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But sore weep she if oon of hem were deed, Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte: And al was conscience and tendre herte Ful semely hir wimpel pinched was: Hir nose tretys; her eyen greye as glas; Hir mouth ful smal, and ther-to softe and reed; But sikerly she hadde a fair foreheed; It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe; For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe.
If any had taken such vows she was to say as many psalters as it would have taken days to perform the pilgrimage so rashly vowed. One has a melancholy vision of poor Madame Eglentyne saying psalters interminably through her tretys nose, instead of jogging along so gaily with her motley companions and telling so prettily her tale of little St Hugh.
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