Piers Ploughman

In a somer seson,Whan softe was the sonne,I shoop me into shroudesAs I a sheep weere,In habite as an heremiteUnholy of werkes,Wente wide in this worldWondres to here;Ac on a May morwenyngeOn Malverne hillesMe bifel a ferly,Of fairye me thoghte.I was wery for-wandred,And wente me to resteUnder a brood bankBy a bournes syde;And as I lay and lenede,And loked on the watres,I slombred into a slepyng,It sweyed so murye.

Thanne gan I metenA merveillous swevene,That I was in a wildernesse,Wiste I nevere where,And as I biheeld into the eestAn heigh to the sonne,I seigh a tour on a toftTrieliche y-maked,A deep dale bynethe,A dongeon therinne,With depe diches and derkeAnd dredfulle of sighte.A fair feeld ful of folkFond I ther bitwene,Of alle manere of men,The meene and the riche,Werchynge and wandrynge,As the world asketh.

Some putten hem to the plough,Pleiden ful selde,In settynge and sowyngeSwonken ful harde,And wonnen that wastoursWith glotonye destruyeth.

And somme putten hem to pride,Apparailed hem therafter,In contenaunce of clothyngeComen degised.

In preires and penauncesPutten hem manye,Al for the love of oure LordLyveden ful streyte,In hope to have afterHevene riche blisse;As ancres and heremitesThat holden hem in hire selles,And coveiten noght in contreeTo carien aboute,For no likerous liflodeHire likame to plese.

And somme chosen chaffare;Thei cheveden the bettre,As it semeth to our sightThat swiche men thryveth.

And somme murthes to make,As mynstralles konne,And geten gold with hire glee,Giltles, I leeve.

Ac japeres and jangeleres,Judas children,Feynen hem fantasies,And fooles hem maketh,And han hire wit at willeTo werken, if thei wolde.That Poul precheth of hemI wol nat preve it here;But Qui loquitur turpiloquiumIs Luciferes hyne.

Bidderes and beggeresFaste aboute yede,With hire belies and hire baggesOf breed ful y-crammed;Faiteden for hire foode,Foughten at the ale.In glotonye, God woot,Go thei to bedde,And risen with ribaudie,Tho Roberdes knaves;Sleep and sory sleutheSeweth hem evere.

Pilgrymes and palmeresPlighten hem togidere,For to seken seint Jame,And seintes at Rome.They wenten forth in hire wey,With many wise tales,And hadden leve to lyenAl hire lif after.

I seigh somme that seidenThei hadde y-sought seintes;To ech a tale that thei toldeHire tonge was tempred to lye,Moore than to seye sooth,It semed bi hire speche.

Heremytes on an heepWith hoked stavesWenten to Walsyngham,And hire wenches after,Grete lobies and longeThat lothe were to swynke;Clothed hem in copes,To ben knowen from othere;And shopen hem heremytes,Hire ese to have.

I fond there freres,Alle the foure ordres,Prechynge the pepleFor profit of hemselve;Glosed the gospel,As hem good liked;For coveitise of copes,Construwed it as thei wolde.Many of thise maistre freresNow clothen hem at likyng,For hire moneie and hire marchaundizeMarchen togideres.For sith charité hath ben chapman,And chief to shryve lordes,Manye ferlies han fallenIn a fewe yeres;But holy chirche and hiiHolde bettre togidres,The mooste meschief on moldeIs mountynge wel faste.

Ther preched a pardoner,As he a preest were;Broughte forth a bulleWith many bisshopes seles,And seide that hymself myghteAssoillen hem alle,Of falshede, of fastynge,Of avowes y-broken.

Lewed men leved it wel,And liked hise wordes;Comen up knelyngeTo kissen hise bulles.He bouched hem with his brevet,And blered hire eighen,And raughte with his ragemanRynges and broches.

Thus thei gyven hire goldGlotons to kepe,And leveth in swiche loselsAs leccherie haunten.

Were the bisshope y-blessed,And worth bothe hise eris,His seel sholde noght be sentTo deceyve the peple.Ac it is noght by the bisshopeThat the boy precheth;For the parisshe preest and the pardonerParten the silver,That the poraille of the parissheSholde have, if thei ne were.

Parsons and parisshe preestesPleyned hem to the bisshope,That hire parisshes weren povereSith the pestilence tyme,To have a licence and leveAt London to dwelle,And syngen ther for symonie;For silver is swete.

Bisshopes and bachelers,Bothe maistres and doctours,That han cure under Crist,And crownynge in tokeneAnd signe that thei sholdenShryven hire parisshens,Prechen and praye for hem,And the povere fede,Liggen at LondoneIn Lenten and ellis.

Somme serven the kyng,And his silver tellenIn cheker and in chauncelrie,Chalangen hise dettesOf wardes and of wardemotes,Weyves and streyves.

And somme serven as servauntzLordes and ladies,And in stede of stywardesSitten and demen;Hire messe and hire matynsAnd many of hire houresArn doon un-devoutliche;Drede is at the laste,Lest Crist in consistorieA-corse ful manye.

I perceyved of the powerThat Peter hadde to kepe,To bynden and unbynden,As the book telleth;How he it lefte with love,As oure Lord highte,Amonges foure vertues,The beste of alle vertues,That cardinals ben called,And closynge yates.There is Crist in his kingdomTo close and to shette,And to opene it to hem,And hevene blisse shewe.

Ac of the cardinals at courtThat kaughte of that name,And power presumed in hemA pope to make,To han that power that Peter hadde,Impugnen I nelle;For in love and in lettrureThe election bilongeth,For-thi I kan and kan naughtOf court speke moore.

Thanne kam ther a kyng,Knyghthod hym ladde,Might of the communesMade hym to regne.

And thanne cam kynde wit,And clerkes he made,For to counseillen the kyng,And the commune save.

The kyng and knyghthod,And clergie bothe,Casten that the communeSholde hemself fynde.

The commune contrevedOf kynde wit craftes,And for profit of al the peplePlowmen ordeyned,To tilie and to travaille,As trewe lif asketh.

The kyng and the commune,And kynde wit the thridde,Shopen lawe and leauté,Ech man to knowe his owene.

Thanne loked up a lunatik,A leene thyng with-alle,And, knelynge to the kyng,Clergially he seide:

"Crist kepe thee, sire kyng!And thi kyng-ryche,And lene thee lede thi lond,So leauté thee lovye,And for thi rightful rulyngBe rewarded in hevene."

And sithen in the eyr an heighAn aungel of heveneLowed to speke in Latyn,For lewed men ne koudeJangle ne jugge,That justifie hem sholde,But suffren and serven;For-thi seide the aungel:Sum rex, sum princeps,Neutrum fortasse deinceps;O qui jura regisChristi specialia regis,Hoc quod agas melius,Justus es, esto pius.Nudum jus a teVestiri vult pietate;Qualia vis metere,Talia grana sere.Si jus nudatur,Nudo de jure metatur;Si seritur pietas,De pietate metas.

Thanne greved hym a goliardeis,A gloton of wordes,And to the aungel an heighAnswerde after:Dum rex a regereDicatur nomen habere;Nomen habet sine re,Nisi studet jura tenere.

Thanne gan al the communeCrye in vers of Latyn,To the kynges counseil;Construe who so wolde:Præcepta regisSunt nobis vincula legis.

With that ran ther a routeOf ratons at ones,And smale mees myd hemMo than a thousand,And comen to a counseilFor the commune profit;For a cat of a contreeCam whan hym liked,And overleep hem lightliche,And laughte hem at his wille,And pleide with hem perillousli,And possed aboute."For doute of diverse dredes,We dar noght wel loke;And if we grucche of his gamen,He wol greven us alle,Cracchen us or clawen us,And in hise clouches holde,That us lotheth the lifEr he late us passe.Mighte we with any witHis wille withstonde,We mighte be lordes o-lofte,And lyven at oure ese."

A raton of renoun,Moost renable of tonge,Seide for a sovereynHelp to hymselve:

"I have y-seyen segges," quod he"In the cité of Londone,Beren beighes ful brighteAbouten hire nekkes,And somme colers of crafty werk;Uncoupled thei wentenBothe in wareyne and in waastWhere hemself liked.And outher while thei arn ellis-where,As I here telle;Were ther a belle on hire beighe,By Jhesu, as me thynketh,Men myghte witen wher thei wente,And awey renne!"

"And right so," quod that raton,"Reson me sheweth,To bugge a belle of bras,Or of bright silver,And knytten it on a colerFor oure commune profit,Wher he ryt or rest,Or renneth to pleye;And if hym list for to laike,Thanne loke we mowen,And peeren in his presenceThe while him pleye liketh:And, if hym wratheth, be war,And his way shonye."

Al this route of ratonsTo this reson thei assented.Ac tho the belle was y-brought,And on the beighe hanged,Ther ne was raton in al the route,For al the reaume of Fraunce,That dorste have bounden the belleAbout the cattes nekke,Ne hangen it aboute the cattes hals,Al Engelond to wynne.Alle helden hem un-hardy,And hir counseil feble;And leten hire labour lostAnd al hire longe studie.

A mous that muche goodKouthe, as me thoughte,Strook forth sternely,And stood bifore hem alle,And to the route of ratonsReherced thise wordes:

"Though we killen the cat,Yet sholde ther come anotherTo cacchen us and al oure kynde,Though we cropen under benches.For-thi I counseille al the communeTo late the cat worthe;And be we nevere boldeThe belle hym to shewe;For I herde my sire seyn,Is seven yeer y-passed,Ther the cat is a kitoneThe court is ful elenge;That witnesseth holy writ,Who so wole it rede:Væ terræ ubi puer rex est! etc.For may no renk ther reste haveFor ratons by nyghte;The while he caccheth conynges,He coveiteth noght youre caroyne,But fedeth hym al with venyson:Defame we hym nevere.For better is a litel losThan a long sorwe,The maze among us alle,Theigh we mysse a sherewe;For many mennes maltWe mees wolde destruye,And also ye route of ratonsRende mennes clothes,Nere the cat of that courtThat can yow over-lepe;For hadde ye rattes youre wille,Ye kouthe noght rule yow selve."

