Prologue

Torpor, ebes sensus, scola parua labor minimusqueCausant quo minimus ipse minora canam:Qua tamen Engisti lingua canit Insula BrutiAnglica Carmente metra iuuante loquar.Ossibus ergo carens que conterit ossa loquelisAbsit, et interpres stet procul oro malus.

Of hem that writen ous toforeThe bokes duelle, and we therforeBen tawht of that was write tho:Forthi good is that we alsoIn oure tyme among ous hiereDo wryte of newe som matiere,Essampled of these olde wyseSo that it myhte in such a wyse,Whan we ben dede and elleswhere,Beleve to the worldes eereIn tyme comende after this.Bot for men sein, and soth it is,That who that al of wisdom writIt dulleth ofte a mannes witTo him that schal it aldai rede,For thilke cause, if that ye rede,I wolde go the middel weieAnd wryte a bok betwen the tweie,Somwhat of lust, somewhat of lore,That of the lasse or of the moreSom man mai lyke of that I wryte:And for that fewe men enditeIn oure englissh, I thenke makeA bok for Engelondes sake,The yer sextenthe of kyng Richard.What schal befalle hierafterwardGod wot, for now upon this tydeMen se the world on every sydeIn sondry wyse so diversed,That it welnyh stant al reversed,As forto speke of tyme ago.The cause whi it changeth soIt needeth nought to specifie,The thing so open is at ijeThat every man it mai beholde:And natheles be daies olde,Whan that the bokes weren levere,Wrytinge was beloved evereOf hem that weren vertuous;For hier in erthe amonges ous,If noman write hou that it stode,The pris of hem that weren goodeScholde, as who seith, a gret partieBe lost: so for to magnifieThe worthi princes that tho were,The bokes schewen hiere and there,Wherof the world ensampled is;And tho that deden thanne amisThurgh tirannie and crualte,Right as thei stoden in degre,So was the wrytinge of here werk.Thus I, which am a burel clerk,Purpose forto wryte a bokAfter the world that whilom tokLong tyme in olde daies passed:Bot for men sein it is now lassed,In worse plit than it was tho,I thenke forto touche alsoThe world which neweth every dai,So as I can, so as I mai.Thogh I seknesse have upon hondeAnd longe have had, yit woll I fondeTo wryte and do my bisinesse,That in som part, so as I gesse,The wyse man mai ben avised.For this prologe is so assisedThat it to wisdom al belongeth:What wysman that it underfongeth,He schal drawe into remembranceThe fortune of this worldes chance,The which noman in his personeMai knowe, bot the god al one.Whan the prologe is so despended,This bok schal afterward ben endedOf love, which doth many a wonderAnd many a wys man hath put under.And in this wyse I thenke treteTowardes hem that now be grete,Betwen the vertu and the viceWhich longeth unto this office.Bot for my wittes ben to smaleTo tellen every man his tale,This bok, upon amendmentTo stonde at his commandement,With whom myn herte is of accord,I sende unto myn oghne lord,Which of Lancastre is Henri named:The hyhe god him hath proclamedFul of knyhthode and alle grace.So woll I now this werk embraceWith hol trust and with hol believe;God grante I mot it wel achieve.

