Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

I am a friar of orders gray,

And down in the valleys I take my way;

I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip, —

Good store of venison fills my scrip;

My long bead-roll I merrily chant;

Where’er I walk no money I want;

And why I’m so plump the reason I tell, —

Who leads a good life is sure to live well.

What baron or squire,

Or knight of the shire,

Lives half so well as a holy friar?

After supper of heaven I dream,

But that is a pullet and clouted cream;

Myself, by denial, I morfify —

With a dainty bit of a warden-pie;

I’m clothed in sackcloth for my sin, —

With old sack wine I’m lined within;

A chirping cup is my matin song,

And the vesper’s bell is my bowl, ding dong.

What baron or squire,

Or knight of the shire,

Lives half so well as a holy friar?