Geoffrey Chaucer

And yet he was but of litel stature.

A clerk, that was of Oxenford also, / Unto the world as in a cloystre he go.

Of his complexioun he was sangwyn.

For he was Epicurus owene sone.

And certeinly, as I have herd it tolde, / Ther was no wight that he ne ferde as a folde.

A baggepipe wel koude he blowe and sowne, / And therwithal he broghte us out of towne.

For in this world, certeyn, no wight there is / That he ne dooth or seith somtyme amis.

And yet he was a trewe persoun and a good, / And hated swearing, and was not so wood.

And he hadde been somtyme in chyvachie / In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Pycardie, / And born hym wel, as of so litel space.

A fair fordoon hir beautee was al newe.

He knew the cause of every maladye, / Were it of hoot, or coold, or moyste, or drye, / And where engendred, and of what humour.

Of remedies of love he knew al chaunce, / And everich of hem knew he bet than his page.

He wolde make a good confessorie, / If a man had a soule, and that he were / A good man, and coude wel here / Confessiouns, and have a good memorie.

For in his male he hadde a pilwe-beer, / Which that he seyde was Oure Lady veyl.

A vernycle hadde he sowed upon his cappe. / His walet lay biforn hym in his lappe, / Bretful of pardoun, come from Rome al hoot.

He was a janglere and a goliardeys, / And that was moost of synne and harlotries.

For of his speche, which that he herde of old, / He was a verray Epicurien.

And everich was worth to been an alderman, / For they hadde ynough of catel and of rente.

Wel koude he rede a lessoun or a storie, / But al above that he koude singe.

He was a good felawe, and by my trouthe, / For aught I woot, he was a somnour.