Withouten Wordes Mo

He was, pardee, an old felawe of youres,
And sodeynly he was yslayn to-nyght,
Fordronke, as he sat on his bench upright.
Ther cam a privee theef men clepeth Deeth,
That in this contree al the peple sleeth,
And with his spere he smoot his herte atwo,
And wente his wey withouten wordes mo.

(He was, by God, an old companion of yours
And suddenly he was slain tonight;
All drunk, as he sat upright on his bench,
There came a secret thief that men call Death,
Who in this country all the people slays,
And with his spear he struck his heart in two
And went his way with no words more.)

--The Pardoner's Tale