn was replet at his feste, Right at his owene table he yaf his heste To sleen the Baptist Iohn ful giltelees.   Senek seith eek a good word doutelees; He seith, he can no difference finde Bitwix a man that is out of his minde And a man which that is dronkelewe, But that woodnesse, y-fallen in a shrewe, Persevereth lenger than doth dronkenesse. O glotonye, ful of cursednesse, O cause first of our confusioun, O original of our dampnacioun, Til Crist had boght us with his blood agayn! Lo, how dere, shortly for to sayn, Aboght was thilke cursed vileinye; Corrupt was al this world for glotonye!   Adam our fader, and his wyf also, Fro Paradys to labour and to wo Were driven for that vyce, it is no drede; For whyl that Adam fasted, as I rede, He was in Paradys; and whan that he Eet of the fruyt defended on the tree, Anon he was out-cast to wo and peyne. O glotonye, on thee wel oghte us pleyne! O, wiste a man how many maladyes Folwen of excesse and of glotonyes, He wolde been the more mesurable Of his diete, sittinge at his table. Allas! the shorte throte, the tendre mouth, Maketh that, Est and West, and North and South, In erthe, in eir, in water men to-swinke To gete a glotoun deyntee mete and drinke! Of this matere, o Paul, wel canstow trete, 'Mete un-to wombe, and wombe eek un-to mete, Shal god destroyen bothe,' as Paulus seith. Allas! a foul thing is it, by my feith, To seye this word, and fouler is the dede, Whan man so drinketh of the whyte and rede, That of his throte he maketh his privee, Thurgh thilke cursed superfluitee.   The apostel weping seith ful pitously, 'Ther walken many of whiche yow told have I, I seye it now weping with pitous voys, That they been enemys of Cristes croys, Of whiche the ende is deeth, wombe is her god.' O wombe! O bely! O stinking cod, Fulfild of donge and of corrupcioun! At either ende of thee foul is the soun. How greet labour and cost is thee to finde! Thise cokes, how they stampe, and streyne, and grinde, And turnen substaunce in-to accident, To fulfille al thy likerous talent! Out of the harde bones knokke they The mary, for they caste noght a-wey That may go thurgh the golet softe and swote; Of spicerye, of leef, and bark, and rote Shal been his sauce y-maked by delyt, To make him yet a newer appetyt. But certes, he that haunteth swich delyces Is deed, whyl that he liveth in tho vyces.   A lecherous thing is wyn, and dronkenesse Is ful of stryving and of wrecchednesse. O dronke man, disfigured is thy face, Sour is thy breeth, foul artow to embrace, And thurgh thy dronke nose semeth the soun As though thou seydest ay 'Sampsoun, Sampsoun'; And yet, god wot, Sampsoun drank never no wyn. Thou fallest, as it were a stiked swyn; Thy tonge is lost, and al thyn honest cure; For dronkenesse is verray sepulture Of mannes wit and his discrecioun. In whom that drinke hath dominacioun, He can no conseil kepe, it is no drede. Now kepe yow fro the whyte and fro the rede, And namely fro the whyte wyn of Lepe, That is to selle in Fish-strete or in Chepe. This wyn of Spayne crepeth subtilly In othere wynes, growing faste by, Of which ther ryseth swich fumositee, That whan a man hath dronken draughtes three, And weneth that he be at hoom in Chepe, He is in Spayne, right at the toune of Lepe, Nat at the Rochel, ne at Burdeux toun; And thanne wol he seye, 'Sampsoun, Sampsoun.'   But herkneth, lordings, o word, I yow preye, That alle the sovereyn actes, dar I seye, Of victories in the olde testament, Thurgh verray god, that is omnipotent, Were doon in abstinence and in preyere; Loketh the Bible, and ther ye may it lere.   Loke, Attila, the grete conquerour, Deyde in his sleep, with shame and dishonour, Bledinge ay at his nose in dronkenesse; A capitayn shoulde live in sobrenesse. And over al this, avyseth yow right wel What was comaunded un-to Lamuel— Nat Samuel, but Lamuel, seye I—- Redeth the Bible, and finde it expresly Of wyn-yeving to hem that han Iustyse. Na-more of this, for it may wel suffyse.   