Chaucer - The character of the Monk

A monk there was, one made for mastery,

An outrider, who loved his venery;

A manly man, to be an abbot able.

Full many a blooded horse had he in stable:

And when he rode men might his bridle hear

A-jingling in the whistling wind as clear,

Aye, and as loud as does the chapel bell

Where this brave monk was master of the cell.

The rule of Maurice or Saint Benedict,

By reason it was old and somewhat strict,

This said monk let such old things slowly pace

And followed new-world manners in their place.

He cared not for that text a clean-plucked hen

Which holds that hunters are not holy men

Nor that a monk, when he is cloisterless,

Is like unto a fish that’s waterless;

That is to say, a monk out of his cloister.

But this same text he held not worth an oyster;

And I said his opinion was right good.

What? Should he study as a madman would

Upon a book in cloister cell? Or yet

Go labour with his hands and swink and sweat,

As Austin bids? How shall the world be served?

Let Austin have his swink to him reserved!

Therefore he was a rider day and night;

Greyhounds he had, as swift as fowl in flight.

Since riding and the hunting of the hare

Were all his love, for no cost would he spare.

I saw his sleeves were lined around the hand

With fur of grey, the finest in the land;

Also, to fasten hood beneath his chin,

He had of good wrought gold a curious pin:

A love-knot in the larger end there was.

His head was bald and shone like any glass

And smooth as one anointed was his face.

Fat was this lord, he stood in goodly case.

His bulging eyes he rolled about, and hot

They gleamed, and red, like fire beneath a pot;

His boots were soft; his horse of great estate.

Now certainly he was a fine prelate:

He was not pale as some poor wasted ghost.

A fat swan loved he best of any roast.

His palfrey was as brown as is a berry.

Taken from the General Prologue of the Canterbury Tales