If I schal drawe in to my myndeThe tyme passed, thanne I fyndeThe world stod thanne in al his welthe:Tho was the lif of man in helthe,Tho was plente, tho was richesse,Tho was the fortune of prouesse,Tho was knyhthode in pris be name,Wherof the wyde worldes fameWrite in Cronique is yit withholde;Justice of lawe tho was holde,The privilege of regalieWas sauf, and al the baronieWorschiped was in his astat;The citees knewen no debat,The poeple stod in obeissanceUnder the reule of governance,And pes, which ryhtwisnesse keste,With charite tho stod in reste:Of mannes herte the corageWas schewed thanne in the visage;The word was lich to the conceiteWithoute semblant of deceite:Tho was ther unenvied love,Tho was the vertu sett aboveAnd vice was put under fote.Now stant the crop under the rote,The world is changed overal,And therof most in specialThat love is falle into discord.And that I take to recordOf every lond for his partieThe comun vois, which mai noght lie;Noght upon on, bot upon alleIt is that men now clepe and calle,And sein the regnes ben divided,In stede of love is hate guided,The werre wol no pes purchace,And lawe hath take hire double face,So that justice out of the weieWith ryhtwisnesse is gon aweie:And thus to loke on every halve,Men sen the sor withoute salve,Which al the world hath overtake.Ther is no regne of alle outtake,For every climat hath his dielAfter the tornynge of the whiel,Which blinde fortune overthroweth;Wherof the certain noman knoweth:The hevene wot what is to done,Bot we that duelle under the moneStonde in this world upon a weer,And namely bot the pouerOf hem that ben the worldes guidesWith good consail on alle sidesBe kept upriht in such a wyse,That hate breke noght thassiseOf love, which is al the chiefTo kepe a regne out of meschief.For alle resoun wolde this,That unto him which the heved isThe membres buxom scholden bowe,And he scholde ek her trowthe allowe,With al his herte and make hem chiere,For good consail is good to hiere.Althogh a man be wys himselve,Yit is the wisdom more of tuelve;And if thei stoden bothe in on,To hope it were thanne anonThat god his grace wolde sendeTo make of thilke werre an ende,Which every day now groweth newe:And that is gretly forto reweIn special for Cristes sake,Which wolde his oghne lif forsakeAmong the men to yeve pes.But now men tellen nathelesThat love is fro the world departed,So stant the pes unevene partedWith hem that liven now adaies.Bot forto loke at alle assaies,To him that wolde resoun secheAfter the comun worldes specheIt is to wondre of thilke werre,In which non wot who hath the werre;For every lond himself deceyvethAnd of desese his part receyveth,And yet ne take men no kepe.Bot thilke lord which al may kepe,To whom no consail may ben hid,Upon the world which is betid,Amende that wherof men pleigneWith trewe hertes and with pleine,And reconcile love ayeyn,As he which is king sovereignOf al the worldes governaunce,And of his hyhe porveaunceAfferme pes betwen the londesAnd take her cause into hise hondes,So that the world may stonde apppesedAnd his godhede also be plesed.

