With him ther was his sone, a yong Squire,
A lovere and a lusty bacheler,
With lokkes crulle as they were laid in presse.
Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse.
Of his stature he was of evene lengthe,
And wonderly delivere, and of greeet strengthe.
And he hadde been som time in chivachye
In Flandres, in Artois, and Picardye,
And born him wel as of so litel space,
In hope to stonden in his lady grace.
Embrouded was he as it were a mede
Al ful of fresshe flowres, white and rede;
Singing he was, or floiting, al the day:
He was as fressh as is the month of May.
Short was his gowne, with sleeves longe and wide.
Wel coude he sitte on hors, and faire ride;
He coude songes make, and wel endite,
Juste and eek daunce, and wel portraye and write.
So hote he loved that by nightertale
He slepte namore than dooth a nightingale.
Curteis he was, lowely, and servisable,
And carf biforn his fader at the table.