There is a grave and gentle Knight, who has fought in many wars, and who has many a time hurled his adversary down in tournament before the eyes of all the ladies there, and who has taken the place of honour at many a mighty feast.  There, riding beside him, is a blooming Squire, his son, fresh as the month of May, singing day and night from very gladness of heart,—­an impetuous young fellow, who is looking forward to the time when he will flesh his maiden sword, and shout his first war-cry in a stricken field.  There is an Abbot, mounted on a brown steed.  He is middle-aged, his bald crown shines like glass, and his face looks as if it were anointed with oil.  He has been a valiant trencher-man at many a well-furnished feast.  Above all things, he loves hunting; and when he rides, men can hear his bridle ringing in the whistling wind loud and clear as a chapel bell.  There is a thin, ill-conditioned Clerk, perched perilously on a steed as thin and ill-conditioned as himself.  He will never be rich, I fear.  He is a great student, and would rather have a few books bound in black and red hanging above his bed than be sheriff of the county.  There is a Prioress, so gentle and tender-hearted that she weeps if she hears the whimper of a beaten hound, or sees a mouse caught in a trap.  There rides the laughing Wife of Bath, bold-faced and fair.  She is an adept in love-matters.  Five husbands already “she has fried in their own grease” till they were glad to get into their graves to escape the scourge of her tongue.  Heaven rest their souls, and swiftly send a sixth!  She wears a hat large as a targe or buckler, brings the artillery of her eyes to bear on the young Squire, and jokes him about his sweetheart.  Beside her is a worthy Parson, who delivers faithfully the message of his Master.  Although he is poor, he gives away the half of his tithes in charity.  His parish is waste and wide, yet if sickness or misfortune should befall one of his flock, he rides, in spite of wind, or rain, or thunder, to administer consolation.  Among the crowd rides a rich Franklin, who sits in the Guildhall on the dais.  He is profuse and hospitable as summer.  All day his table stands in the hall covered with meats and drinks, and every one who enters is welcome.  There is a Ship-man, whose beard has been shaken by many a tempest, whose cheek knows the kiss of the salt sea spray; a Merchant, with a grave look, clean and neat in his attire, and with plenty of gold in his purse.  There is a Doctor of Physic, who has killed more men than the Knight, talking to a Clerk of Laws.  There is a merry Friar, a lover of good cheer; and when seated in a tavern among his companions, singing songs it would be scarcely decorous to repeat, you may see his eyes twinkling in his head for joy, like stars on a frosty night.  Beside him is a ruby-faced Sompnour, whose breath stinks of garlic and onions, who is ever roaring for wine,—­strong wine, wine red as blood; and when drunk, he disdains English,—­nothing