And now that I have spoke of glotonye, Now wol I yow defenden hasardrye. Hasard is verray moder of lesinges, And of deceite, and cursed forsweringes, Blaspheme of Crist, manslaughtre, and wast also Of catel and of tyme; and forthermo, It is repreve and contrarie of honour For to ben holde a commune hasardour. And ever the hyër he is of estaat, The more is he holden desolaat. If that a prince useth hasardrye, In alle governaunce and policye He is, as by commune opinioun, Y-holde the lasse in reputacioun.   Stilbon, that was a wys embassadour, Was sent to Corinthe, in ful greet honour, Fro Lacidomie, to make hir alliaunce. And whan he cam, him happede, par chaunce, That alle the grettest that were of that lond, Pleyinge atte hasard he hem fond. For which, as sone as it mighte be, He stal him hoom agayn to his contree, And seyde, 'ther wol I nat lese my name; Ne I wol nat take on me so greet defame, Yow for to allye un-to none hasardours. Sendeth othere wyse embassadours; For, by my trouthe, me were lever dye, Than I yow sholde to hasardours allye. For ye that been so glorious in honours Shul nat allyen yow with hasardours As by my wil, ne as by my tretee.' This wyse philosophre thus seyde he.   Loke eek that, to the king Demetrius The king of Parthes, as the book seith us, Sente him a paire of dees of gold in scorn, For he hadde used hasard ther-biforn; For which he heeld his glorie or his renoun At no value or reputacioun. Lordes may finden other maner pley Honeste y-nough to dryve the day awey.   Now wol I speke of othes false and grete A word or two, as olde bokes trete. Gret swering is a thing abhominable, And false swering is yet more reprevable. The heighe god forbad swering at al, Witnesse on Mathew; but in special Of swering seith the holy Ieremye, 'Thou shalt seye sooth thyn othes, and nat lye, And swere in dome, and eek in rightwisnesse;' But ydel swering is a cursednesse. Bihold and see, that in the firste table Of heighe goddes hestes honurable, How that the seconde heste of him is this— 'Tak nat my name in ydel or amis.' Lo, rather he forbedeth swich swering Than homicyde or many a cursed thing; I seye that, as by ordre, thus it stondeth; This knowen, that his hestes understondeth, How that the second heste of god is that. And forther over, I wol thee telle al plat, That vengeance shal nat parten from his hous, That of his othes is to outrageous. 'By goddes precious herte, and by his nayles, And by the blode of Crist, that it is in Hayles, Seven is my chaunce, and thyn is cink and treye; By goddes armes, if thou falsly pleye, This dagger shal thurgh-out thyn herte go'— This fruyt cometh of the bicched bones two, Forswering, ire, falsnesse, homicyde. Now, for the love of Crist that for us dyde, Leveth your othes, bothe grete and smale; But, sirs, now wol I telle forth my tale.   Thise ryotoures three, of whiche I telle, Longe erst er pryme rong of any belle, Were set hem in a taverne for to drinke; And as they satte, they herde a belle clinke Biforn a cors, was caried to his grave; That oon of hem gan callen to his knave, 'Go bet,' quod he, 'and axe redily, What cors is this that passeth heer forby; And look that thou reporte his name wel.'   'Sir,' quod this boy, 'it nedeth never-a-del. It was me told, er ye cam heer, two houres; He was, pardee, an old felawe of youres; And sodeynly he was y-slayn to-night, For-dronke, as he sat on his bench upright; Ther cam a privee theef, men clepeth Deeth, That in this contree al the peple sleeth, And with his spere he smoot his herte a-two, And wente his wey with-outen wordes mo. He hath a thousand slayn this pestilence: And, maister, er ye come in his presence, Me thinketh that it were necessarie For to be war of swich an adversarie: Beth redy for to mete him evermore. Thus taughte me my dame, I sey na-more.' 