3r

But semeli hir wimple y pinchid was
Hir nose streight hur iyen grey as glas
Hir f mouth ful small & therto soft & rede
And sicurli she had a feire forhede
It was almost a spanne brood I trowe
For hardili she was not undir growe
Full fetire was hir clook as I was ware
Of smal coral about hir arme she bare
A peire of bedis, gaudid all with grene
And theron hyng a broche of gold ful shene
On which ther was first writ a crouned A
And aftire Amor vincit omnia
Anothir nonne with hir hadde she
That was hir chapleyn, and pristis thre
A monk ther was a feire foire the maistry
An out rider that lovede venery
A manli man to be an abbot hable
Ful many a deyntee hors had he in stable
And when he rood men [might] his bridil here
Gyngling in a whistling winde as chere
And eke as loude as doth the chapel belle
There as this lord was kepere of the celle
The rule of seint Maure or of seint Benet
Bec[d]use that it was olde & simdele streit
This yong monk leto olde thingis pace
And held aftir the newe world the trace
He yave not of that text a pulled henne
That seith that hunters be not holy men
Ne that a monke whan he is rechilles
Is likned til a fissh that is watirles
This is to seyn a monk out of his cloiste [??]
But that text held [??] he not wourth an oystire
And I seid that his oppinion was gode
What shuld he studie & make himselve wode
Upon a book in cloistire alwey to poure
Or swink with his handis and laboure
As Austine bidde, hough shal the world be served