To thenke upon the daies olde,The lif of clerkes to beholde,Men sein how that thei weren thoEnsample and reule of alle thoWhiche of wisdom the vertu soughten.Unto the god ferst thei besoughtenAs to the substaunce of her Scole,That thei ne scholden noght befoleHer wit upon none erthly werkes,Which were ayein thestat of clerkes,And that thei myhten fle the viceWhich Simon hath in his office,Wherof he takth the gold in honde.For thilke tyme I understondeThe Lumbard made non eschangeThe bisschopriches forto change,Ne yet a lettre for to sendeFor dignite ne for Provende,Or cured or withoute cure.The cherche keye in aventureOf armes and of brygantailleStod nothing thanne upon bataille;To fyhte or for to make chesteIt thoghte hem thanne noght honeste;Bot of simplesce and pacienceThei maden thanne no defence:The Court of worldly regalieTo hem was thanne no baillie;The vein honour was noght desired,Which hath the proude herte fyred;Humilite was tho withholde,And Pride was a vice holde.Of holy cherche the largesseYaf thanne and dede gret almesseTo povere men that hadden nede:Thei were ek chaste in word and dede,Wherof the poeple ensample tok;Her lust was al upon the bok,Or forto preche or forto preie,To wisse men the ryhte weieOf suche as stode of trowthe unliered.Lo, thus was Petres barge stieredOf hem that thilke tyme were,And thus cam ferst to mannes EreThe feith of Crist and alle goodeThurgh hem that thanne weren goodeAnd sobre and chaste and large and wyse.Bot now men sein is otherwise,Simon the cause hath undertake,The worldes swerd on honde is take;And that is wonder natheles,Whan Crist him self hath bode pesAnd set it in his testament,How now that holy cherche is went,Of that here lawe positifHath set to make werre and strifFor worldes good, which may noght laste.God wot the cause to the lasteOf every right and wrong also;But whil the lawe is reuled soThat clerkes to the werre entende,I not how that thei scholde amendeThe woful world in othre thinges,To make pes betwen the kyngesAfter the lawe of charite,Which is the propre dueteBelongende unto the presthode.Bot as it thenkth to the manhode,The hevene is ferr, the world is nyh,And veine gloire is ek so slyh,Which coveitise hath now withholde,That thei non other thing beholde,Bot only that thei myhten winne.And thus the werres thei beginne,Wherof the holi cherche is taxed,That in the point as it is axedThe disme goth to the bataille,As thogh Crist myhte noght availeTo don hem riht be other weie.In to the swerd the cherche keieIs torned, and the holy bedeInto cursinge, and every stedeWhich scholde stonde upon the feithAnd to this cause an Ere leyth,Astoned is of the querele.That scholde be the worldes heleIs now, men sein, the pestilenceWhich hath exiled pacienceFro the clergie in special:And that is schewed overal,In eny thing whan thei ben grieved.Bot if Gregoire be believed,As it is in the bokes write,He doth ous somdel forto witeThe cause of thilke prelacie,Wher god is noght of compaignie:For every werk as it is foundedSchal stonde or elles be confounded;Who that only for Cristes sakeDesireth cure forto take,And noght for pride of thilke astat,To bere a name of a prelat,He schal be resoun do profitIn holy cherche upon the plitThat he hath set his conscience;Bot in the worldes reverenceTher ben of suche manie glade,Whan thei to thilke astat ben made,Noght for the merite of the charge,Bot for thei wolde hemself deschargeOf poverte and become grete;And thus for Pompe and for beyeteThe Scribe and ek the PhariseeOf Moises upon the SeeIn the chaiere on hyh ben set;Wherof the feith is ofte let,Which is betaken hem to kepe.In Cristes cause alday thei slepe,Bot of the world is noght foryete;For wel is him that now may geteOffice in Court to ben honoured.The stronge coffre hath al devouredUnder the keye of avariceThe tresor of the benefice,Wherof the povere schulden clotheAnd ete and drinke and house bothe;The charite goth al unknowe,For thei no grein of Pite sowe:And slouthe kepeth the libraireWhich longeth to the Saintuaire;To studie upon the worldes loreSufficeth now withoute more;Delicacie his swete tothHath fostred so that it fordothOf abstinence al that ther is.And forto loken over this,If Ethna brenne in the clergie,Al openly to mannes ijeAt Avynoun thexperienceTherof hath yove an evidence,Of that men sen hem so divided.And yit the cause is noght decided;Bot it is seid and evere schal,Betwen tuo Stoles lyth the fal,Whan that men wenen best to sitte:In holy cherche of such a slitteIs for to rewe un to ous alle;God grante it mote wel befalleTowardes him which hath the trowthe.Bot ofte is sen that mochel slowthe,Whan men ben drunken of the cuppe,Doth mochel harm, whan fyr is uppe,Bot if somwho the flamme stanche;And so to speke