"I seye for me," quod the mous,"I se so muchel after,Shal nevere the cat ne the kitonBy my counseil be greved,Thorugh carpynge of this colerThat costed me nevereAnd though it hadde costned me catel,Bi-knowen it I nolde,But suffren, as hymself wolde,To doon as hym liketh,Coupled and uncoupledTo cacche what thei mowe.For-thi ech a wis wight I warne,Wite wel his owene."

What this metels by-meneth,Ye men that ben muryeDevyne ye, for I ne dar,By deere God in hevene.

Yet hoved ther an hundredIn howves of selk,Sergeantz it bi-semedThat serveden at the barre,Pleteden for penyesAnd poundes the lawe;And noght for love of our LordUnclose hire lippes ones.Thow myghtest bettre meete mystOn Malverne hilles,Than gete a mom of hire mouth,Til moneie be shewed.

Barons and burgeises,And bonde-men als,I seigh in this assemblee,As ye shul here after:Baksteres and brewesteres,And bochiers manye;Wollen webbesters,And weveres of lynnen,Taillours and tynkers,And tollers in markettes,Masons and mynours,And many othere craftes.Of alle kynne lybbynge laborersLopen forth somme,As dikeres and delveres,That doon hire dedes ille,And dryveth forth the longe dayWith Dieu save dame Emme.

Cokes and hire knavesCryden, "Hote pies, hote!Goode gees and grys!Gowe, dyne, gowe!"

Taverners until hemTrewely tolden the same,Whit wyn of Oseye,And reed wyn of Gascoigne,Of the Ryn and of the Rochel,The roost to defie.

What this mountaigne by-menethAnd the merke dale,And the feld ful of folk,I shal yow faire shewe.

A lovely lady of leere,In lynnen y-clothed,Cam doun from a castelAnd called me faire,And seide, "Sone, slepestow?Sestow this peple,How bisie thei benAlle aboute the maze?The mooste partie of this pepleThat passeth on this erthe,Have thei worship in this world,Thei wilne no bettre;Of oother hevene than hereHolde thei no tale."

I was a-fered of hire face,Theigh she fair weere,And seide, "Mercy, madame,What is this to meene?"

"The tour on the toft," quod she,"Truthe is therinne;And wolde that ye wroughte,As his word techeth!For he is fader of feith,And formed yow alleBothe with fel and with face,And yaf yow fyve wittes,For to worshipe hym therwith,While that ye ben here.And therfore he highte the ertheTo helpe yow echone,Of wollene, of lynnen,Of liflode at nede,In mesurable manereTo make yow at ese;And comaunded of his curteisieIn commune three thynges,Are none nedfulle but tho,And nempne hem I thynke,And rekene hem by reson;Reherce thow hem after.

"That oon vesture,From cold thee to save;And mete at meelFor mysese of thiselve;And drynke whan thow driest;Ac do noght out of reson,That thow worthe the wersWhan thow werche sholdest.

"For Lot in hise lif-dayes,For likynge of drynke,Dide by hise doughtresThat the devel liked,Delited hym in drynkeAs the devel wolde,And leccherie hym laughte,And lay by hem bothe,And al he witte it the wynThat wikked dede.Inebriamus eum vino, dormiamusquecum eo, ut servare possimus depatre nostro semen.Thorugh wyn and thorugh wommenTher was Loth acombred,And there gat in glotonieGerles that were cherles.

"For-thi dred delitable drynke,And thow shalt do the bettre.Mesure is medicine,Though thow muchel yerne.It is nought al good to the goostThat the gut asketh,Ne liflode to thi likame;For a liere hym techeth,That is the wrecched worldWolde thee bitraye.For the fend and thi flessheFolwen togidere.This and that seeth thi soule,And seith it in thin herte;And for thow sholdest ben y-war,I wisse thee the beste."

"Madame, mercy!" quod I,"Me liketh wel youre wordes;Ac the moneie of this moldeThat men so faste holdeth,Tel me to whom, madame,That tresour appendeth."

"Go to the gospel," quod she,"That God seide hymselven;Tho the poeple hym apposedeWith a peny in the temple,Wheither thei sholde therwithWorshipe the kyng Cesar.

"And God asked of hym,Of whom spak the lettre,And the ymage was likThat therinne stondeth.

"'Cesares,' thei seiden,'We seen it wel echone.'

"'Reddite Cæsari,' quod God,'That Cæsari bifalleth,Et quæ sunt Dei Deo,'Or ellis ye don ille;For rightfully resonSholde rule yow alle,And kynde wit be wardeynYoure welthe to kepe,And tutour of youre tresor,And take it yow at nede,For housbondrie and hiiHolden togidres."

Thanne I frayned hire faire,For hym that me made,"That dongeon in the dale,That dredful is of sighte,What may it be to meene,Madame, I yow biseche?"

"That is the castel of Care;Who so comth therinneMay banne that he born was,To bodi or to soule.Therinne wonyeth a wightThat Wrong is y-hote,Fader of falshede,And founded it hymselve.Adam and EveHe egged to ille;Counseilled KaymTo killen his brother;Judas he japedWith Jewen silver,And sithen on an ellerHanged hymselve.He is lettere of love,And lieth hem alleThat trusten on his tresour;Bitrayeth he hem sonnest."

Thanne hadde I wonder in my witWhat womman it weere,That swiche wise wordesOf holy writ shewed;And asked hire on the heighe name,Er she thennes yede,What she were witterlyThat wissed me so faire.

"Holi chirche I am," quod she,"Thow oughtest me to knowe;I underfeng thee first,And the feith taughte;And broughtest me borwesMy biddyng to fulfille,And to loven me leellyThe while thi lif dureth."

Thanne I courbed on my knees,And cried hire of grace;And preide hire pitouslyPreye for my sinnes,And also kenne me kyndelyOn Crist to bi-leve,That I myghte werchen his willeThat wroghte me to man."Teche me to no tresor,But tel me this ilke,How I may save my soule,That seint art y-holden."

"Whan alle tresors arn tried," quod she,"Treuthe is the beste;I do it on Deus caritas,To deme the sothe,It is as dereworthe a druryAs deere God hymselven.

"Who is trewe of his tonge,And telleth noon oother,And dooth the werkes therwith,And wilneth no man ille,He is a God by the gospelA-grounde and o-lofte,And y-lik to oure Lord,By seint Lukes wordes.The clerkes that knowen this,Sholde kennen it aboute,For cristen and un-cristenCleymeth it echone.

"Kynges and knyghtesSholde kepen it by reson,Riden and rappen dounIn reaumes aboute,And taken transgressores,And tyen hem faste,Til treuthe hadde y-termynedHire trespas to the ende.And that is profession apertliThat apendeth to knyghtes;And naught to fasten o fridayIn fyve score wynter,But holden with hym and with hereThat wolden alle truthe,And nevere leve hem for loveNe for lacchynge of silver.For David in hise dayesDubbed knyghtes,And dide hem sweren on hir swerdesTo serven truthe evere;And who so passed that pointWas apostata in the ordre.

"But Crist kyngene kyngKnyghted ten,Cherubyn and seraphyn,Swiche sevene and othereAnd yaf hem myght in his majestee,The murier hem thoughte,And over his meene meyneeMade hem archangeles;Taughte hem by the TriniteeTreuthe to knowe;To be buxom at his biddyng,He bad hem nought ellis.

"Lucifer with legionsLerned it in hevene;But for he brak buxomnesseHis blisse gan he tyne,And fel fro that felawshipeIn a fendes liknesse,Into a deep derk helle,To dwelle there for evere;And mo thousandes myd hymThan man kouthe nombreLopen out with LuciferIn lothliche forme,For thei leveden upon hymThat lyed in this manere:Ponam pedem in aquilone, et similis ero altissimo. =

"And alle that hoped it myghte be so,Noon hevene myghte hem holde,But fellen out in fendes liknesseNyne dayes togideres,Til God of his goodnesseGan stablisse and stynte,And garte the hevene to stekieAnd stonden in quiete.

"Whan thise wikkede wenten out,In wonder wise thei fellen;Somme in the eyr, somme in erthe,And somme in helle depe;Ac Lucifer lowest lithYet of hem alle,For pride that he putte out,His peyne hath noon ende.And alle that werchen with wrong,Wende thei shulle,After hir deth dayAnd dwelle with that sherewe.

"And tho that werche wel,As holy writ telleth,And enden as I er seideIn truthe, that is the beste,Mowe be siker that hire soulesShul wende to hevene,Ther treuthe is in trinitee,And troneth hem alle.For-thi I seye, as I seyde er,By sighte of thise textes,Whan alle tresors arn tried,Truthe is the beste;Lereth it thise lewed men,For lettred men it knoweth,That treuthe is tresorThe trieste on erthe."

"Yet have I no kynde knowyng." quod I,"Ye mote kenne me bettre,By what craft in my corsIt comseth, and where."

"Thow doted daffe," quod she,"Dulle are thi wittes;To litel Latyn thow lernedest,Leode, in thi youthe."Heu michi! quia sterilem duxi vitam juvenilem. =

"It is a kynde knowyng," quod she,"That kenneth in thyn herte,For to loven thi LordLevere than thiselve,No dedly synne to do,Deye theigh thow sholdest;This I trowe be truthe.Who kan teche thee bettre,Loke thow suffre hym to seye,And sithen lere it after;For truthe telleth that loveIs triacle of hevene.May no synne be on hym seene,That useth that spice,And alle hise werkes be wroughteWith love as hym liste;And lered it Moyses for the leveste thyng,And moost lik to hevene,And al so the plentee of peesMoost precious of vertues;For hevene myghte nat holden it,It was so hevy of hymself,Til it hadde of the ertheEten his fille.

"And whan it hadde of this foldFlesshe and blood taken,Was nevere leef upon lyndeLighter therafter,And portatif and persauntAs the point of a nedle,That myghte noon armure it lette,Ne none heighe walles.