'By seinte Marie,' seyde this taverner, 'The child seith sooth, for he hath slayn this yeer, Henne over a myle, with-in a greet village, Both man and womman, child and hyne, and page. I trowe his habitacioun be there; To been avysed greet wisdom it were, Er that he dide a man a dishonour.' 'Ye, goddes armes,' quod this ryotour, 'Is it swich peril with him for to mete? I shal him seke by wey and eek by strete, I make avow to goddes digne bones! Herkneth, felawes, we three been al ones; Lat ech of us holde up his hond til other, And ech of us bicomen otheres brother, And we wol sleen this false traytour Deeth; He shal be slayn, which that so many sleeth, By goddes dignitee, er it be night.'   Togidres han thise three her trouthes plight, To live and dyen ech of hem for other, As though he were his owene y-boren brother. And up they sterte al dronken, in this rage, And forth they goon towardes that village, Of which the taverner had spoke biforn, And many a grisly ooth than han they sworn, And Cristes blessed body they to-rente— 'Deeth shal be deed, if that they may him hente.'   Whan they han goon nat fully half a myle, Right as they wolde han troden over a style, An old man and a povre with hem mette. This olde man ful mekely hem grette, And seyde thus, 'now, lordes, god yow see!'   The proudest of thise ryotoures three Answerde agayn, 'what? carl, with sory grace, Why artow al forwrapped save thy face? Why livestow so longe in so greet age?'   This olde man gan loke in his visage, And seyde thus, 'for I ne can nat finde A man, though that I walked in-to Inde, Neither in citee nor in no village, That wolde chaunge his youthe for myn age; And therfore moot I han myn age stille, As longe time as it is goddes wille.   Ne deeth, allas! ne wol nat han my lyf; Thus walke I, lyk a restelees caityf, And on the ground, which is my modres gate, I knokke with my staf, bothe erly and late, And seye, "leve moder, leet me in! Lo, how I vanish, flesh, and blood, and skin! Allas! whan shul my bones been at reste? Moder, with yow wolde I chaunge my cheste, That in my chambre longe tyme hath be, Ye! for an heyre clout to wrappe me!" But yet to me she wol nat do that grace, For which ful pale and welked is my face.   But, sirs, to yow it is no curteisye To speken to an old man vileinye, But he trespasse in worde, or elles in dede. In holy writ ye may your-self wel rede, "Agayns an old man, hoor upon his heed, Ye sholde aryse;" wherfor I yeve yow reed, Ne dooth un-to an old man noon harm now, Na-more than ye wolde men dide to yow In age, if that ye so longe abyde; And god be with yow, wher ye go or ryde. I moot go thider as I have to go.'   'Nay, olde cherl, by god, thou shall nat so,' Seyde this other hasardour anon; 'Thou partest nat so lightly, by seint Iohn! Thou spak right now of thilke traitour Deeth, That in this contree alle our frendes sleeth. Have heer my trouthe, as thou art his aspye, Tel wher he is, or thou shalt it abye, By god, and by the holy sacrament! For soothly thou art oon of his assent, To sleen us yonge folk, thou false theef!'   'Now, sirs,' quod he, 'if that yow be so leef To finde Deeth, turne up this croked wey, For in that grove I lafte him, by my fey, Under a tree, and ther he wol abyde; Nat for your boost he wol him no-thing hyde. See ye that ook? right ther ye shul him finde. God save yow, that boghte agayn mankinde, And yow amende!'—thus seyde this olde man. And everich of thise ryotoures ran, Til he cam to that tree, and ther they founde Of florins fyne of golde y-coyned rounde Wel ny an eighte busshels, as hem thoughte. No lenger thanne after Deeth they soughte, But ech of hem so glad was of that sighte, For that the florins been so faire and brighte, That doun they sette hem by this precious hord. The worste of hem he spake the firste word.   