upon this branche,Which proud Envie hath mad to springe,Of Scisme, causeth forto bringeThis newe Secte of Lollardie,And also many an heresieAmong the clerkes in hemselve.It were betre dike and delveAnd stonde upon the ryhte feith,Than knowe al that the bible seithAnd erre as somme clerkes do.Upon the hond to were a SchooAnd sette upon the fot a GloveAcordeth noght to the behoveOf resonable mannes us:If men behielden the vertusThat Crist in Erthe taghte here,Thei scholden noght in such manere,Among hem that ben holden wise,The Papacie so desguiseUpon diverse eleccioun,Which stant after thaffecciounOf sondry londes al aboute:Bot whan god wole, it schal were oute,For trowthe mot stonde ate laste.Bot yet thei argumenten fasteUpon the Pope and his astat,Wherof thei falle in gret debat;This clerk seith yee, that other nay,And thus thei dryve forth the day,And ech of hem himself amendethOf worldes good, bot non entendethTo that which comun profit were.Thei sein that god is myhti there,And schal ordeine what he wile,Ther make thei non other skileWhere is the peril of the feith,Bot every clerk his herte leithTo kepe his world in special,And of the cause general,Which unto holy cherche longeth,Is non of hem that underfongethTo schapen eny resistence:And thus the riht hath no defence,Bot ther I love, ther I holde.Lo, thus tobroke is Cristes folde,Wherof the flock withoute guideDevoured is on every side,In lacke of hem that ben unwareSchepherdes, whiche her wit bewareUpon the world in other halve.The scharpe pricke in stede of salveThei usen now, wherof the heleThei hurte of that thei scholden hele;And what Schep that is full of wulleUpon his back, thei toose and pulle,Whil ther is eny thing to pile:And thogh ther be non other skileBot only for thei wolden wynne,Thei leve noght, whan thei begynne,Upon her acte to procede,Which is no good schepherdes dede.And upon this also men sein,That fro the leese which is pleinInto the breres thei forcaccheHer Orf, for that thei wolden laccheWith such duresce, and so bereveThat schal upon the thornes leveOf wulle, which the brere hath tore;Wherof the Schep ben al totoreOf that the hierdes make hem lese.Lo, how thei feignen chalk for chese,For though thei speke and teche wel,Thei don hemself therof no del:For if the wolf come in the weie,Her gostly Staf is thanne aweie,Wherof thei scholde her flock defende;Bot if the povere Schep offendeIn eny thing, thogh it be lyte,They ben al redy forto smyte;And thus, how evere that thei tale,The strokes falle upon the smale,And upon othre that ben greteHem lacketh herte forto bete.So that under the clerkes laweMen sen the Merel al mysdrawe,I wol noght seie in general,For ther ben somme in specialIn whom that alle vertu duelleth,And tho ben, as thapostel telleth,That god of his elecciounHath cleped to perfecciounIn the manere as Aaron was:Thei ben nothing in thilke casOf Simon, which the foldes gateHath lete, and goth in othergate,Bot thei gon in the rihte weie.Ther ben also somme, as men seie,That folwen Simon ate hieles,Whos carte goth upon the whielesOf coveitise and worldes Pride,And holy cherche goth beside,Which scheweth outward a visageOf that is noght in the corage.For if men loke in holy cherche,Betwen the word and that thei wercheTher is a full gret difference:Thei prechen ous in audienceThat noman schal his soule empeire,For al is bot a chirie feireThis worldes good, so as thei telle;Also thei sein ther is an helle,Which unto mannes sinne is due,And bidden ous therfore eschueThat wikkid is, and do the goode.Who that here wordes understode,It thenkth thei wolden do the same;Bot yet betwen ernest and gameFul ofte it torneth other wise.With holy tales thei deviseHow meritoire is thilke dedeOf charite, to clothe and fedeThe povere folk and forto parteThe worldes good, bot thei departeNe thenken noght fro that thei have.Also thei sein, good is to saveWith penance and with abstinenceOf chastite the continence;Bot pleinly forto speke of that,I not how thilke body fat,Which thei with deynte metes kepeAnd leyn it softe forto slepe,Whan it hath elles al his wille,With chastite schal stonde stille:And natheles I can noght seie,In aunter if that I misseye.Touchende of this, how evere it stonde,I here and wol noght understonde,For therof have I noght to done:Bot he that made ferst the Mone,The hyhe god, of his goodnesse,If ther be cause, he it redresce.Bot what as eny man accuse,This mai reson of trowthe excuse;The vice of hem that ben ungoodeIs no reproef unto the goode:For every man hise oghne werkesSchal bere, and thus as of the clerkesThe goode men ben to comende,And alle these othre god amende:For thei ben to the worldes ijeThe Mirour of ensamplerie,To reulen and to taken hiedeBetwen the men and the godhiede.