"For-thi is love ledereOf the Lordes folk of hevene,And a meene, as the mair isBitwene the kyng and the commune;Right so is love a ledere,And the law shapeth,Upon man for hise mysdedesThe mercyment he taxeth.And for to knowen it kyndelyIt comseth by myght,And in the herte there is the heedAnd the heighe welle;For in kynde knowynge in herte,Ther a myght bigynneth;And that falleth to the faderThat formed us alle,Loked on us with love,And leet his sone dyeMekely for oure mysdedes,To amenden us alle.And yet wolde he hem no woThat wroughte hym that peyne,But mekely with moutheMercy bisoughte,To have pité of that pepleThat peyned hym to dethe.

"There myghtow sen ensampleIn hymself oone,That he was myghtful and meke,And mercy gan graunteTo hem that hengen hym on heighAnd his herte thirled.

"For-thi I rede yow, riche,Haveth ruthe of the povere;Though ye be myghtful to mote,Beeth meke in youre werkes,For the same mesures that ye mete,Amys outher ellis,Ye shulle ben weyen therwithWhan ye wenden hennes.Eadem mensura qua mensi fueritis, remetietur vobis. =

"For though ye be trewe of youre tongeAnd treweliche wynne,And as chaste as a childThat in chirche wepeth,But if ye loven leellyAnd lene the povere,Swich good as God yow sentGoodliche parteth,Ye ne have namoore meriteIn masse nor in houres,Than Malkyn of hire maydenhedeThat no man desireth.

"For James the gentileJugged in hise bokes,That feith withouten the feetIs right no thyng worthi,And as deed as a dore-tree,But if the dedes folwe.Fides sine operibus mortua est, etc.

"For-thi chastité withouten charitéWorth cheyned in helle;It is as lewed as a lampeThat no light is inne.Manye chapeleyns arn chaste,Ac charité is aweye;Are no men avarouser than hiiWhan thei ben avaunced,Unkynde to hire kyn,And to alle cristeneChewen hire charité,And chiden after moore;Swiche chastité withouten charitéWorth cheyned in helle.

"Manye curatours kepen hemClene of hire bodies;Thei ben acombred with coveitise,Thei konne noght doon it from hem,So harde hath avariceY-hasped hem togideres;And that is no truthe of the Trinité,But tricherie of helle,And lernynge to lewed menThe latter for to deele.For-thi thise wordesBen writen in the gospel,Date, et dabitur vobis,For I deele yow alle,And that is the lok of love,And leteth out my grace,To conforten the carefulleA-combred with synne.

"Love is leche of lif,And next oure Lord selve,And also the graithe gateThat goth into hevene;For-thi I seye, as I seideEr by the textes,Whan alle tresors ben tried,Treuthe is the beste.

"Now have I told thee what truthe is,That no tresor is bettre;I may no lenger lenge thee with,Now loke thee oure Lorde."

Yet I courbed on my knees,And cried hire of grace,And seide, "Mercy, madame,For Marie love of hevene,That bar that blisful barnThat boughte us on the rode,Kenne me by som craftTo knowe the false."

"Loke up on thi left half,And lo where he stondeth!Bothe Fals and Favel,And hire feeres manye."

I loked on my left half,As the lady me taughte,And was war of a wommanWorthiliche y-clothed,Purfiled with pelureThe fyneste upon erthe,Y-corouned with a coroune,The kyng hath noon bettre;Fetisliche hire fyngresWere fretted with gold wyr,And theron rede rubiesAs rede as any gleede,And diamaundes of derrest pris,And double manere saphires,Orientals and ewages,Envenymes to destroye.

Hire robe was ful riche,Of reed scarlet engreyned,With ribanes of reed goldAnd of riche stones.Hire array me ravysshed,Swich richesse saugh I nevere;I hadde wonder what she was,And whos wif she were.

"What is this womman," quod I,"So worthili atired?"

"That is Mede the mayde," quod she,"Hath noyed me ful ofte,And y-lakked my lemmanThat Leautee is hoten,And bi-lowen hire to lordesThat lawes han to kepe.

"In the popes paleisShe is pryvee as myselve;But soothnesse wolde noght so,For she is a bastarde;For fals was hire faderThat hath a fikel tonge,And nevere sooth seideSithen he com to erthe;And Mede is manered after hym,Right as kynde askethQualis pater talis filius.Bonus arbor bonum fructum facit.

"I oughte ben hyere than she,I kam of a bettre;My fader the grete God isAnd ground of alle graces,So God withouten gynnyng,And I his goode doughter,And hath yeven me mercyTo marie with myselve,And what man be mercifulAnd leelly me love,Shal be my lord and I his leefIn the heighe hevene.

"And what man taketh Mede,Myn heed dar I legge,That he shal lese for hire loveA lappe of caritatis.

"How construeth David the kingOf men that taketh Mede,And men of this mooldeThat maynteneth truthe,And how ye shul save yourself,The sauter bereth witnesse:Domine, quis habitabit in tabernaculo tuo, etc. =

"And now worth this Mede y-mariedUnto a mansed sherewe,To oon fals fikel tonge,A fendes biyete;Favel thorugh his faire specheHath this folk enchaunted,And al is Lieres ledynge,That she is thus y-wedded.

"To-morwe worth y-makedThe maydenes bridale,And there myghtow witen, if thow wilt,Whiche thei ben alleThat longen to that lordshipe,The lasse and the moore.Knowe hem there, if thow kanst,And kepe thow thi tonge,And lakke hem noght, but lat hem wortheTill leauté be justice,And have power to punysshe hem,Thanne put forth thi reson.Now I bikenne thee Crist," quod she,"And his clene moder,And lat no conscience acombre theeFor coveitise of Mede."

Thus lefte me that ladyLiggynge a-slepe;And how Mede was y-mariedIn metels me thoughte,That al the riche retenaunceThat regneth with the false,Were boden to the bridaleOn bothe two sides,Of alle manere of menThe meene and the riche;To marien this maydeWere many men assembled,As of knyghtes and of clerkes,And oother commune peple,As sisours and somonours,Sherreves and hire clerkes,Bedelles and baillifs,And brocours of chaffare,Forgoers and vitaillers,And advokettes of the arches;I kan noght rekene the routeThat ran aboute Mede.

Ac Symonie and Cyvylle,And sisours of courtes,Were moost pryvee with MedeOf any men, me thoughte.Ac Favel was the firsteThat fette hire out of boure,And as a brocour broughte hireTo be with Fals enjoyned.

Whan Symonye and CyvylleSeighe hir bothe wille,Thei assented, for silver,To seye as bothe wolde.

Thanne leep Liere forth, and seide,"Lo here a chartre!"That Gile with hise grete othesGaf hem togidere,And preide Cyvylle to see,And Symonye to rede it.

Thanne Symonye and CyvylleStonden forth bothe,And unfoldeth the feffementThat Fals hath y-maked,And thus bigynnen thise gomesTo greden ful heighe:Sciant præsentes et futuri, etc.

Witeth and witnesseth,That wonieth upon this erthe,That Mede is y-mariedMoore for hire goodesThan for any vertue or fairnesse,Or any free kynde.Falsnesse is fayn of hire,For he woot hire riche;And Favel with his fikel specheFeffeth by this chartre,To be princes in prideAnd poverte to despise,To bakbite and to bosten,And bere fals witnesse,To scorne and to scolde,And sclaundre to make,Unbuxome and boldeTo breke the ten hestes.

And the erldom of EnvyeAnd Wrathe togideres,With the chastilet of Cheste,And Chaterynge out of reson.

The countee of Coveitise,And alle the costes aboute,That is Usure and Avarice,Al I hem graunte,In bargaynes and in brocages,With al the burghe of Thefte,

And al the lordshipe of LeccherieIn lengthe and in brede,As in werkes and in wordes,And in waitynges with eighes,And in wedes and in wisshynges,And with ydel thoughtes,There as wil woldeAnd werkmanshipe fayleth.

Glotonye he gaf hem ek,And grete othes togidere,And al day to drynkenAt diverse tavernes,And there to jangle and jape,And jugge hir even cristen;And in fastynge dayes to freteEr ful tyme were,And thanne to sitten and soupenTil sleep hem assaille;And breden as burghe swyn,And bedden hem esily,Til sleuthe and sleepSliken hise sydes,And thanne wanhope to awaken hem soWith no wil to amende,For he leveth be lost,This is hir laste ende.

And thei to have and to holde,And hire heires after,A dwellynge with the devel,And dampned be for evere,With alle the appurtinaunces of purgatorie =Into the pyne of helle.

Yeldynge for this thyng,At one dayes tyme,Hire soules to Sathan,To suffre with hym peynes,And with hym to wonye with woWhile God is in hevene.

In witnesse of which thyng,Wrong was the firste,And Piers the pardonerOf Paulynes doctrine,Bette the bedelOf Bokyngham shire,Reynald the reveOf Rutland sokene,Maude the millere,And many mo othere.

In the date of the develThis dede I ensele,By sighte of Sire SymonieAnd Cyvyles leeve.

Thanne tened hym Theologie,Whan he this tale herde;And seide unto Cyvyle,"Now sorwe mote thow have,Swiche weddynges to werche,To wrathe with truthe;And er this weddynge be wroght,Wo thee bitide!

"For Mede is muliereOf Amendes engendred,And God graunteth to gyveMede to Truthe;And thow hast gyven hire to a gilour;Now God gyve thee sorwe!Thi text telleth thee noght so,Truthe woot the sothe;For Dignus est operariusHis hire to have,And thow hast fest hire to Fals,Fy on thi lawe!For al bi lesynges thow lyvestAnd lecherouse werkes.Symonye and thiselfShenden holi chirche;The notaries and yeNoyen the peple;Ye shul a-biggen it bothe,By God that me made!

"Wel ye witen, wernardes,But if youre wit faille,That Fals is feithleesAnd fikel in hise werkes,And was a bastarde y-boreOf Belsabubbes kynne;And Mede is muliere,A maiden of goode,And myghte kisse the kyngFor cosyn, and she wolde.

