The Pardoner Speaks

Listeneth, gode people, everiche one,
For in the londe of Babylone,
Far eastward I wot it lyeth,
And is the first londe the sonne espieth,
Ther, as he cometh fro out the se ;
In this ilk londe, as thinketh me,
Right as holie legendes tell,
Snottreth from a roke a well,
And falleth into ane bath of ston,
Where chaste Susanne in times long gon,
Was wont to wash her bodie and lim --
Mickle vertue hath that streme,
As ye shall se er that ye pas,
Ensample by this little glas --
Through nightes cold and dayes hote,
Hiderward I have it brought ;
Hath a wife made slip or slide,
Or a maiden stepp'd aside ;
Putteth this water under her nese,
Wold she nold she, she shall snese.