“Now, truly,” cried the Summoner, “so do I! I never spare to take a thing, God wot, Unless it be too heavy or too hot. What I can grasp by counsel privily, No scruples in that matter trouble me. Without extortion I could ne’er subsist, So in my pranks I ever will persist; Stomach nor conscience truly I have none. I hate all these shrift-fathers, every one! Well met are we, our ways are just the same. But, my dear fellow, tell me now your name?” The Summoner entreated him. Meanwhile That yeoman broke into a little smile. “Brother,” he answered, “wilt thou have me tell? --I am a fiend, my dwelling is in hell, And here I ride about my purchasing To know what men will give me anything. Such gains make up the whole of all my rent. Look how thou journeyest for the same intent To reap thy gains, thou carest never how! Just so I do--for I will journey now Unto the wide world’s end to get my prey.” “Mercy!” the Summoner cried, “what is’t ye say?” He is rather aghast at this awful confession, bad as he admits himself to be. He had sincerely thought it was a real yeoman; and when he says to him, with a strange and evil smile, “Shall I tell you?--_I am a fiend, my dwelling is in hell_,” the horrible candour strikes him dumb for a minute. He rather wishes he wasn’t his sworn brother. But he very soon gets over this, thinking of the gold and silver, and begins to talk quite friendly. I wende ye were a yemen trewely: truly Ye have a mannes schap as wel as I. shape “I thought you were a yeoman, verily: Ye have a human shape as well as I.” “Have you then a distinct form in hell like what I see?” “No, certainly,” says the fiend, “there we have none, but we take a form when we will.” Or ellis make yow seme that we ben schape It seem to you Somtyme like a man, or like an ape; Or lik an aungel can I ryde or go; It is no wonder thing though it be so. “Or else we make you think we have a shape, Sometimes like to a man, or like an ape; Or like an angel I can ride or go; It is not wondrous that it should be so.” “Why, a common conjurer can deceive you any day, and I have tenfold more cunning than a conjurer!” “Why,” said the Summoner, quite interested, “do you have several shapes, and not only one?” “We borrow whatever shape is best to catch our prey,” said the evil one. “What makes you take all that trouble?” says the Summoner. Ful many a cause, lieve sir Sompnour, dear Sayde this feend. But al thing hath a tyme; The day is schort, and it is passed prime,[125] And yit ne wan I nothing in this day; won I wol entent to winning, if I may, attend And not entende our thinges to declare.