The Cook's Tale
Heer bigynneth the Cokes tale.
A prentis whylom dwelled in our citee,
And of a craft of vitaillers was he;
Gaillard he was as goldfinch in the shawe,
Broun as a berie, a propre short felawe,
With lokkes blake, y-kempt ful fetisly.
Dauncen he coude so wel and Iolily,
That he was cleped Perkin Revelour.
He was as ful of love and paramour
As is the hyve ful of hony swete;
Wel was the wenche with him mighte mete.
At every brydale wolde he singe and hoppe,
He loved bet the taverne than the shoppe.
For whan ther any ryding was in Chepe,
Out of the shoppe thider wolde he lepe.
Til that he hadde al the sighte y-seyn,
And daunced wel, he wolde nat come ageyn.
And gadered him a meinee of his sort
To hoppe and singe, and maken swich disport.
And ther they setten Steven for to mete
To pleyen at the dys in swich a strete.
For in the toune nas ther no prentys,
That fairer coude caste a paire of dys
Than Perkin coude, and ther-to he was free
Of his dispense, in place of privetee.
That fond his maister wel in his chaffare;
For often tyme he fond his box ful bare.
For sikerly a prentis revelour,
That haunteth dys, riot, or paramour,
His maister shal it in his shoppe abye,
Al have he no part of the minstralcye;
For thefte and riot, they ben convertible,
Al conne he pleye on giterne or ribible.
Revel and trouthe, as in a low degree,
They been ful wrothe al day, as men may see.
This Ioly prentis with his maister bood,
Til he were ny out of his prentishood,
Al were he snibbed bothe erly and late,
And somtyme lad with revel to Newgate;
But atte laste his maister him bithoghte,
Up-on a day, whan he his paper soghte,
Of a proverbe that seith this same word,
‘Wel bet is roten appel out of hord
Than that it rotie al the remenaunt.’
So fareth it by a riotous servaunt;
It is wel lasse harm to lete him pace,
Than he shende alle the servants in the place.
Therfore his maister yaf him acquitance,
And bad him go with sorwe and with meschance;
And thus this Ioly prentis hadde his leve.
Now lat him riote al the night or leve.
And for ther is no theef with-oute a louke,
That helpeth him to wasten and to souke
Of that he brybe can or borwe may,
Anon he sente his bed and his array
Un-to a compeer of his owne sort,
That lovede dys and revel and disport,
And hadde a wyf that heeld for countenance
A shoppe, and swyved for hir sustenance.
Of this Cokes tale maked Chaucer na more.
Here beginneth the Cook’s tale.
A prentice whilom dwelled in our city,
And of a craft of victualers was he;
Galliard he was as goldfinch in the shaw,
Brown as a berry, a proper short fellow,
With locks black, y-kempt full featously.
Dancen he could so well and jollily,
That he was cleped Perkin Reveller.
He was as full of love and paramour
As is the hive full of honey sweet;
Well was the wench with him might meet.
At every bridle would he sing and hop;
He loved bet the tavern than the shop.
For when there any riding was in Cheap,
Out of the shop thither would he leap.
Till that he had all the sight y-seen,
And danced well, he would not come again.
And gathered him a meinie of his sort
To hop and sing, and maken such disport.
And there they setten steven for to meet
To playen at the dice in such a street.
For in the town nas there no prentice,
That fairer could cast a pair of dice
Than Perkin could, and thereto he was free
Of his dispense, in place of privity.
That found his master well in his chaffer;
For often time he found his box full bare.
For sickerly a prentice reveller,
That haunteth dice, riot, or paramour,
His master shall it in his shop abye,
All have he no part of the minstrelsy;
For theft and riot, they been convertible,
All can he play on cittern or rubible.
Revel and truth, as in a low degree,
They been 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 snibbed both early and late,
And sometime led with revel to Newgate;
But at last his master him bethought,
Upon a day, when he his paper sought,
Of a proverb that saith this same word,
“Well bet is rotten apple out of hoard
Than that it rot all the remnant.”
So faireth it by a riotous servant;
It is well less harm to let him pace,
Than he shend all the servants in the place.
Therefore his master gave him acquittance,
And bade him go with sorrow and with mischance;
And thus this jolly prentice had his leave.
Now let him riot all the night or leave.
And for there is no thief without a look,
That helpeth him to wasten and to suck
Of that he bribe can or borrow may,
Anon he sent his bed and his array
Unto a compeer of his own sort,
That loved dice and revel and disport,
And had a wife that held for countenance
A shop, and swived for her sustenance.
Of this Cook’s tale maked Chaucer no more.
