A MONK ther was, a fair for the maistrie,An outridere, that lovede venerie,A manly man, to been an abbot able.Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in stable,And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel heereGynglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleereAnd eek as loude as dooth the chapel belleTher as this lord was kepere of the celle.The reule of Seint Maure or of Seint Beneit --By cause that it was old and somdel streitThis ilke Monk leet olde thynges pace,And heeld after the newe world the space.He yaf nat of that text a pulled hen,That seith that hunters ben nat hooly men,Ne that a monk, whan he is recchelees,Is likned til a fissh that is waterlees --This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloystre.But thilke text heeld he nat worth an oystre;And I seyde his opinion was good.What sholde he studie and make hymselven wood,Upon a book in cloystre alwey to poure,Or swynken with his handes, and laboure,As Austyn bit? How shal the world be served?Lat Austyn have his swynk to hym reserved!Therfore he was a prikasour aright:Grehoundes he hadde as swift as fowel in flight;Of prikyng and of huntyng for the hareWas al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare.I seigh his sleves purfiled at th

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