Well arrayed for to ride late:
I answered my Name was _Lydgate_
Monke of _Bury_, me fifty yeare of age,
Come to this Town to do my Pilgrimage
As I have hight, I have thereof no shame:
Dan _John_ (quoth he) well brouke ye your name,
Thogh ye be sole, beeth right glad and light,
Praying you to soupe with us this night;
And ye shall have made at your devis,
A great Pudding, or a round hagis,
A _Franche_ Moile, a Tanse, or a Froise,
To been a Monk slender is your [A]coise,
Ye have been sick I dare mine head assure,
Or let feed in a faint pasture.
Lift up your head, be glad, take no sorrow,
And ye should ride home with us to morrow,
I say, when ye rested have your fill.
After supper, sleep will doen none ill,
Wrap well your head, clothes round about,
Strong nottie Ale will make a man to rout;
Take a Pillow, that ye lye not low;
If nede be, spare not to blow;
To hold wind, by mine opinion,
Will engender colles passion,
And make men to greven on her [B]rops,
When they have filled her maws and her crops;
But toward night, eate some Fennell rede,
Annis, Commin, or Coriander-seed,
And like as I have power and might,
I charge you rise not at midnight,