Now forto speke of the comune,It is to drede of that fortuneWhich hath befalle in sondri londes:Bot often for defalte of bondesAl sodeinliche, er it be wist,A Tonne, whanne his lye arist,Tobrekth and renneth al aboute,Which elles scholde noght gon oute;And ek fulofte a litel SkarUpon a Banke, er men be war,Let in the Strem, which with gret peine,If evere man it schal restreigne.Wher lawe lacketh, errour groweth,He is noght wys who that ne troweth,For it hath proeved ofte er this;And thus the comun clamour isIn every lond wher poeple dwelleth,And eche in his compleignte tellethHow that the world is al miswent,And ther upon his jugementYifth every man in sondry wise.Bot what man wolde himself avise,His conscience and noght misuse,He may wel ate ferste excuseHis god, which evere stant in on:In him ther is defalte non,So moste it stonde upon ousselveNought only upon ten ne twelve,Bot plenerliche upon ous alle,For man is cause of that schal falle.

And natheles yet som men wryteAnd sein that fortune is to wyte,And som men holde oppinionThat it is constellacion,Which causeth al that a man doth:God wot of bothe which is soth.The world as of his propre kyndeWas evere untrewe, and as the blyndeImproprelich he demeth fame,He blameth that is noght to blameAnd preiseth that is noght to preise:Thus whan he schal the thinges peise,Ther is deceipte in his balance,And al is that the varianceOf ous, that scholde ous betre avise;For after that we falle and rise,The world arist and falth withal,So that the man is overalHis oghne cause of wel and wo.That we fortune clepe soOut of the man himself it groweth;And who that other wise troweth,Behold the poeple of Irael:For evere whil thei deden wel,Fortune was hem debonaire,And whan thei deden the contraire,Fortune was contrariende.So that it proeveth wel at endeWhy that the world is wonderfullAnd may no while stonde full,Though that it seme wel besein;For every worldes thing is vein,And evere goth the whiel aboute,And evere stant a man in doute,Fortune stant no while stille,So hath ther noman al his wille.Als fer as evere a man may knowe,Ther lasteth nothing bot a throwe;The world stant evere upon debat,So may be seker non astat,Now hier now ther, now to now fro,Now up now down, this world goth so,And evere hath don and evere schal:Wherof I finde in specialA tale writen in the Bible,Which moste nedes be credible;And that as in conclusiounSeith that upon divisiounStant, why no worldes thing mai laste,Til it be drive to the laste.And fro the ferste regne of alleInto this day, hou so befalle,Of that the regnes be muableThe man himself hath be coupable,Which of his propre governanceFortuneth al the worldes chance.

The hyhe almyhti pourveance,In whos eterne remembranceFro ferst was every thing present,He hath his prophecie sent,In such a wise as thou schalt hiere,To Daniel of this matiere,Hou that this world schal torne and wende,Till it be falle to his ende;Wherof the tale telle I schal,In which it is betokned al.

As Nabugodonosor slepte,A swevene him tok, the which he kepteTil on the morwe he was arise,For he therof was sore agrise.To Daniel his drem he tolde,And preide him faire that he woldeArede what it tokne may;And seide: “Abedde wher I lay,Me thoghte I syh upon a StageWher stod a wonder strange ymage.His hed with al the necke alsoThei were of fin gold bothe tuo;His brest, his schuldres and his armesWere al of selver, bot the tharmes,The wombe and al doun to the kne,Of bras thei were upon to se;The legges were al mad of Stiel,So were his feet also somdiel,And somdiel part to hem was takeOf Erthe which men Pottes make;The fieble meynd was with the stronge,So myhte it wel noght stonde longe.And tho me thoghte that I sihA gret ston from an hull on hyhFel doun of sodein aventureUpon the feet of this figure,With which Ston al tobroke wasGold, Selver, Erthe, Stiel and Bras,That al was in to pouldre broght,And so forth torned into noght.”

This was the swevene which he hadde,That Daniel anon aradde,And seide him that figure strangeBetokneth how the world schal changeAnd waxe lasse worth and lasse,Til it to noght al overpasse.The necke and hed, that weren golde,He seide how that betokne scholdeA worthi world, a noble, a riche,To which non after schal be liche.Of Selver that was overforthSchal ben a world of lasse worth;And after that the wombe of BrasTokne of a werse world it was.The Stiel which he syh afterwardA world betokneth more hard:Bot yet the werste of everydelIs last, whan that of Erthe and StielHe syh the feet departed so,For that betokneth mochel wo.Whan that the world divided is,It moste algate fare amis,For Erthe which is meynd with StielTogedre may noght laste wiel,Bot if that on that other waste;So mot it nedes faile in haste.The Ston, which fro the hully StageHe syh doun falle on that ymage,And hath it into pouldre broke,That swevene hath Daniel unloke,And seide how that is goddes myht,Which whan men wene most upryhtTo stonde, schal hem overcaste.And that is of this world the laste,And thanne a newe schal beginne,Fro which a man schal nevere twinne;Or al to peine or al to pesThat world schal lasten endeles.