'Brethren,' quod he, 'tak kepe what I seye; My wit is greet, though that I bourde and pleye. This tresor hath fortune un-to us yiven, In mirthe and Iolitee our lyf to liven, And lightly as it comth, so wol we spende. Ey! goddes precious dignitee! who wende To-day, that we sholde han so fair a grace? But mighte this gold be caried fro this place Hoom to myn hous, or elles un-to youres— For wel ye woot that al this gold is oures— Than were we in heigh felicitee. But trewely, by daye it may nat be; Men wolde seyn that we were theves stronge, And for our owene tresor doon us honge. This tresor moste y-caried be by nighte As wysly and as slyly as it mighte. Wherfore I rede that cut among us alle Be drawe, and lat se wher the cut wol falle; And he that hath the cut with herte blythe Shal renne to the toune, and that ful swythe, And bringe us breed and wyn ful prively. And two of us shul kepen subtilly This tresor wel; and, if he wol nat tarie, Whan it is night, we wol this tresor carie By oon assent, wher-as us thinketh best.' That oon of hem the cut broughte in his fest, And bad hem drawe, and loke wher it wol falle; And it fil on the yongeste of hem alle; And forth toward the toun he wente anon. And al-so sone as that he was gon, That oon of hem spak thus un-to that other, 'Thou knowest wel thou art my sworne brother, Thy profit wol I telle thee anon. Thou woost wel that our felawe is agon; And heer is gold, and that ful greet plentee, That shal departed been among us three. But natheles, if I can shape it so That it departed were among us two, Hadde I nat doon a freendes torn to thee?'   That other answerde, 'I noot how that may be; He woot how that the gold is with us tweye, What shal we doon, what shal we to him seye?'   'Shal it be conseil?' seyde the firste shrewe, 'And I shal tellen thee, in wordes fewe, What we shal doon, and bringe it wel aboute.'   'I graunte,' quod that other, 'out of doute, That, by my trouthe, I wol thee nat biwreye.'   'Now,' quod the firste, 'thou woost wel we be tweye, And two of us shul strenger be than oon. Look whan that he is set, and right anoon Arys, as though thou woldest with him pleye; And I shal ryve him thurgh the sydes tweye Whyl that thou strogelest with him as in game, And with thy dagger look thou do the same; And than shal al this gold departed be, My dere freend, bitwixen me and thee; Than may we bothe our lustes al fulfille, And pleye at dees right at our owene wille.' And thus acorded been thise shrewes tweye To sleen the thridde, as ye han herd me seye.   This yongest, which that wente un-to the toun, Ful ofte in herte he rolleth up and doun The beautee of thise florins newe and brighte. 'O lord!' quod he, 'if so were that I mighte Have al this tresor to my-self allone, Ther is no man that liveth under the trone Of god, that sholde live so mery as I!' And atte laste the feend, our enemy, Putte in his thought that he shold poyson beye, With which he mighte sleen his felawes tweye; For-why the feend fond him in swich lyvinge, That he had leve him to sorwe bringe, For this was outrely his fulle entente To sleen hem bothe, and never to repente. And forth he gooth, no lenger wolde he tarie, Into the toun, un-to a pothecarie, And preyed him, that he him wolde selle Som poyson, that he mighte his rattes quelle; And eek ther was a polcat in his hawe, That, as he seyde, his capouns hadde y-slawe, And fayn he wolde wreke him, if he mighte, On vermin, that destroyed him by nighte.   The pothecarie answerde, 'and thou shalt have A thing that, al-so god my soule save, In al this world ther nis no creature, That ete or dronke hath of this confiture Noght but the mountance of a corn of whete, That he ne shal his lyf anon forlete; Ye, sterve he shal, and that in lasse whyle Than thou wolt goon a paas nat but a myle; This poyson is so strong and violent.'   This cursed man hath in his hond y-hent This poyson in a box, and sith he ran In-to the nexte strete, un-to a man, And borwed [of] him large botels three; And in the two his poyson poured he; The thridde he kepte clene for his drinke. For al the night he shoop him for to swinke In caryinge of the gold out of that place. And whan this ryotour, with sory grace, Had filled with wyn his grete botels three, To his felawes agayn repaireth he.   