The Cook’s Tale
The Prologue
The Cook of London, while the Reeve thus spake,
For joy he laugh’d and clapp’d him on the back:
“Aha!” quoth he, “for Christë’s passión,
This Miller had a sharp conclusión,
Upon this argument of herbergage.
Well saidë Solomon in his languáge,
Bring thou not every man into thine house,
For harbouring by night is periloús.
Well ought a man avised for to be
Whom that he brought into his privity.
I pray to God to give me sorrow and care
If ever, since I hightë Hodge of Ware,
Heard I a miller better set a-werk;
He had a jape of malice in the derk.
But God forbid that we should stintë here,
And therefore if ye will vouchsafe to hear
A tale of me, that am a poorë man,
I will you tell as well as e’er I can
A little jape that fell in our citý.”
Our Host answér’d and said; “I grant it thee.
Roger, tell on; and look that it be good,
For many a pasty hast thou letten blood,
And many a Jack of Dover hast thou sold,
That had been twicë hot and twicë cold.
Of many a pilgrim hast thou Christë’s curse,
For of thy parsley yet fare they the worse.
That they have eaten in thy stubble goose:
For in thy shop doth many a fly go loose.
Now tell on, gentle Roger, by thy name,
But yet I pray thee be not wroth for game;
A man may say full sooth in game and play.”
“Thou sayst full sooth,” quoth Roger, “by my fay;
But sooth play quad play, as the Fleming saith,
And therefore, Harry Bailly, by thy faith,
Be thou not wroth, else we departë here,
Though that my tale be of an hostelére.
But natheless, I will not tell it yet,
But ere we part, y-wis thou shalt be quit.”
And therewithal he laugh’d and madë cheer,
And told his tale, as ye shall after hear.
The Tale
A prentice whilom dwelt in our city,
And of a craft of victuallers was he:
Galliard he was, as goldfinch in the shaw,
Brown as a berry, a proper short felláw:
With lockës black, combed full fetisly.
And dance he could so well and jollily,
That he was called Perkin Revellour.
He was as full of love and paramour,
As is the honeycomb of honey sweet;
Well was the wenchë that with him might meet.
At every bridal would he sing and hop;
He better lov’d the tavern than the shop.
For when there any riding was in Cheap,
Out of the shoppë thither would he leap,
And, till that he had all the sight y-seen,
And danced well, he would not come again;
And gather’d him a meinie of his sort,
To hop and sing, and makë such disport:
And there they settë steven for to meet
To playen at the dice in such a street.
For in the townë was there no prentíce
That fairer couldë cast a pair of dice
Than Perkin could; and thereto he was free
Of his dispence, in place of privity.
That found his master well in his chaffare,
For oftentime he found his box full bare.
For, soothëly, a prentice revelloúr,
That haunteth dice, riot, and paramoúr,
His master shall it in his shop abie,
All have he no part of the minstrelsy.
For theft and riot they be convertible,
All can they play on gitern or ribible.
Revel and truth, as in a low degree,
They be full wroth all day, as men may see.
This jolly prentice with his master bode,
Till he was nigh out of his prenticehood,
All were he snubbed both early and late,
And sometimes led with revel to Newgate.
But at the last his master him bethought,
Upon a day when he his paper sought,
Of a proverb, that saith this samë word;
Better is rotten apple out of hoard,
Than that it should rot all the remenánt:
So fares it by a riotous servánt;
It is well lessë harm to let him pace,
Than he shend all the servants in the place.
Therefore his master gave him a quittánce,
And bade him go, with sorrow and mischance.
And thus this jolly prentice had his leve:
Now let him riot all the night, or leave.
And, for there is no thief without a louke,
That helpeth him to wasten and to souk
Of that he bribë can, or borrow may,
Anon he sent his bed and his array
Unto a compere of his owen sort,
That loved dice, and riot, and disport;
And had a wife, that held for countenance
A shop, and swived for her sustenance.
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