Lo thus expondeth DanielThe kynges swevene faire and welIn Babiloyne the Cite,Wher that the wiseste of CaldeeNe cowthen wite what it mente;Bot he tolde al the hol entente,As in partie it is befalle.Of gold the ferste regne of alleWas in that kinges time tho,And laste manye daies so,Therwhiles that the MonarchieOf al the world in that partieTo Babiloyne was soubgit;And hield him stille in such a plit,Til that the world began diverse:And that was whan the king of Perse,Which Cirus hyhte, ayein the pesForth with his Sone CambisesOf Babiloine al that Empire,Ryht as thei wolde hemself desire,Put under in subjecciounAnd tok it in possessioun,And slayn was Baltazar the king,Which loste his regne and al his thing.And thus whan thei it hadde wonne,The world of Selver was begonneAnd that of gold was passed oute:And in this wise it goth abouteIn to the Regne of Darius;And thanne it fell to Perse thus,That Alisaundre put hem under,Which wroghte of armes many a wonder,So that the Monarchie lefteWith Grecs, and here astat uplefte,And Persiens gon under fote,So soffre thei that nedes mote.And tho the world began of Bras,And that of selver ended was;Bot for the time thus it laste,Til it befell that ate lasteThis king, whan that his day was come,With strengthe of deth was overcome.And natheles yet er he dyde,He schop his Regnes to divideTo knyhtes whiche him hadde served,And after that thei have deservedYaf the conquestes that he wan;Wherof gret werre tho beganAmong hem that the Regnes hadde,Thurgh proud Envie which hem ladde,Til it befell ayein hem thus:The noble Cesar Julius,Which tho was king of Rome lond,With gret bataille and with strong hondAl Grece, Perse and ek CaldeeWan and put under, so that heNoght al only of thorientBot al the Marche of thoccidentGoverneth under his empire,As he that was hol lord and Sire,And hield thurgh his chivalerieOf al this world the Monarchie,And was the ferste of that honourWhich tok the name of Emperour.

Wher Rome thanne wolde assaille,Ther myhte nothing contrevaille,Bot every contre moste obeie:Tho goth the Regne of Bras aweie,And comen is the world of Stiel,And stod above upon the whiel.As Stiel is hardest in his kyndeAbove alle othre that men findeOf Metals, such was Rome thoThe myhtieste, and laste soLong time amonges the RomeinsTil thei become so vileins,That the fals Emperour LeoWith Constantin his Sone alsoThe patrimoine and the richesse,Which to Silvestre in pure almesseThe ferste Constantinus lefte,Fro holy cherche thei berefte.Bot Adrian, which Pope was,And syh the meschief of this cas,Goth in to France forto pleigne,And preith the grete Charlemeine,For Cristes sake and Soule heleThat he wol take the quereleOf holy cherche in his defence.And Charles for the reverenceOf god the cause hath undertake,And with his host the weie takeOver the Montz of Lombardie;Of Rome and al the tirandieWith blodi swerd he overcom,And the Cite with strengthe nom;In such a wise and there he wroghte,That holy cherche ayein he broghteInto franchise, and doth restoreThe Popes lost, and yaf him more:And thus whan he his god hath served,He tok, as he wel hath deserved,The Diademe and was coroned.Of Rome and thus was abandonedThempire, which cam nevere ayeinInto the hond of no Romein;Bot a long time it stod so stilleUnder the Frensche kynges wille,Til that fortune hir whiel so ladde,That afterward Lombardz it hadde,Noght be the swerd, bot be soffranceOf him that tho was kyng of France,Which Karle Calvus cleped was;And he resigneth in this casThempire of Rome unto LowisHis Cousin, which a Lombard is.And so hit laste into the yeerOf Albert and of Berenger;Bot thanne upon dissenciounThei felle, and in divisiounAmong hemself that were grete,So that thei loste the beyeteOf worschipe and of worldes pes.Bot in proverbe nathelesMen sein, ful selden is that weltheCan soffre his oghne astat in helthe;And that was on the Lombardz sene,Such comun strif was hem betweneThurgh coveitise and thurgh Envie,That every man drowh his partie,Which myhte leden eny route,Withinne Burgh and ek withoute:The comun ryht hath no felawe,So that the governance of laweWas lost, and for necessite,Of that thei stode in such degreAl only thurgh divisioun,Hem nedeth in conclusiounOf strange londes help beside.

