That was brilliant.
I'm going to read from the Chaucer-Chaucer Tales,
a selection, and I spoke so much of it
today, that I'll just proceed.
The fruyt of every tale is for to seye.
They ete, and drynke, and daunce, and synge, and pleye.
They soupen and they speke, and drynken evere strong ale atte
beste.
Now, lat us sitte and drynke, and lat us
dyne as soone as that ye may.
Lat us heere a messe, and go we dyn, the service doon,
they soupen al by day.
And to the dyner faste they spedde and go we dyn,
with hym to dyne, to come to dyner, and thus, I lete hem
ete and drynke and pleye.
But thus I lete in lust and jolitee
I lete hem, til men to the soper dresse.
They ete and drynke, and whan this hadde an ende, of mete
and drynke, and eten also and drynken over hir myght,
to eten of the smale peres grene.
They drynke, and speke, and rome a while
and pleye, ordeyened hath this feeste of which I tolde,
go to feste at a kynges feeste.
Each man woot wel that at a kynges feeste hath plentee,
to the mooste and to the leeste arrayed for this feste
in every wise whan he of wyn was repleet at his feeste,
they fette hym first the sweete wyn, and sende hym drynke,
and there, he swoor on ale and breed,
With bread and chesse, and a good ale in a jubbe cheweth
greyn and lycorys with whete and malt
both mele and corn be it whete or otes, for male and breed,
and roosted hem a goos that they han eten with thy stubbel goos
and beggeth mele and chese, or elles corn.
Instide of flour yet wol I yeve hem bren than maystow chese.
Yif us a busshel whete, malt, or reye, a goddes kechyl,
or a trype of chese, bacon or beef, seynd bacon,
and somtyme an eye or tweye, the bacon was nat fet for hem.
And of youre softe breed nat but a shyvere,
and after that, a rosted pigges heed, milk and broun breed,
many a muscle and many an oystre,
a cake of half a busshel fynde many a pastee
and eek the wyn, the spices and the wyn
is come anoon, of spicerie, of leef,
and bark, and roote, ther spryngen
herbes, grete and smale, the lycorys and cetewale,
and many a clowe gylofre, and notemuge to putte in ale,
wheither it be moyste or stale, and roial
spicerye, and gyngebreed and lycorys, and eek comyn,
so that men myghte dyne.
Bacus the wyn shynketh al aboute,
and broghte of myghty ale a large quart and whan
that each of hem had dronke his part now kepe yow fro the white
and fro the rede, whan man so drynketh of the white and rede, fro the white wyn of Lepe,
this wyn of Spaigne crepeth subtilly and thanne he taketh
a sop in fyn clarree, he drynkeith ypocras, clarree,
and vernage of spices hoote or else a draught of fresh drawn,
malty ale, I hadde levere than a barel ale
drynketh a draughte drinken of this welle a draughte fecche me
drynke, he drank and drank, and yaf his felawe drynke also,
men drynken, this messager drank sadly ale
and wyn, nay thou shalt drynken of another tonne,
shall savoure wors than ale, for
she drank wyn.
She drank.
How fairer been thy brestes than is wyn!
Whan I had dronke a draughte of sweete wyn.
As evere moote I drynken wyn or ale, but first,
I make a protestacioun that I am dronke,
that for dronken was al pale saugh that he was dronke
of ale, ful pale he was for dronken O Januarie,
dronken in plesaunce I wol drynke licour of the vyne,
I am wont to preeche, for to wynne.
So dronke he was O dronke man, ye fare as folk
that dronken were of ale.
And for despit he drank ful muchel moore, lo,
how that dronken Looth, unkyndely for dronkenesse
is and dronkenesse is eek a foul record a lecherous thyng is
wyn a likerous mouth moste han a likerous tayl.
Hath wyn bireved me myn eyen sight?
Ye shul have digestyves of wormes,
er y take youre laxatyves of lawriol, centaure,
and fumetere of herbe yve, growing in oure yeerd,
ther mery is.
Pekke hem up right as they grow, and ete heme yn!
Til wel ny, the day bigan to sprynge.
Here is ended the Host Tale.