"For-thi wercheth by wisdom,And by wit also;And ledeth hire to Londone,There it is y-shewed,If any lawe wol lokeThei ligge togideres;And though justices juggen hireTo be joyned to Fals,Yet be war of weddynge;For witty is Truthe,And Conscience is of his counseil,And knoweth yow echone,And if he fynde yow in defauteAnd with the false holde,It shal bi-sitte youre soulesFul soure at the laste."

Herto assenteth Cyvyle,Ac Symonye ne wolde,Til he hadde silver for his service,And also the notaries.

Thanne fette Favel forthFloryns ynowe,And bad Gile to gyvenGold al aboute,And namely to the notariesThat hem noon ne faille,And feffe false witnessesWith floryns ynowe,"For thei may Mede a-maistrye,And maken at my wille."

Tho this gold was y-gyve,Gret was the thonkyngTo Fals and to FavelFor hire faire giftes,And comen to confortenFrom care the false,And seiden, "Certes, sire,Cessen shul we nevere,Til Mede be thi wedded wifThorugh wittes of us alle;For we have Mede a-maistriedWith oure murie speche,That she graunteth to goon,With a good wille,To London, to lokenIf the lawe woldeJuggen yow joyntlyIn joie for evere."

Thanne was Falsnesse fayn,And Favel as blithe,And leten somone alle seggesIn shires aboute,And bad hem alle be bown,Beggers and othere,To wenden with hem to WestmynstreTo witnesse this dede.

Ac thanne cared thei for caplesTo carien hem thider,And Favel fette forth thanneFoles ynowe,And sette Mede upon a sherreveShoed al newe.

And Fals sat on a sisour,That softeli trotted;And Favel on a flaterereFetisly atired.

Tho hadde notaries none,Anoyed thei were,For Symonye and CyvylleSholde on hire feet gange.

Ac thanne swoor Symonye,And Cyvylle bothe,That somonours sholde be sadeledAnd serven hem echone,And late apparaille thise provisoursIn palfreyes wise,Sire Symonye hymselfShal sitte upon hir bakkes.

"Denes and southdenes,Drawe yow togideres,Erchdekenes and officials,And alle youre registrers,Lat sadle hem with silverOure synne to suffre,As avoutrye and divorses,And derne usurie,To bere bisshopes abouteA-brood in visitynge.

"Paulynes pryveesFor pleintes in consistorie,Shul serven myselfThat Cyvyle is nempned.

"And cart-sadle the commissarie,Oure cart shal he lede,And fecchen us vitailles.At Fornicatores.And maketh of Lyere a lang cartTo leden alle thise othere,As freres and faitours,That on hire feet rennen."

And thus Fals and FavelFareth forth togideres,And Mede in the middes,And alle thise men after.

I have no tome to telleThe tail that hire folwed;Ac Gyle was for-goer,And gyed hem alle.

Sothnesse seigh hem wel,And seide but litel,And priked his palfrey,And passed hem alle,And com to the kynges court,And Conscience it tolde;And Conscience to the kyngCarped it after.

"Now, by Crist," quod the kyng,"And I cacche myghteFals or Favel,Or any of hise feeris,I wolde be wroken of tho wrecchesThat wercheth so ille,And doon hem hange by the hals,And alle that hem maynteneth;Shal nevere man of this moldeMeynprise the leeste,But right as the lawe wol loke,Lat falle on hem alle."

And comaunded a constableThat com at the firste,To attachen tho tyrauntz,"For any thyng I hote,And fettreth faste Falsnesse,For any kynnes giftes,And girdeth of Gyles heed,And lat hym go no ferther;And if ye lacche Lyere,Lat hym noght ascapenEr he be put on the pillory,For any preyere, I hote;And bryngeth Mede to meMaugree hem alle."

Drede at the dore stood,And the doom herde,And how the kyng comaundedConstables and sergeauntzFalsnesse and his felawshipeTo fettren and to bynden.

Thanne Drede wente wyghtliche,And warned the False,And bad hym fle for fere,And hise felawes alle.

Falsnesse for fere thanneFleigh to the ffreres,And Gyle dooth hym to go,A-gast for to dye;Ac marchauntz metten with hymAnd made hym abide,And bi-shetten hym in hire shoppesTo shewen hire ware,Apparailed hym as apprenticeThe peple to serve.

Lightliche LyereLeep awey thanne,Lurkynge thorugh lanes,To-lugged of manye.He was nowher welcome,For his manye tales,Over al y-honted,And y-hote trusse,Til pardoners hadde pité,And pulled hym into house.They wesshen hym and wiped hym.And wounden hym in cloutes,And senten hym with selesOn Sondayes to chirches,And yeven pardoun for pensPounde-mele aboute.

Thanne lourede leches,And lettres thei sente,That he sholde wonye with hemWatres to loke.

Spycers speken with hym,To spien hire ware;For he kouthe of hir craft,And knewe manye gommes.

And mynstrales and messagersMette with hym ones,And helden hym an half-yeerAnd ellevene dayes.

Freres with fair specheFetten hym pennes,And for knowynge of comeresCoped hym as a frere;Ac he hath leve to lepen out,As ofte as hym liketh,And is welcome whan he wile,And woneth with hem ofte.

Alle fledden for fere,And flowen into hernes;Save Mede the mayde,Na-mo dorste abide.Ac trewely to telle,She trembled for drede,And ek wepte and wrong,Whan she was attached.

Now is Mede the mayde,And na-mo of hem alle,With bedeles and with bailliesBrought bifore the kyng.

The kyng called a clerk,Kan I noght his name,To take Mede the maideAnd maken hire at ese."I shal assayen hire myself,And soothliche appose,What man of this mooldeThat hire were levest.And if she werche bi wit,And my wil folwe,I wol forgyven hire this gilt,So me God helpe!"

Curteisly the clerk thanne,As the kyng highte,Took Mede bi the myddelAnd broghte hire into chambre;And ther was murthe and mynstralcie,Mede to plese.

They that wonyeth in Westmynstre =Worshipeth hire alle,Gentilliche with joye;The justices sommeBusked hem to the bourTher the burde dwellede,To conforten hire kyndely,By clergies leve;And seiden, "Mourne noght, Mede,Ne make thow no sorwe;For we wol wisse the kyng,And thi wey shape,To be wedded at thi wille,And wher thee leef liketh,For al Consciences castOr craft, as I trowe."

Mildely Mede thanneMerciede hem alleOf hire grete goodnesse,And gaf hem echoneCoupes of clene gold,And coppes of silver,Rynges with rubies,And richesses manye;The leeste man of hire meyneeA moton of golde.Than laughte thei leveThise lordes at Mede.

With that comen clerkesTo conforten hire the same,And beden hire be blithe;"For we beth thyne owene,For to werche thi wille,The while thow myght laste."

Hendiliche heo thanneBi-highte hem the same,To loven hem lelly,And lordes to make,And in the consistorie at the courtDo callen hire names;"Shal no lewednesse letteThe leode that I lovye,That he ne worth first avaunced;For I am bi-knowen,There konnynge clerkesShul clokke bi-hynde."

Thanne cam ther a confessour,Coped as a frere;To Mede the maydeHe meved thise wordes,And seide ful softely,In shrift as it were,"Theigh lewed men and lered menHadde leyen by thee bothe,And Falsnesse hadde y-folwed theeAlle thise fifty wynter,I shal assoille thee myselfFor a seem of whete,And also be thi bedeman,And bere wel thi messageAmonges knyghtes and clerkes,Conscience to torne."

Thanne Mede for hire mysdedesTo that man kneled,And shrof hire of hire sherewednesse,Shamelees, I trowe;Tolde hym a tale,And took hym a noble,For to ben hire bedemanAnd hire brocour als.

Thanne he assoiled hire soone,And sithen he seide,"We have a wyndow in werchyngeWole sitten us ful hye,Woldestow glaze that gableAnd grave therinne thy name,Syker sholde thi soule beHevene to have."

"Wiste I that," quod that womman,"I wolde noght spareFor to be youre frend, frere,And faile yow nevere,While ye love lordesThat lecherie haunten,And lakketh noght ladiesThat loven wel the same.It is freletee of flesshe,Ye fynden it in bokes,And a cours of kyndeWherof we comen alle.Who may scape sclaundre,The scathe is soone amended;It is synne of the seveneSonnest relessed.

"Have mercy," quod Mede,"Of men that it haunteth,And I shal covere youre kirk,Youre cloistre do maken,Wowes do whiten,And wyndowes glazen,Do peynten and portraye,And paie for the makynge,That every segge shal seyeI am suster of youre house."

Ac God to alle good folkSwich gravynge defendeth,To writen in wyndowesOf hir wel dedes,An aventure pride be peynted there,And pomp of the world;For Crist knoweth thi conscience,And thi kynde wille,And thi cost and thi coveitise,And who the catel oughte.

For-thi I lere yow, lordes,Leveth swiche werkes;To writen in wyndowesOf youre wel dedes,Or to greden after Goddes menWhan ye dele doles,On aventure ye have youre hire here,And youre hevene als.Nesciat sinistra quid faciat dextra.

Lat noght thi left halfLate ne ratheWite what thow werchestWith thi right syde;For thus by the gospelGoode men doon hir almesse.

Maires and maceres,That menes ben bitweneThe kyng and the comuneTo kepe the lawes,To punysshe on pilloriesAnd pynynge-stooles,Brewesters and baksters,Bochiers and cokes,For thise are men on this moldeThat moost harm werchethTo the povere pepleThat percel-mele buggen;For thei enpoisone the peplePryveliche and ofte,Thei richen thorugh regratrie,And rentes hem biggen,With that the povere pepleSholde putte in hire wombe.For toke thei on trewely,Thei tymbred nought so heighe,Ne boughte none burgages,Be ye ful certeyne.

Ac Mede the maydeThe mair hath bi-soughtOf alle swiche sellerisSilver to take,Or presentz withouten pens,As pieces of silver,Rynges or oother richesse,The regratiers to mayntene;"For my love," quod that lady,"Love hem echone,And suffre hem to selleSom del ayeins reson."