And thus for thei hemself divideAnd stonden out of reule unevene,Of Alemaine Princes seveneThei chose in this condicioun,That upon here elecciounThempire of Rome scholde stonde.And thus thei lefte it out of hondeFor lacke of grace, and it forsoke,That Alemans upon hem toke:And to confermen here astat,Of that thei founden in debatThei token the possessiounAfter the composiciounAmong hemself, and theruponThei made an Emperour anon,Whos name as the Cronique tellethWas Othes; and so forth it duelleth,Fro thilke day yit unto thisThempire of Rome hath ben and isTo thalemans. And in this wise,As ye tofore have herd diviseHow Daniel the swevene expondethOf that ymage, on whom he foundethThe world which after scholde falle,Come is the laste tokne of alle;Upon the feet of Erthe and StielSo stant this world now everydielDeparted; which began riht tho,Whan Rome was divided so:And that is forto rewe sore,For alway siththe more and moreThe world empeireth every day.Wherof the sothe schewe may,At Rome ferst if we beginne:The wall and al the Cit withinneStant in ruine and in decas,The feld is wher the Paleis was,The toun is wast; and overthat,If we beholde thilke astatWhich whilom was of the Romeins,Of knyhthode and of Citezeins,To peise now with that beforn,The chaf is take for the corn,As forto speke of Romes myht:Unethes stant ther oght upryhtOf worschipe or of worldes good,As it before tyme stod.And why the worschipe is aweie,If that a man the sothe seie,The cause hath ben divisioun,Which moder of confusiounIs wher sche cometh overal,Noght only of the temporalBot of the spirital also.The dede proeveth it is so,And hath do many day er this,Thurgh venym which that medled isIn holy cherche of erthly thing:For Crist himself makth knowlechingThat noman may togedre serveGod and the world, bot if he swerveFroward that on and stonde unstable;And Cristes word may noght be fable.The thing so open is at ije,It nedeth noght to specefieOr speke oght more in this matiere;Bot in this wise a man mai lereHou that the world is gon aboute,The which welnyh is wered oute,After the forme of that figureWhich Daniel in his scriptureExpondeth, as tofore is told.Of Bras, of Selver and of GoldThe world is passed and agon,And now upon his olde tonIt stant of brutel Erthe and Stiel,The whiche acorden nevere a diel;So mot it nedes swerve asideAs thing the which men sen divide.

Thapostel writ unto ous alleAnd seith that upon ous is falleThende of the world; so may we knowe,This ymage is nyh overthrowe,Be which this world was signified,That whilom was so magnefied,And now is old and fieble and vil,Full of meschief and of peril,And stant divided ek alsoLich to the feet that were so,As I tolde of the Statue above.And this men sen, thurgh lacke of loveWhere as the lond divided is,It mot algate fare amis:And now to loke on every side,A man may se the world divide,The werres ben so generalAmong the cristene overal,That every man now secheth wreche,And yet these clerkes alday precheAnd sein, good dede may non beWhich stant noght upon charite:I not hou charite may stonde,Wher dedly werre is take on honde.Bot al this wo is cause of man,The which that wit and reson can,And that in tokne and in witnesseThat ilke ymage bar liknesseOf man and of non other beste.For ferst unto the mannes hesteWas every creature ordeined,Bot afterward it was restreigned:Whan that he fell, thei fellen eke,Whan he wax sek, thei woxen seke;For as the man hath passiounOf seknesse, in comparisounSo soffren othre creatures.Lo, ferst the hevenly figures,The Sonne and Mone eclipsen bothe,And ben with mannes senne wrothe;The purest Eir for Senne alofteHath ben and is corrupt fulofte,Right now the hyhe wyndes blowe,And anon after thei ben lowe,Now clowdy and now clier it is:So may it proeven wel be this,A mannes Senne is forto hate,Which makth the welkne to debate.And forto se the propreteOf every thyng in his degree,Benethe forth among ous hiereAl stant aliche in this matiere:The See now ebbeth, now it floweth,The lond now welketh, now it groweth,Now be the Trees with leves grene,Now thei be bare and nothing sene,Now be the lusti somer floures,Now be the stormy wynter shoures,Now be the daies, now the nyhtes,So stant ther nothing al upryhtes,Now it is lyht, now it is derk;And thus stant al the worldes werkAfter the disposiciounOf man and his condicioun.Forthi Gregoire in his MoralSeith that a man in specialThe lasse world is properly:And that he proeveth redely;For man of Soule resonableIs to an Angel resemblable,And lich to beste he hath fielinge,And lich to Trees he hath growinge;The Stones ben and so is he:Thus of his propre qualiteThe man, as telleth the clergie,Is as a world in his partie,And whan this litel world mistorneth,The grete world al overtorneth.The Lond, the See, the firmament,Thei axen alle jugementAyein the man and make him werre:Therwhile himself stant out of herre,The remenant wol noght acorde:And in this wise, as I recorde,The man is cause of alle wo,Why this world is divided so.

