Sire Monk, namoore of this, so God yow blesse! Yore tale anoyeth al this compaignye. Swichtalkyng is nat worth a boterflye, For therinne is ther no desport ne game.
Mordre is so wlatsom and abhomynable To God, that is so just and resonable, That he ne wol nat suffer it heled be, Though it abyde a yeer, or two, or thre. Mordre wol out, this my conclusioun.
‘SIRE Nonnes Preest,’ oure Hooste seide anoon, ‘I-blessed by they breche, and every stoon! This was a murie tale of Chauntecleer. Butby my trouthe, if thou were seculer, Thou woldest ben a trede-foul aright.[’]