Salomon the sageA sermon he made,For to amenden mairesAnd men that kepen lawes;And tolde hem this teme,That I telle thynke,Ignis devorabit tabernacula eorumqui libenter accipiunt munera,etc.

Among thise lettrede leodesThis Latyn is to mene,That fir shal falle and brenneAl to bloo askesThe houses and homesOf hem that desirethYiftes or yeres-yevesBy cause of hire offices.

The kyng fro the conseil cam,And called after Mede,And of sente hire as switheWith sergeauntz manye,And broughte hire to boureWith blisse and with joye.

Curteisly the kyng thanneComsed to telle,To Mede the maydeHe meveth thise wordes,"Unwittily, womman,Wroght hastow ofte,Ac worse wroghtestow nevereThan tho thow Fals toke.But I forgyve thee that gilt,And graunte thee my grace;Hennes to thi deeth dayDo so na-moore.

"I have a knyght Conscience,Cam late fro biyonde;If he wilneth thee to wif,Wiltow hym have?"

"Ye, lord," quod that lady,"Lord forbede it ellis!But I be holly at youre heste,Lat hange me soone."

And thanne was Conscience calledTo come and appereBifore the kyng and his conseil,As clerkes and othere.

Knelynge ConscienceTo the kyng louted,To wite what his wille were,And what he do wolde.

"Woltow wedde this womman," quod the kyng,"If I wole assente?For she is fayn of thi felaweshipe,For to be thi make."

Quod Conscience to the kyng,"Crist it me forbede!Er I wedde swich a wif,Wo me bitide!For she is frele of hire feith,Fikel of hire speche,And maketh men mysdoMany score tymes;Trust of hire tresorBitrayeth ful manye.

"Wyves and widewesWantonnes she techeth,And lereth hem lecherieThat loveth hire giftes.Youre fader she felledThorugh false biheste,And hath enpoisoned popes,And peired holy chirche.Is noght a bettre baude,By hym that me made!Bitwene hevene and helle,In erthe though men soughte.For she is tikel of hire tail,And tale-wis of hire tonge;As commune as a cartweyTo ech a knave that walketh,To monkes, to mynstrales,To meseles in hegges.

"Sisours and somonours,Swiche men hire preiseth;Sherreves of shiresWere shent if she ne were;For she dooth men lese hire londAnd hire lif bothe;She leteth passe prisoners,And paieth for hem ofte,And gyveth the gailers goldAnd grotes togidres,To unfettre the falsFle where hym liketh;And taketh the trewe bi the topAnd tieth hem faste,And hangeth hem for hatredeThat harm dide nevere.

"To be corsed in consistorieShe counteth noght a bene;For she copeth the commissarie,And coteth hise clerkes.She is assoiled as sooneAs hireself liketh;And may neigh as muche doIn a monthe one,As youre secret seelIn sixe score dayes.For she is pryvee with the pope,Provisours it knoweth;For sire Symonie and hirselveSeleth hire bulles.

"She blesseth thise bisshopes,Theigh thei be lewed;Provendreth persones,And preestes maynteneth,To have lemmans and lotebiesAlle hire lif daies,And bryngeth forth barnesAyein forbode lawes.Ther she is wel with the kyng,Wo is the reaume;For she is favourable to fals,And de-fouleth truthe ofte.

"By Jhesus! with hire jewelesYoure justices she shendeth,And lith ayein the lawe,And letteth hym the gate,That feith may noght have his forth,Hire floryns go so thikke.She ledeth the lawe as hire list,And love-daies maketh,And doth men lese thorugh hire love,That lawe myghte wynneThe maze for a mene man,Though he mote hire evere.Lawe is so lordlichAnd looth to maken ende,Withouten presentz or pensShe pleseth wel fewe.

"Barons and burgeisesShe bryngeth in sorwe,And al the comune in careThat coveiten lyve in truthe;For clergie and coveitiseShe coupleth togidres.This is the lif of that lady;Now Lord gyve hire sorwe!And alle that maynteneth hire men,Meschaunce hem bitide!For povere men may have no powerTo pleyne hem, though thei smerte.Swich a maister is MedeAmong men of goode."

Thanne mournede Mede,And mened hire to the kyngeTo have space to speke,Spede if she myghte.

The kyng graunted hire grace,With a good wille,"Excuse thee, if thow kanst;I kan na-moore seggen.For Conscience accuseth thee,To congeien thee for evere."

"Nay, lord," quod that lady,"Leveth hym the werse,Whan ye witen witterlyWher the wrong liggeth.Ther that meschief is gret,Mede may helpe.And thow knowest, Conscience,I kam noght to chideNe deprave thi persone,With a proud herte.Wel thow woost, wernarde,But if thow wolt gabbe,Thow hast hanged on myn halfEllevene tymes,And also griped my gold,Gyve it where thee liked;And whi thow wrathest thee now,Wonder me thynketh.Yet I may as I myghteMenske thee with giftes,And mayntene thi manhodeMoore than thow knowest.

"Ac thow hast famed me fouleBifore the kyng here;For killed I nevere no kyngNe counseiled therafter,Ne dide as thow demestI do it on the kynge.

"In Normandie was he noghtNoyed for my sake;Ac thow thiself soothlyShamedest hym ofte,Crope into a cabaneFor cold of thi nayles,Wendest that wynterWolde han y-lasted evere,And dreddest to be dedFor a dym cloude,And hyedest homwardFor hunger of thi wombe.

"Withouten pité, pilour,Povere men thow robbedest;And bere hire bras at thi bakTo Caleis to selle,Ther I lafte with my lord,His lif for to save.I made his men murye,And mournynge lette;I batred hem on the bak,And boldede hire hertes,And dide hem hoppe for hopeTo have me at wille.Hadde I ben marchal of his men,By Marie of hevene!I dorste have leyd my lif,And no lasse wedde,He sholde have be lord of that londIn lengthe and in brede,And also kyng of that kithHis kyn for to helpe,The leeste brol of his bloodA barones piere.

"Cowardly thow, Conscience,Conseiledest hym thennes,To leven his lordshipeFor a litel silver,That is the richeste reaumeThat reyn over-hoveth.

"It bi-cometh to a kyngThat kepeth a reaume,To yeve mede to men,That mekely hym serveth,To aliens and to alle men,To honouren hem with giftes;Mede maketh hym bi-lovedAnd for a man holden.

"Emperours and erles,And alle manere lordes,For giftes han yonge menTo renne and to ryde.

"The pope and alle the prelatesPresentz underfongen,And medeth men hemselvenTo mayntene hir lawes.

"Sergeauntz for hire servyce,We seeth wel the sothe,Taken mede of hir maistres,As thei mowe acorde.

"Beggeres for hir biddynge,Bidden men mede.

"Mynstrales for hir myrthe,Mede thei aske.

"The kyng hath mede of his men,To make pees in londe.

"Men that teche children,Craven after mede.

"Preestes that prechen the pepleTo goode, asken mede,And massepens and hire meteAt the meel-tymes.

"Alle kynne craftes menCraven mede for hir prentices.

"Marchauntz and MedeMote nede go togideres.No wight, as I wene,Withouten mede may libbe."

Quod the kyng to Conscience,"By Crist! as me thynketh,Mede is well worthiThe maistrie to have."

"Nay," quod Conscience to the kyng,And kneled to the erthe,"Ther are two manere of medes,My lord, with youre leve.

"That oon God of his graceGraunteth in his blisseTo tho that wel werchen,While thei ben here;The prophete precheth therof,And putte it in the Sauter,Domine, quis habitabit in tabernaculo tuo? =

"Lord, who shal wonye in thi wones,And with thyne holy seintes,Or resten in thyne holy hilles?This asketh David;And David assoileth it hymself,As the Sauter telleth.Qui ingreditur sine macula et operatur justitiam. =

"Tho that entren of o colour,And of one wille,And han y-wroght werkesWith right and with reson;And he that useth noghtThe lyf of usurie,And enformeth povere men,And pursueth truthe.Qui pecuniam suam non dedit adusuram, et munera super innoc. etc. =

"And alle that helpen the innocent,And holden with the rightfulle,Withouten mede doth hem good,And the truthe helpeth,Swiche manere men, my lord,Shul have this firste medeOf God at a gret nede,Whan thei gon hennes.

"Ther is another mede mesurelees,That maistres desireth,To mayntene mysdoersMede thei take,And therof seith the SauterIn a salmes ende,In quorum manibus iniquitatessunt, dextra eorum repleta estmuneribus.

"And he that gripeth hir gold,So me God helpe!Shal abien it bittre,Or the book lieth.

"Preestes and personsThat plesynge desireth,That taken mede and moneieFor masses that thei syngeth,Taken hire mede here,As Mathew us techeth.Amen, Amen, recipiebant mercede suam. =

"That laborers and lowe folkTaken of hire maistres,It is no manere mede,But a mesurable hire.

"In marchaundise is no mede,I may it wel avowe,It is a permutacion apertly,A penyworth for another.

"Ac reddestow nevere Regum?Thow recrayed Mede,Whi the vengeaunce felOn Saul and on his children?God sente to SaulBy Samuel the prophete,That Agag of Amalec,And al his peple after,Sholden deye for a dedeThat doon hadde hire eldres.

"For-thi seide Samuel to Saul,'God hymself hotethThee be buxom at his biddynge,His wil to fulfille;Weend to Amalec with thyn oost,And what thow fyndest there sle it,Burnes and beestesBren hem to dethe,Widwes and wyves,Wommen and children,Moebles and un-moebles,And al thow myght fynde,Bren it, bere it noght awey,Be it never so riche,For mede ne for monee,Loke thow destruye it,Spille it and spare it noght,Thow shalt spede the bettre.'

"And for he coveited hir catel,And the kyng spared,Forbar hym and his beestes bothe,As the Bible witnesseth,Oother wise than he wasWarned of the prophete,God seide to SamuelThat Saul sholde deye,And al his seed for that synneShenfulliche ende.Swich a meschief Mede madeSaul the kyng to have,That God hated hym for evere,And alle hise heires after.

