55ra] 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 55rb]    85 90 95 100 105 110 115 120 125 130 135 140 145 150 155 160

Quant voy la revenue D’yver qe si me argue Qe ly temps se remue, Lors aym buche fendue, Charboun clykant, Tysoun flambaunt; Feu de souche meisné De joie chaunt; Quar je l’eym tant, Tot le cors me tressue. Quaunt vient acochier, Certes molt me agree Fagot en fournil, Secche sauntz fumee, Qe tost esprent E brese rent. E je me degrat molt sovent (Le pys e l’eschyne!), Quar la char bien pue, E de draps mal vestue. Ayme molt la jorné, Quar quaunt, pur chalour se sue Taunt, qe fors soit issue La freydour e alee. Ceo est moun delit: De aver beau lit De dras blaunchys Fleyre la buee. La tenue coverture C’est ma desconfiture, Lange sauntz foreure — De celi n’ai je cure Quar il n’est preuz. Mieux aym les feus: Quant je voy la refroidure, A ly m’en vou; Mieux aym son jou Qe dous dees detorsure! Quaunt l’yver s’esteynt Par la matynee, Certes, molt me grevee La noyf e la gelee, Mes en verglaz Atourner faz, Menues hastes en bruaz. De pourcel madle ostee Pris en bone pasture, La loygne sauntz arsure, En la broche botee — Quar c’est ma noreture! Tout ay ma tenure En bon morsel donee En bon claré, En fort raspee — Q’eym mieux d’assez Que cervoyse enfumee! ¶ Taverne ay molt amee (N’est pas droit qe la hee!); Tout ay m’amour donee En savour destempré En gavigaut, En cetewaut, Mys en chaudee peveré — Ne fet pas mal Entour Noal, Mostarde ove char salee. ¶ Oues e madlarz, Plongons e blaryes, Chapouns chanevaus, Gelynes rosties, Cygnes, pouns, Grues, heyrouns, Cerceles, jauntes, E morillons. E purcel enfarcie, La loygne entrelardé — De cele ay molt amee! Venesoun ne haz mie, Ne char de cerf venee, Ne deym, ne porcke, velee Une pome flestrye; ¶ Jamboun De fresche salesoun Mi ad ren|du la vie! Quaunt je su leez la tonne, E yl ploit e yl tonne, Tout adees ma fosoyne: Vyn de haute persone, Levre encine, conin lardee; Molt est fous qe saonne Formage rees Quaunt rostie ay E je le faz corouné E pui grosoiller. Nuilles e oblees, Royssolees e guaffres, E tostiz doreez. Perdryz, plovers, Coloms croysers. Le wydecoks est bon mangiers!      E andoilles lardés — Je tienk pur fol qe doune Son aver enprisonee Pur tripes enfumés. Quar quant revient a noune, My hoste m’a resoune: Si dit qu’il ad trovee, Countre la nuyt, Un chaudon quit A chasteyne paree. ¶ En quaresme a Lentre, Lors eym perche paree, La tenche enversee E en souz botee, Harang, plays, E peschoun freshe, E alosee en pastee, Gastieu rostiz, Menu brayz, E flamiche salee. ¶ Dars ne heez je mie, Fenduz de quonie, Anguille de gors, De sa pieu veudie, Conger, estorgoun, Luz, salmoun, Vendoise, breme, ne gerdon, Ne morue ov l’aille, Ne crevice pelle, Ne roches, ne lampré, Ne ray refreidé, Ly makerel Freshe e novel, E tot cist autre bon morsel Mout al bourse veydee. ¶ Quant la Pasche repoire, Je m’y last tayre; Tart e flaon faz fere Pur la sesoun retrere. Molt aym motoun A gras reynoun, E l’aignel faz fors trere De pelicoun, M’entencioun Met au poyvre defere. ¶ Droyz est qe l’en eyt motoun En porree, pucynz, En verynz, Oue en franke gardé (Atant novel Jus de tuel!), La teste en rost, aprés l’owel, E gras cheveryl lardé Ne me doit pas desployré, Pur le manger retrere, Pee de porcke en socié (A froit celer E haut soler), Herbe mugier Menuement poudré — E je m’envoys donks dormyr!

When I see the return Of winter that so afflicts me As the weather changes, Then I love a split log, The crackling coal, The blazing brands; The big-logged hearth fire Sings with joy; Indeed I love it so much, My whole body sweats. When bedtime comes, What surely pleases me Is a faggot in the hearth, Dry without smoke, Which burns entirely And turns to embers. I quite often scratch myself (The worst is the spine!), For the flesh stinks a lot, And is ill-dressed in clothes. I love greatly the daytime, For then, by means of heat Chasing it so, the cold Is sent outside and is gone. This is my delight: To have a good bed Of white cloth With a fresh smell. A thin blanket Makes me miserable, Wool not fur-lined — I don’t care for that For it’s of no use. I like the fires better: When I see the cold, I go to the fire; I like its play better Than two weighted dice! When the winter extends Through the morning, Indeed, I’m sorely grieved By the snow and frost, As into slick ice It is transformed, Little slivers in the fog. Some roasted boar From good pasturage, The loin unburnt, Thrust on a skewer — That’s to my taste! I’ve given all my holdings For one good morsel With a good claret, With a strong table wine — I much prefer that To smoky beer! ¶ I’ve much loved the tavern (There’s no reason to hate it!); I’ve given all my love To a flavored brew With galingale, With zedoary, Mixed with hot pepper — It’s not bad Around Christmas, Mustard with salted meat. ¶ Geese and mallards, Coots and moorhens, Capons on canvas, Roasted hens, Swans, peacocks, Cranes, herons, Teals, wild geese, And tufted ducks. And stuffed pig, The interlarded loin — I’ve much loved that! I don’t hate venison at all, Nor flesh from hunted deer, Nor buck, nor boar, veal With dried apple; ¶ Ham Freshly salted Has re|stored me to life! When I’m beside the tun, And it rains and thunders, There’s always plenty for me: Wine of the best quality, Stewed hare, larded rabbit; He’s crazy who’d refuse A bit of soft cheese When I’ve toasted it And crowned it With gooseberries. Cookies and cakes, Rissoles and waffles, Toasted golden brown. Partridges, plovers, Doves from dovecote. Woodcock is good to eat! And larded chitterlings — I take for a fool any who puts His goods in hock For smoked tripe. For when I revive around noon, My innkeeper has a word with me:      He says he recommends, At bedtime, A hot pot Of peeled chestnuts. ¶ During the forty days of Lent, Then I love scaled perch, Tench turned over And immersed in broth, Herring, plaice, And fresh fish, And shad in pastry, Baked breads, Lightly grilled, And salted custard tart. ¶ Dace I don’t at all hate, Split elegantly, Freshwater eel, Its skin removed, Conger eel, sturgeon, Pike, salmon, Gudgeons, bream, nor gurnard, Nor cod with garlic, Nor shelled crayfish, Nor roach, nor lamprey, Nor cold skate, Mackerel Fresh and newly caught, And all other good morsels That have emptied many a purse. ¶ When Easter returns, I quit being quiet; I have tarts and flan made To close up the season. I dearly like mutton With fat kidneys, So I have a lamb skinned Out of its fleece, Intending to Spice it with crushed pepper. ¶ It’s good to have mutton With leek potage, chicken, On weekdays, Goose fattened in a pen (Then new Stains on tablecloth!), A roast head, after cooked goose, And a fat kid in lard Wouldn’t displease me, To close up the meal, Pigs’ feet in sauce (From the cold storeroom And the upper sunroom), With spicy nutmeg Sprinkled on lightly — And then I send myself to sleep!

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