"Now, sires," quod he, "if that ye be so lief
To finde Deeth, turne up this crooked wey,
For in that grove I lafte hym, by my fay,
Under a tree, and ther he wol abide;
Nat for youre boost he wol him no thing hide.
See ye that ook? Right there ye shal him finde.
God save you, that boughte again mankinde,
And you amende." Thus saide this olde man.

And everich of thise riotoures ran
Til he cam to that tree, and ther they founde
Of florins fine of gold ycoined rounde
Wel neigh eighte busshels, as hem thoughte -
No lenger thanne after Deeth they soughte,
But eech of hem so glad was of that sighte,
For that the florins been so faire and brighte,
That down they sette hem by this precious hoord.