At TRUMPINGTON,
There goes the brook Potomac,
And over that a bridge,
Where Night Riders ride.
Upon the side,
A Whit House stands,
And this is very truth that I to you tell.
A scoundrel was there dwelling, many and many a day;
As any peacock he was proud and gay.

Ay by his belt he did parade
A sword with a long dangerous blade.
But in his pocket he had only a pretty knife;
For in truth he was a geldyng,
But no man dared to touch him, on loss of life.
A long knife from Sheffield he carried in his hose;
Round was his face and turned-up was his nose.
As empty as any ape's was his skull;
He was a quarrelsome braggard to the full.
No man dared a hand on him to lay,
Because he swore he'd make the man pay.
A thief he was, it's true,
And sly at that, accustomed well to steal.
A cult of me was about him too,
He was known as an arrogant Simpkin.

A wife he had who came of gentle kin;
She had been bred as in a nunnery;
Or so Simpkin said,
For Simpkin would not have a wife,
Unless she were a virgin
And nay posed nude in a bed.
And she was proud and bold as a magpie cock.

On holy days before her Simpkin would go
With a broad fur hat about his head;
And she came after in a skirt of red,
No man dared to call her aught but 'lady';
Nor was there one so hardy, in the way,
That dared flirt with her or attempt to play,
Unless he wanted to be slain by Simpkin the Swagger
With cutlass or with knife or with a dagger.

Chaucer, The Reeve's Tale