What nedeth it to sermone of it more? For right as they had cast his deeth bifore, Right so they han him slayn, and that anon. And whan that this was doon, thus spak that oon, 'Now lat us sitte and drinke, and make us merie, And afterward we wol his body berie.' And with that word it happed him, par cas, To take the botel ther the poyson was, And drank, and yaf his felawe drinke also, For which anon they storven bothe two.   But, certes, I suppose that Avicen Wroot never in no canon, ne in no fen, Mo wonder signes of empoisoning Than hadde thise wrecches two, er hir ending. Thus ended been thise homicydes two, And eek the false empoysoner also.   O cursed sinne, ful of cursednesse! O traytours homicyde, o wikkednesse! O glotonye, luxurie, and hasardrye! Thou blasphemour of Crist with vileinye And othes grete, of usage and of pryde! Allas! mankinde, how may it bityde, That to thy creatour which that thee wroghte, And with his precious herte-blood thee boghte, Thou art so fals and so unkinde, allas!   Now, goode men, god forgeve yow your trespas, And ware yow fro the sinne of avaryce. Myn holy pardoun may yow alle waryce, So that ye offre nobles or sterlinges, Or elles silver broches, spones, ringes. Boweth your heed under this holy bulle! Cometh up, ye wyves, offreth of your wolle! Your name I entre heer in my rolle anon; In-to the blisse of hevene shul ye gon; I yow assoile, by myn heigh power, Yow that wol offre, as clene and eek as cleer As ye were born; and, lo, sirs, thus I preche. And Iesu Crist, that is our soules leche, So graunte yow his pardon to receyve; For that is best; I wol yow nat deceyve.   But sirs, o word forgat I in my tale, I have relikes and pardon in my male, As faire as any man in Engelond, Whiche were me yeven by the popes hond. If any of yow wol, of devocioun, Offren, and han myn absolucioun, Cometh forth anon, and kneleth heer adoun, And mekely receyveth my pardoun: Or elles, taketh pardon as ye wende, Al newe and fresh, at every tounes ende, So that ye offren alwey newe and newe Nobles and pens, which that be gode and trewe. It is an honour to everich that is heer, That ye mowe have a suffisant pardoneer Tassoille yow, in contree as ye ryde, For aventures which that may bityde. Peraventure ther may falle oon or two Doun of his hors, and breke his nekke atwo. Look which a seuretee is it to yow alle That I am in your felaweship y-falle, That may assoille yow, bothe more and lasse, Whan that the soule shal fro the body passe, I rede that our hoste heer shal biginne, For he is most envoluped in sinne. Com forth, sir hoste, and offre first anon, And thou shalt kisse the reliks everichon, Ye, for a grote! unbokel anon thy purs.'   'Nay, nay,' quod he, 'than have I Cristes curs! Lat be,' quod he, 'it shal nat be, so theech! Thou woldest make me kisse thyn old breech, And swere it were a relik of a seint, Thogh it were with thy fundement depeint! But by the croys which that seint Eleyne fond, I wolde I hadde thy coillons in myn hond In stede of relikes or of seintuarie; Lat cutte hem of, I wol thee helpe hem carie; They shul be shryned in an hogges tord.'   This pardoner answerde nat a word; So wrooth he was, no word ne wolde he seye.   'Now,' quod our host, 'I wol no lenger pleye With thee, ne with noon other angry man.' But right anon the worthy knight bigan, Whan that he saugh that al the peple lough, 'Na-more of this, for it is right y-nough; Sir pardoner, be glad and mery of chere; And ye, sir host, that been to me so dere, I prey yow that ye kisse the pardoner. And pardoner, I prey thee, drawe thee neer, And, as we diden, lat us laughe and pleye.' Anon they kiste, and riden forth hir weye. Here is ended the Pardoners Tale.