"The culorum of this casKepe I noght to telle,On aventure it noyed men,Noon ende wol I make,For so is this world wentWith hem that han power,That who so seith hem sothestIs sonnest y-blamed.

"Conscience knowe this,For kynde wit it me taughte,That Reson shal regneAnd reaumes governe,And right as Agag hadde,Happe shul somme,Samuel shal sleen hym,And Saul shal be blamed,And David shal be diademed,And daunten hem alle;And oon cristene kyngKepen hem alle.Shal na-moore MedeBe maister, as she is nouthe;Ac love and lowenesseAnd leautee togideres,Thise shul ben maistres on moolde,Truthe to save.

"And who so trespaseth ayein truthe,Or taketh ayein his wille,Leauté shal don hym lawe,And no lif ellis;Shall no sergeaunt for his serviceWere a silk howve,Ne no pelure in his clokeFor pledynge at the barre.Mede of mysdoeresMaketh manye lordes,And over lordes lawesRuleth the reaumes.

"Ac kynde love shal come yit,And conscience togideres,And make of lawe a laborer;Swich love shal arise,And swich a pees among the peple,And a perfit truthe,That Jewes shul wene in hire wit,And wexen wonder glade,That Moyses or MessieBe come into this erthe,And have wonder in hire hertesThat men beth so trewe.

"Alle that beren baselarde,Brood swerd or launce,Ax outher hachet,Or any wepene ellis,Shal be demed to the deeth,But if he do it smythyeInto sikel or to sithe,To shaar or to kultour;Conflabunt gladios suos in vomeres, etc. =

"Ech man to pleye with a plow,Pykoise or spade,Spynne or sprede donge,Or spille hymself with sleuthe.

"Preestes and personsWith Placebo to hunte,And dyngen upon DavidEche day til eve.Huntynge or haukyngeIf any of hem use,His boost of his beneficeWorth by-nomen hym after.Shal neither kyng ne knyght,Constable ne meire,Overlede the commune,Ne to the court sompne,Ne putte hem in panelTo doon hem plighte hir truthe;But after the dede that is doonOon doom shal rewarde,Mercy or no mercy,As truthe wole acorde.

"Kynges court and commune court,Consistorie and chapitle,Al shal be but oon court,And oon baron be justice.Thanne worth Trewe-tonge a tidy manThat tened me nevere;Batailles shul none be,Ne no man bere wepene;And what smyth that any smytheth,Be smyte therwith to dethe.Non levabit gens contra gentemgladium, etc.

"And er this fortune falle,Fynde men shul the worste,By sixe sonnes and a shipe,And half a shef of arwes,And the myddel of a moone,Shal make the Jewes to torne,And Sarzynes for that sighteShul synge Gloria in excelsis, etc.For Makometh and MedeMys-happe shul that tyme,For melius est bonum nomen quam divitiæ multæ." =

Al so wroth as the wyndWeex Mede in a while,"I kan no Latyn," quod she,"Clerkes wite the sothe;Se what Salomon seithIn Sapience bokes,That thei that gyven giftesThe victorie wynneth,And moost worshipe hadde therwithAs holy writ telleth:Honorem adquiret qui dat munera, etc. =

"Leve wel, lady," quod Conscience,"That thi Latyn be trewe;Ac thow art lik a ladyThat radde a lesson ones,Was omnia probate,And that plesed hire herte;For that lyne was no lengerAt the leves ende.Hadde she loked that oother half,And the leef torned,She sholde have founden fele wordesFolwynge therafter,Quod bonum est tenete;Truthe that text made.And so ferde ye, madame,Ye kouthe na-moore fynde,Tho ye loked on SapienceSittynge in youre studie.This text that ye han toldWere good for lordes;Ac yow fayled a konnynge clerkThat kouthe the leef han torned.And if ye seche Sapience eft,Fynde shul ye that folweth,A ful teneful textTo hem that taketh mede;And that is animam autem aufert accipientium, etc., =And that is the tail of the text;Of that that she shewed,That theigh we wynne worshipe,And with mede have victorie,The soule that the sonde takethBy so muche is bounde."

"Cesseth," seith the kyng,"I suffre yow no lenger;Ye shul saughtne for sothe,And serve me bothe.Kis hire," quod the kyng,"Conscience, I hote."

"Nay, by Crist!" quod Conscience,"Congeye me er for evere,But Reson rede me therto,Rather wol I deye."

"And I comaunde thee," quod the kyng,To Conscience thanne,"Rape thee to ryde,And Reson thow fecche;Comaunde hym that he comeMy counseil to here,For he shal rule my reaumeAnd rede me the beste,And acounte with thee, Conscience,So me Crist helpe!How thow lernest the peple,The lered and the lewed."

"I am fayn of that foreward,"Seide the freke thanne,And ryt right to Reson,And rouneth in his ere,And seide as the kyng bad,And sithen took his leve.

"I shal arraye me to ryde," quod Reson,"Reste thee a while."And called Caton his knave,Curteis of speche,And also Tomme Trewe-tonge,--"Tel me no tales,Ne lesynge to laughen of,For I loved hem nevere;And set my sadel upon Suffre,Til I se my tyme,And lat warroke hym welWith witty-wordes gerthes,And hange on hym the hevy brydelTo holde his heed lowe,For he wol make 'wehee!'Twies er he be there."

Thanne Conscience upon his capulCarieth forth faste,And Reson with hym ryt,Rownynge togideres,Whiche maistries MedeMaketh on this erthe.

Oon Waryn Wisdom,And Witty his feere,Folwed hym faste,For thei hadde to dooneIn th'escheker and in the chauncerye,To ben descharged of thynges;And riden faste, for Reson sholdeRede hem the beste,For to save hem for silverFrom shame and from harmes.And Conscience knew hem wel,Thei loved coveitise;And bad Reson ryde faste,And recche of hir neither."Ther are wiles in hire wordes,And with Mede thei dwelleth;Ther as wrathe and wranglynge is,Ther wynne thei silver;Ac where is love and leautee,Thei wol noght come there.Contritio et infelicitas in viis eorum,etc.

"Thei ne yeveth noght of GodOne goose wynge.Non est timor Dei ante oculos eorum, etc. =

"For woot God thei wolde do mooreFor a dozeyne chicknes,Or as manye capons,Or for a seem of otes,Than for the love of oure Lord,Or alle hise leeve seintes.For-thi Reson lat hem ride,Tho riche by hemselve,For Conscience knoweth hem noght,Ne Crist, as I trowe."And thanne Reson rood fasteThe righte heighe gate,As Conscience hym kenned,Til thei come to the kynge.

Curteisly the kyng thanneCom ayeins Reson,And bitwene hymself and his soneSette hym on benche;And wordeden wel wiselyA gret while togideres.

And thanne com Pees into parlement,And putte forth a bille,How Wrong ayeins his willeHadde his wif taken,And how he ravysshede RoseReginaldes loove,And Margrete of hir maydenhedeMaugree hire chekes."Bothe my gees and my grysHise gadelynges feccheth,I dar noght for fere of hemFighte ne chide.He borwed of me Bayard,He broughte hym hom nevere,Ne no ferthyng therfore,For ought I koude plede.He maynteneth hise menTo murthere myne hewen,Forstalleth my feires,And fighteth in my chepyng,And breketh up my bernes dore,And bereth awey my whete,And taketh me but a tailléFor ten quarters of otes;And yet he beteth me therto,And lyth by my mayde.I am noght hardy for hymUnnethe to loke."

The kyng knew he seide sooth,For Conscience hym toldeThat Wrong was a wikked luft,And wroghte muche sorwe.

Wrong was afered thanne,And Wisdom he soughte,To maken pees with hise pens;And profred hym manye,And seide, "Hadde I love of my lord the kyng,Litel wolde I recche,Theigh Pees and his powerPleyned hym evere."

Tho wente WisdomAnd sire Waryn the Witty,For that Wrong hadde y-wroghtSo wikked a dede,And warnede Wrong thoWith swich a wis tale,"Who so wercheth by wille,Wrathe maketh ofte;I sey it by myself,Thow shalt it wel fynde;But if Mede it make,Thi meschief is uppe,For bothe thi lif and thi londLyth in his grace."

Thanne wowede WrongWisdom ful yerne,To maken pees with his pens,Handy dandy payed.

Wisdom and Wit thanneWenten togidres,And token Mede myd hemMercy to wynne.

Pees putte forth his heed,And his panne blody,"Withouten gilt, God it woot,Gat I this scathe;Conscience and the communeKnowen the sothe."

Ac Wisdom and WitWere aboute faste,To overcomen the kyngWith catel, if thei myghte.

The kyng swor by Crist,And by his crowne bothe,That Wrong for hise werkesSholde wo tholie;And comaundede a constableTo casten hym in irens,And lete hym noght thise seven yerSeen his feet ones.

"God woot," quod Wisdom,"That were noght the beste;And he amendes nowe make,Lat maynprise hym have,And be borgh for his bale,And buggen hym boote,And so amenden that is mys-doAnd evere moore the bettre."

Wit acorded therwith,And seide the same,"Bettre is that booteBale a-doun brynge,Than bale be y-bet,And boote never the bettre."

And thanne gan Mede to mengen hire,And mercy she bi-soughte,And profrede Pees a presentAl of pure golde:"Have this, man, of me," quod she,"To amenden thi scathe,For I wol wage for WrongHe wol do so na-moore."

Pitously Pees thannePreyde to the kynge,To have mercy on that manThat mys-dide hym so ofte;"For he hath waged me wel,As Wisdom hym taughte,And I forgyve hym that giltWith a good wille,So that the kyng assente,I kan seye no bettre;For Mede hath me amendes maad,I may na-moore axe."

"Nay," quod the kyng tho,"So me Crist helpe!Wrong wendeth noght so a-wey,Erst wole I wite moore.For lope he so lightly,Laughen he wolde;And eft the boldere beTo bete myne hewen;But Reson have ruthe on hym,He shal reste in my stokkes;And that as longe as he lyveth,But lownesse hym borwe."

