When we had stopped at a smal vilage,

Another pilgrim joynd our pilgrimage.

A Persee he was, smal and brown of skin.

He nas not fat, bycause he was ful thynne.

More bright than Chine’s splendours was his brow:

A hat he wore upon his heed, I trow,

That did the sonne reflect in glory fine.

In litel elles was he clad. A line

Tied unto his bakke a cooken-stove.

He seyde he wolden goon to Orotove,

And Anantarivo, upon the meede;

And thennes toward Amygdala he yede,

And Sonaput, where groweth marshe-grasse.

Pestonjee Bomonjee he cleped was.

Oure Hooste asked if he wolden ride

With us toward Caunterbury, and biside,

If he wolde joyn oure game and telle a tale.

He quod, “Yow shal have muche ale!

And if your tale be beste, yow shal eat wele.”

This Persee quod, “I woot wel what to telle.

And sooth to seye, a soothe tale, right sone,

Atones wol I tellen everichoon.”

“Upon the yle wher I make my bed,

Biside the shores of the waters red,

There lived ther also a beeste wild—

For trewely I trowe he nas not mild—

A beest knowen as ‘Rinoceros.’

A single horn he hadde upon his nos,

O best beloved, with so sharp a poynt

That he could tear with it a roast or joynt.

He nas no mous (on cake did he feeste)

No wee and sleekit, cowerin’, timorous beest.

His skin was grey as is a Londoun fogge,

That has in it a greyhounde or a dogge,

And fastned underneeth with buttons thre.

This beeste ‘Strorkes’ cleped was, pardee.

“Now, I had taken water, from the see,

And fruyt, and floure, and mixéd them al thre,

And on my stove ther upon the sand,

I baked a cake—” Oure Cook cried out, “Let stand!

The stove that yow bear upon your bakke

Is worn and broken, and it bears a crack!

If yow can bake in that a pastee flat,

Then I, I trowe, will gladly eat my hat!”

This Persee grinnéd, showing all his smyl,

And quod, “If yow will listen for a whyl,

I shal soon prove, as it were in a book,

I am a better cook than yow, Sir Cook.

But first I shal continue with my tale:

Ere it and eek my cake grow too stale.

“Bifore that I could eat it, Strorkes came,

And I was so afraid that, to my shame,

Far up I climbéd in my tre of palm,

And ther I watch’d, for Strorkes nas not calm.

He took this cake upon his hornéd nos,

And ate it up; and ther beneath my tos,

He snorted at me lik a beest from Helle,

And went away, and namore can I telle.”

“Somedeel later—five weeks, more or lesse,”

Quod this litel Persee, “As I gesse,

Oure iland grew as hot as molten ore.

Then did this Strorkes comen to the shore,

And taked off his skinne for to swimme.

I had a plan to make revenge on him,

So while that he was bathing far from shore,

Eftsoones did I wait and watch namoor,

But taken all the cake-crummes I could find

From ther inside my stove, and eke bihind,

And put them in this hat upon my heed,

And went to Strorkes skinne wher it lay shed.

Into the skin I put thes crummes of cake;

And thenne did I rub and scrub and shake

And tub that skin until it was, pardee,

As ful of crummes as ever ful could be.

Bifore that Strorkes came out of the se,

I hadde climbed back into my tree,

And ther I stayed for to watch awhil,

And on my face was a happy smil.

“Then did this Strorkes come back up on land

And put his skin on, standing in the sand.

He button’d up the buttons with a grin,

Then seemed for to feel an itch within.

He rolléd in the sand ther by the see,

He scratchéd up his skin against my tree,

But scratching only made it itch the mor.

He scratchéd all he could ther on the shor;

He rubbed a fold of skin across his back,

Another on his shoulders, like a sack.

He rubbéd folds across his legs, pardee,

And then he rubbéd off the buttons thre.

And ever since that time, I tell yow trowe,

Biside the waters, whether red or blue,

Rinoceros and all his many kin

Have evil tempers and a folded skin

Bicaus of all the cakke-crumbs inside

The grey and folded-up and wrinkled hide.”

The Persee looked at we pilgrims alle,

And then he smiled, and stynteth of his tale:

“And I pick’d up my stove and my hat,

And heere I am. And that,” quod he, “is that.”

The Knight had held his counsel al this whil,

But now he letten forth with muchel bile:

“How darest thou call me your best biloved?

I would those words were up your rear beshoved!

And this your tale is not fit for a child—

To pleyen such a trick upon that mild

And povre beeste, maketh me enwroth!

Yow weareth naught of clothing but that cloth—”

Oure Hooste, laughing, seyde, “Holde stil!

Oure Persee frende must answer, if he wil.”

But when we turn’d to see what he wolde seye,

This Persee had ful vanishéd aweye.

The Knight then gave a bellow and a shout,

And scratched and pawed around him and about,

And then the Cooke likwis did the same,

As if they two were joyning in a game.

Within his armour and his apron twain,

The Persee’s crummes were scratching them like grain.