CHAUCER
[Reading the Prioress’s letter, as the song outside sounds nearer.]
“Monsieur l’inconnu Chevalier—
These greetings shall apprise you that the little hound is convalescent, and now suffereth from nothing save a sore necessity for nourishment. Wherefore, being cast in holy pilgrimage upon this revelous inn, I appeal once more, gentil monsieur, to your honourable chivalry, of which I beseech you this favour, to wit; that you shall see prepared and delivered into the hands of Joannes, my priest, a recipe as follows:—
One ounce of wastel-bread, toasted a pleasant brown;
One little cup of fresh milk;
Soak the former in the latter, till the sand-glass shall be run half out;
Then sprinkle sparingly with sweet root of beet, rubbed fine.
Serve neatly.
Madame Eglantine.”
SHIPMAN
[At the door, to Friar, who is starting to flirt with a third serving-maid.]
Hist! Who’s yon jolly Nancy riding here,
With them three tapsters tooting up behind?