Som men radde Reson thoTo have ruthe on that shrewe,And for to counseille the kyng,And Conscience after;That Mede moste be maynpernourReson thei bi-soughte.

"Reed me noght," quod Reson,"No ruthe to have,Til lordes and ladiesLoven alle truthe,And haten alle harlotrie,To heren or to mouthen it.

"Til Parnelles purfilleBe put in hire hucche,And childrene cherissyngeBe chastynge with yerdes,And harlottes holynesseBe holden for an hyne.

"Til clerkene coveitise beTo clothe the povere and fede,And religiouse romerisRecordare in hir cloistres,As seynt Beneyt hem bad,Bernard and Fraunceis,And til prechours prechyngeBe preved on hemselve.

"Til the kynges counseilBe the commune profit,Til bisshopes bayardesBen beggeris chaumbres,Hire haukes and hire houndesHelp to povere religious.

"And til seint James be soughtThere I shal assigne,That no man go to GalisBut if he go for evere;--And alle Rome renneres,For robberes biyonde,Bere no silver over seeThat signe of kyng sheweth,Neither grave ne ungrave,Gold neither silver,Upon forfeture of that fee,Who so fynt it at Dovere,But if he be marchaunt or his man,Or messager with lettres,Provysour or preest,Or penaunt for hise synnes.

"And yet," quod Reson, "by the Rode!I shal no ruthe have,While Mede hath the maistrieIn this moot-halle.Ac I may shewe ensamples,As I se outher while,I seye it by myself," quod he,"And it so wereThat I were kyng with corouneTo kepen a reaume,Sholde nevere Wrong in this world,That I wite myghte,Ben unpunysshed in my power,For peril of my soule,Ne gete my grace for giftes,So me God save!Ne for no mede have mercy,But mekenesse it make;For nullum malum the manMette with inpunitum,And bad nullum bonumBe irremuneratum.

"Lat youre confessour, sire kyng,Construe this unglosed;And if ye werchen it in werk,I wedde myne eris,That lawe shal ben a laborerAnd lede a-feld donge,And love shal lede thi lond,As the leef liketh."

Clerkes that were confessoursCoupled hem togideres,Al to construe this clause,And for the kynges profit,Ac noght for confort of the commune,Ne for the kynges soule;For I seigh Mede in the moot-halleOn men of lawe wynke,And thei laughynge lope to hire,And left Reson manye.Waryn WisdomWynked upon Mede,And seide, "Madame, I am youre man,What so my mouth jangle;I falle in floryns," quod that freke,"And faile speche ofte."

Alle rightfulle recordedeThat Reson truthe tolde;And Wit acorded therwith,And comendede hise wordes,And the mooste peple in the halle,And manye of the grete,And leten Mekenesse a maister,And Mede a mansed sherewe.

Love leet of hire light,And leauté yet lasse,And seiden it so heigheThat al the halle it herde,"Who so wilneth hire to wif,For welthe of hire goodes,But he be knowe for a cokewold,Kut of my nose."

Mede mornede tho,And made hevy chere,For the mooste commune of that courtCalled hire an hore.Ac a sisour and a somonourSued hire faste,And a sherreves clerkBisherewed at the route;"For ofte have I," quod he,"Holpen yow at the barre,And yet yeve ye me nevereThe worth of a risshe."

The kyng callede Conscience,And afterward Reson,And recordede that ResonHadde rightfully shewed;And modiliche upon MedeWith myght the kyng loked;And gan wexe wroth with lawe,For Mede almoost hadde shent it;And seide, "thorugh lawe, as I leve!I lese manye eschetes;Mede overmaistreth lawe,And muche Truthe letteth.Ac Reson shal rekene with yow,If I regne any while,And deme yow bi this day,As ye han deserved.Mede shal noght maynprise yow,By the Marie of hevene!I wole have leauté in lawe,And lete be al youre janglyng;And as moost folk witnesseth wel,Wrong shal be demed."

Quod Conscience to the kyng,"But the commune wole assente,It is ful hard, by myn heed!Hertoo to brynge it,Alle youre lige leodesTo lede thus evene."

"By hym that raughte on the rode!"Quod Reson to the kynge,"But if I rule thus youre reaume,Rende out my guttes,If ye bidden buxomnesseBe of myn assent."

"And I assente," seith the kyng,"By seinte Marie my lady!By my counseil commune,Of clerkes and of erles;Ac redily, Reson,Thow shalt noght ride fro me,For, as longe as I lyve,Lete thee I nelle."

"I am al redy," quod Reson,"To reste with yow evere;So Conscience be of oure counseil,I kepe no bettre."

"And I graunte," quod the kyng,"Goddes forbode ellis!Als longe as oure lyf lasteth,Lyve we togideres."

The kyng and hise knyghtesTo the kirke wente,To here matyns of the dayAnd the masse after.Thanne waked I of my wynkyng,And wo was withalle,That I ne hadde slept sadder,And y-seighen moore.Ac er I hadde faren a furlong,Feyntise me hente,That I ne myghte ferther a footFor defaute of slepynge,And sat softely a-doun,And seide my bileve,And so I bablede on my bedes,Thei broughte me a-slepe.And thanne saugh I muche mooreThan I bifore of tolde,For I seigh the feld ful of folk,That I bifore of seide,And how Reson gan arayen hymAl the reaume to preche,And with a cros afore the kyngComsede thus to techen.

He preved that thise pestilencesWere for pure synne,And the south-westrene wyndOn Saterday at evenWas pertliche for pure pride,And for no point ellis;Pyries and plum-treesWere puffed to the erthe,In ensaumple that the seggesSholden do the bettre;Beches and brode okesWere blowen to the grounde,Turned upward hire tailes,In tokenynge of dredeThat dedly synne er domes-dayShal for-doon hem alle.

Of this matere I myghteMamelen ful longe;Ac I shal seye as I saugh,So me God helpe!How pertly afore the pepleReson bigan to preche.

He bad Wastour go werche,What he best kouthe,And wynnen his wastyngWith som maner crafte.

He preide PerneleHir purfil to lete,And kepe it in hire cofreFor catel at hire nede.

Tomme Stowne he taughteTo take two staves,And fecche Felice homFro the wynen pyne.He warnede WatteHis wif was to blame,For hire heed was worth half marc,And his hood noght worth a grote;And bad Bette kutteA bough outher tweye,And bete Beton therwith,But if she wolde werche.

And thanne he chargede chapmenTo chastizen hir children,Late no wynnyng hem for-wanyeWhile thei be yonge,Ne for no poustee of pestilencePlese hem noght out of reson."My sire seide so to me,And so dide my dame,That the levere childThe moore loore bihoveth;And Salomon seide the same,That Sapience made,Qui parcit virgæ, odit filium.The Englissh of this Latyn is,Who so wole it knoweWho so spareth the spring,Spilleth hise children."

And sithen he prechede prelatesAnd preestes togideres,"That ye prechen to the peple,Preve it on yowselve,And dooth it in dede,It shal drawe yow to goode;If ye leven as ye leren us,We shul leve yow the bettre."

And sithen he radde ReligionHir rule to holde;"Lest the kyng and his conseilYoure comunes apeire,And be stywardes of youre stedes,Til ye be ruled bettre."

And sithen he counseiled the kyngHis commune to lovye;"It is thi trewe tresor,And tryacle at thy nede."

And sithen he preide the popeHave pité on holy chirche,And er he gyve any grace,Governe first hymselve.

"And ye that han lawes to kepe,Lat truthe be youre coveitise,Moore than gold outher giftes,If ye wol God plese;For who so contrarieth Truthe,He telleth in the gospel,That God knoweth hym noght,Ne no seynt of hevene.Amen dico vobis, nescio vos.

"And ye that seke seynt James,And seyntes of Rome,Seketh seynt Truthe,For he may save yow alle;Qui cum patre et filio,That faire hem bi-falleThat seweth my sermon."And thus seyde Reson.

Thanne ran Repentaunce,And reherced his teme:And garte Wille to wepeWater with hise eighen.

Pernele Proud-hertePlatte hire to the erthe,And lay longe er she loked,And "Lord, mercy!" cryde,And bi-highte to hymThat us alle made,She sholde unsowen hir serk,And sette there an heyre,To affaiten hire flessheThat fiers was to synne."Shal nevere heigh herte me hente,But holde I wole me loweAnd suffre to be mys-seyd,And so dide I nevere;And now I wole meke me,And mercy biseche,For al this I haveHated in myn herte."

Thanne Lechour seide, "Allas!"And on oure Lady he cryde,To maken mercy for hise mys-dedesBitwene God and his soule;With that he sholde the Saterday,Seven yer therafter,Drynke but myd the doke,And dyne but ones.

Envye with hevy herteAsked after shrifte,And carefully mea culpaHe comsed to shewe.He was as pale as a pelet,In the palsy he semed;And clothed in a kaurymaury,I kouthe it nought discryve,In kirtel and courtepy,And a knyf by his syde;Of a freres frokkeWere the fore-sleves;And as a leek that hadde y-leyeLonge in the sonne,So loked he with lene chekesLourynge foule.

His body was to-bollen for wrathe,That he boot hise lippes;And wryngynge he yede with the fust,To wreke hymself he thoughteWith werkes or with wordes,Whan he seyghe his tyme.Ech a word that he warpeWas of a neddres tonge;Of chidynge and of chalangyngeWas his chief liflode,With bakbitynge and bismere,And berynge of fals witnesse.

"I wolde ben y-shryve," quod this sherewe,"And I for shame dorste;I wolde be gladder, by God!That Gybbe hadde meschaunce,Than though I hadde this wouke y-wonneA weye of Essex chese.

"I have a neghebore by me,I have anoyed hym ofte,And lowen on hym to lordesTo doon hym lese his silver,And maad his frendes be his foonThorugh my false tonge;His grace and his goode happesGreven me ful soore.