Division, the gospell seith,On hous upon another leith,Til that the Regne al overthrowe:And thus may every man wel knowe,Division aboven alleIs thing which makth the world to falle,And evere hath do sith it began.It may ferst proeve upon a man;The which, for his complexiounIs mad upon divisiounOf cold, of hot, of moist, of drye,He mot be verray kynde dye:For the contraire of his astatStant evermore in such debat,Til that o part be overcome,Ther may no final pes be nome.Bot other wise, if a man wereMad al togedre of o matiereWithouten interrupcioun,Ther scholde no corrupciounEngendre upon that unite:Bot for ther is diversiteWithinne himself, he may noght laste,That he ne deieth ate laste.Bot in a man yit over thisFull gret divisioun ther is,Thurgh which that he is evere in strif,Whil that him lasteth eny lif:The bodi and the Soule alsoAmong hem ben divided so,That what thing that the body hatethThe soule loveth and debateth;Bot natheles fulofte is seneOf werre which is hem betweneThe fieble hath wonne the victoire.And who so drawth into memoireWhat hath befalle of old and newe,He may that werre sore rewe,Which ferst began in Paradis:For ther was proeved what it is,And what desese there it wroghte;For thilke werre tho forth broghteThe vice of alle dedly Sinne,Thurgh which division cam inneAmong the men in erthe hiere,And was the cause and the matiereWhy god the grete flodes sende,Of al the world and made an endeBot Noe with his felaschipe,Which only weren saulf be Schipe.And over that thurgh Senne it comThat Nembrot such emprise nom,Whan he the Tour Babel on heihteLet make, as he that wolde feihteAyein the hihe goddes myht,Wherof divided anon ryhtWas the langage in such entente,Ther wiste non what other mente,So that thei myhten noght procede.And thus it stant of every dede,Wher Senne takth the cause on honde,It may upriht noght longe stonde;For Senne of his condiciounIs moder of divisiounAnd tokne whan the world schal faile.For so seith Crist withoute faile,That nyh upon the worldes endePes and acord awey schol wendeAnd alle charite schal cesse,Among the men and hate encresce;And whan these toknes ben befalle,Al sodeinly the Ston schal falle,As Daniel it hath beknowe,Which al this world schal overthrowe,And every man schal thanne ariseTo Joie or elles to Juise,Wher that he schal for evere dwelle,Or straght to hevene or straght to helle.In hevene is pes and al acord,Bot helle is full of such descordThat ther may be no loveday:Forthi good is, whil a man may,Echon to sette pes with otherAnd loven as his oghne brother;So may he winne worldes weltheAnd afterward his soule helthe.

Bot wolde god that now were onAn other such as Arion,Which hadde an harpe of such temprure,And therto of so good mesureHe song, that he the bestes wildeMade of his note tame and milde,The Hinde in pes with the Leoun,The Wolf in pes with the Moltoun,The Hare in pees stod with the Hound;And every man upon this groundWhich Arion that time herde,Als wel the lord as the schepherde,He broghte hem alle in good acord;So that the comun with the lord,And lord with the comun also,He sette in love bothe tuoAnd putte awey malencolie.That was a lusti melodie,Whan every man with other low;And if ther were such on now,Which cowthe harpe as he tho dede,He myhte availe in many a stedeTo make pes wher now is hate;For whan men thenken to debate,I not what other thing is good.Bot wher that wisdom waxeth wod,And reson torneth into rage,So that mesure upon oultrageHath set his world, it is to drede;For that bringth in the comun drede,Which stant at every mannes Dore:Bot whan the scharpnesse of the sporeThe horse side smit to sore,It grieveth ofte. And now nomore,As forto speke of this matiere,Which non bot only god may stiere.