There was a Monk. Here was a rising man;
All the estates of his abbey he ran,
He loved to hunt, was forceful and well able
to be an abbot. There were in his stable
Fine horses. When he rode out you could hear
Their bridles jingling on the wind as clear
And quite as loudly as did the chapel bell
At that priory where he had charge as well.

The rules of Saints Maurus and Benedict,
Because they were quite old and somewhat strict
This modern monk he let these old things pass,
The new world held the key to true success.
He didn't give a jot for that old saw
Which said that hunting broke the holy law.
Or that a monk who ignored his first duty,
Like a fish out of water, was no beauty.
In other words, a monk out of his cloister.
But this saying too was not worth an oyster.

As I have shown his views were not muddy.
Why should he drive himself mad with study
Pouring over a dull book in his cell?
And as for working with his hands as well -
- Augustine's way - how would that serve the world's good?
Let Augustine do his labour if he would.
To spur his horse, to hunt, was his delight.
He had greyhounds as swift as birds in flight.
To follow a trail and hunt for the hair
Was his great love - and no cost would he spare.

I saw that his sleeves were trimmed at the hand
With soft grey fur, the finest in the land;
And to fasten his hood under his chin,
Of clever design, he had a gold pin,
With its head shaped into a lovers knot.
His bald head shone like a mirror on top.
His face did too, as though all smeared with cream.
This was a weighty man, broad in the beam.
His bulging eyes which rolled around his head,
Shone like a glowing furnace smelting lead.
His boots were supple, his horse in fine fettle
He was truly a prelate of great mettle:
Nor was he pale like a suffering ghost,
A fat swan he loved best of any roast!
His palfrey was as brown as a berry.

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 heere
Gynglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleere
And eek as loude, as dooth the chapel belle.
Ther as this lord was keper of the celle.

The reule of Seint Maure, or of Seint Beneit,
By cause that it was old and somdel streit
This 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 beth 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 opinioun 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 him reserved!
Therfore he was a prikasour aright:
Grehoundes he hadde, as swift as fowel in flight;
Of prikyng and of huntyng for the hare
Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare.

I seigh his sleves purfiled at the hond
With grys, and that the fyneste of a lond;
And, for to festne his hood under his chyn,
He hadde of gold ywroght a curious pyn;
A love-knotte in the gretter ende ther was.
His heed was balled, that shoon as any glas,
And eek his face, as it hadde been enoynt.
He was a lord ful fat and in good poynt,
Hise eyen stepe, and rollynge in his heed,
That stemed as a forneys of a leed;
His bootes souple, his hors in greet estaat.
Now certeinly he was a fair prelaat;
He was nat pale as a forpyned goost.
A fat swan loved he best of any roost.
His palfrey was as broun as is a berye.