A prowde hert in a beggers brest, A fowle visage with gay temples of atyre, Horrible othes with an holy prist, A justice of juges to selle and lete to hyre, A knave to comande and have an empire, To yeve a jugement of that never was wrought, To preche of pees and sette eche man on fyre, It may wele ryme but it accordith nought.
And as for me, though than I konne but lyte, On bokes for to rede I me delyte, And to hem yeve I feyth and ful credence, And in myn herte have hem in reverence So hertely, that ther is game noon. That fro my bokes maketh me to goon, But yt be seldome on the holy day. Save, certeynly, when that the monthe of May Is comen, and that I here the foules synge, And that the floures gynnen for to sprynge, Farwel my boke, and my devocion.Geoffrey Chaucer
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