Pig’s bones!
[Slaps Chaucer on the shoulder.]
What, Geoffrey lad! Which will ye liever kiss,
A dead saint’s bones, or a live lass—her lips?
[Enter, L., the Prioress.]
CHAUCER
Why, Alisoun, I say all flesh is grave-clothes,
And lips the flowers that blossom o’er our bones;
God planted ’em to bloom in laughter’s sunshine
And April kissing-showers.