"Bitwene manye and manyeI make debate ofte,That bothe lif and lymeIs lost thorugh my speche.And whan I mete hym in marketThat I moost hate,I hailse hym hendely,As I his frend were;For he is doughtier than I,I dar do noon oother;Ac hadde I maistrie and myght,God woot my wille!

"And whan I come to the kirk,And sholde knele to the roode,And preye for the pepleAs the preest techeth,For pilgrymes and for palmeres,For al the peple after,Thanne I crye on my kneesThat Crist gyve hem sorwe,That beren awey my bolleAnd my broke shete.

"Awey fro the auter thanneTurne I myne eighen,And bi-holde EleyneHath a newe cote;I wisshe thanne it were myn,And al the web after.

"And of mennes lesynge I laughe,That liketh myn herte;And for hir wynnynge I wepe,And waille the tyme;And deme that thei doon ille,There I do wel werse.Who so under-nymeth me heroI hate hym dedly after;I wolde that ech a wightWere my knave,For who so hath moore than I,Than angreth me soore.And thus I lyve love-lees,Lik a luther dogge;That al my body bolneth,For bitter of my galle.

"I myghte noght ete many yeresAs a man oughte,For envye and yvel wilIs yvel to defie.May no sugre ne swete thyngAswage my swellyng?Ne no diapenidionDryve it fro myn herte?Ne neither shrifte ne shame,But who so shrape my mawe?"

"Yis redily," quod Repentaunce,And radde hym to the beste,"Sorwe of synnesIs savacion of soules."

"I am sory," quod that segge,"I am but selde oother,And that maketh me thus megre,For I ne may me venge.

"Amonges burgeises have I beDwellyng at Londone,And gart bakbityng be a brocourTo blame mennes ware;Whan he solde and I nought,Thanne was I redyTo lye and to loure on my neghebore,And to lakke his chaffare;I wole amende this, if I may,Thorugh myght of God almyghty."

Now awaketh Wrathe,With two white eighen;And nevelynge with the nose,And his nekke hangyng.

"I am Wrathe," quod he,"I was som tyme a frere,And the coventes gardynerFor to graffen impes;On lymitours and listresLesynges I ymped,Til thei beere leves of lowe speche,Lordes to plese,And sithen thei blosmede a-broodIn boure to here shriftes;And now is fallen therof a fruyt,That folk han wel levereShewen hire shriftes to hem,Than shryve hem to hir persons.

"And now persons han perceyvedThat freres parte with hem,Thise possessioners precheAnd deprave freres.

"And freres fyndeth hem in defaute,As folk bereth witnesse,That whan thei preche the pepleIn many places aboute,I Wrathe walke with hem,And wisse hem of my bokes.Thus thei speken of my spiritualté,That either despiseth oother,Til thei be bothe beggersAnd by my spiritualté libben,Or ellis al richeAnd ryden aboute.I Wrathe reste nevere,That I ne moste folweThis wikked folk,For swich is my grace.

"I have an aunte to nonne,And an abbesse bothe;Hir hadde levere swowe or swelte,Than suffre any peyne,

"I have be cook in hir kichene,And the covent servedManye monthes with hem,And with monkes bothe.I was the prioresse potager,And othere povere ladies,And maad hem joutes of janglyng,That dame Johane was a bastard,And dame Clarice a knyghtes doughter,Ac a cokewold was hir sire;And dame Pernele a preestes fyle,Prioresse worth she nevere,For she hadde child in chirie-tyme,Al our chapitre it wiste.

"Of wikkede wordesI Wrathe hire wortes made,Til 'thow lixt' and 'thow lixt'Lopen out at ones,And either hite ootherUnder the cheke;Hadde thei had knyves, by CristHir either hadde kild oother.

"Seint Gregory was a good pope,And hadde a good forwit,That no prioresse were preest,For that he ordeyned;They hadde thanne ben infames the firste day,Thei kan so yvele hele conseil.

"Among monkes I myghte be,Ac many tyme I shonye it;For there ben manye felle frekesMy feeris to aspie,Bothe priour and suppriourAnd oure pater abbas;And if I telle any tales,Thei taken hem togideres,And doon me faste frydayesTo breed and to watre,And am chalanged in the chapitre housAs I a child were,And baleised on the bare ers,And no brech bitwene.For-thi have I no likyngWith tho leodes to wonye.I ete there unthende fisshe,And feble ale drynke;Ac outher while whan wyn cometh,Thanne I drynke wyn at eve,And have a flux of a foul mouthWel fyve dayes after.Al the wikkednesse that I wootBy any of oure bretheren,I couthe it in oure cloistre,That al oure covent woot it."

"Now repente thee," quod Repentaunce,"And reherce thow nevereCounseil that thow knowestBy contenaunce ne by right;And drynk nat over delicatly,Ne to depe neither,That thi wille by cause therofTo wrathe myghte turne.Esto sobrius," he seide,And assoiled me after,And bad me wilne to wepeMy wikkednesse to amende.

And thanne cam Coveitise,Kan I hym naght discryve,So hungrily and holweSire Hervy hym loked.He was bitel-browed,And baber-lipped also,With two blered eighenAs a blynd hagge;And as a letheren pursLolled hise chekes,Wel sidder than his chynThei chyveled for elde;And as a bonde-man of his baconHis berd was bi-draveled,With an hood on his heed,A lousy hat above,And in a tawny tabardOf twelf wynter age,Al so torn and baudy,And ful of lys crepyng,But if that a lous coutheHan lopen the bettre,She sholde noght han walked on that welthe,So was it thred-bare.

"I have ben coveitous," quod this caytif,"I bi-knowe it here,For som tyme I servedSymme-atte-Style,And was his prentice y-plightHis profit to wayte.

"First I lerned to lye,A leef outher tweyne;Wikkedly to weyeWas my firste lesson;To Wy and to WynchestreI wente to the feyre,With many manere marchaundise,As my maister me highte.Ne hadde the grace of gyle y-goAmonges my chaffare,It hadde ben unsold this seven yer,So me God helpe!

"Thanne drough I me among drapiers,My donet to lerne,To drawe the liser along,The lenger it semed;Among the riche rayesI rendred a lesson,To broche hem with a pak-nedle,And playte hem togideres,And putte hem in a presse,And pyne hem therinne,Til ten yerdes or twelveHadde tolled out thrittene.

"My wif was a webbe,And wollen cloth made;She spak to spynnesteresTo spynnen it oute,Ac the pound that she paied byPeised a quatron mooreThan myn owene auncer,Who so weyed truthe.

"I boughte hire barly-malt,She brew it to selle,Peny ale and puddyng aleShe poured togideres,For laborers and for lowe folkThat lay by hymselve.

"The beste ale lay in my bour,Or in my bed-chambre;And who so bummed therof,Boughte it therafter,A galon for a grote,God woot, no lesse!And yet it cam in cuppe-mele,This craft my wif used.Rose the RegraterWas hire righte name;She hath holden hukkeryeAl hire lif tyme.Ac I swere now, so thee ik!That synne wol I lete,And nevere wikkedly weye,Ne wikke chaffare use;But wenden to Walsyngham,And my wif als,And bidde the Roode of BromholmBrynge me out of dette."

"Repentedestow evere?" quod Repentaunce,"Or restitucion madest."

"Yis, ones I was y-herberwed," quod he,"With an heep of chapmen,I roos whan thei were a-resteAnd riflede hire males."

"That was no restitucion," quod Repentaunce,"But a robberis thefte;Thow haddest be the bettre worthiBen hanged therfore,Than for al thatThat thow hast here shewed."

"I wende riflynge were restitucion," quod he,"For I lerned nevere rede on boke;And I kan no Frensshe, in feith,But of the fertheste ende of Northfolk."

"Usedestow evere usurie?" quod Repentaunce,"In al thi lif tyme."

"Nay sothly," he seide,"Save in my youtheI lerned among LumbardesAnd Jewes a lesson,To weye pens with a peis,And pare the hevyeste,And lene it for love of the cros,To legge a wed and lese it.Swiche dedes I dide write,If he his day breke,I have mo manoirs thorugh rerages,Than thorugh miseretur et commodat.

"I have lent lordesAnd ladies my chaffare,And ben hire brocour after,And bought it myselve;Eschaunges and chevysauncesWith swich chaffare I dele,And lene folk that lese woleA lippe at every noble,And with Lumbardes lettresI ladde gold to Rome,And took it by tale here,And tolde hem there lasse."

"Lentestow evere lordes,For love of hire mayntenaunce?"

"Ye, I have lent to lordes,Loved me nevere after,And have y-maad many a knyghtBothe mercer and draper,That payed nevere for his prentishodeNoght a peire gloves."

"Hastow pité on povere men,That mote nedes borwe?"

"I have as muche pité of povere men,As pedlere hath of cattes,That wolde kille hem, if he cacche hem myghte,For coveitise of hir skynnes."

"Artow manlich among thi negheboresOf thi mete and drynke?"

"I am holden," quod he, "as hendeAs hound is in kichene,Amonges my neghebores, namely,Swiche a name ich have."

"Now God lene thee nevere," quod Repentaunce,"But thow repente the rather,The grace on this groundeThi good wel to bi-sette,Ne thyne heires after theeHave joie of that thow wynnest,Ne thyne executours wel bi-setteThe silver that thow hem levest;And that was wonne with wrongWith wikked men be despended.For were I frere of that housTher good feith and charité is,I nolde cope us with thi catel,Ne oure kirk amende,Ne have a peny to my pitaunce,So God my soule save!For the beste book in oure hous,Theigh brent gold were the leves,And I wiste witterlyThow were swich as thow tellest.Servus es alterius,Dum fercula pinguia quæris;Pane tuo potiusVescere, liber eris.

"Thow art an unkynde creature,I kan thee noght assoille,Til thow make restitucionAnd rekene with hem alle;And sithen that Reson rolle itIn the registre of hevene,That thow hast maad ech man good,I may thee noght assoile.Non dimittitur peccatum, donec restituaturoblatum.

"For alle that han of thi good,Have God my trouthe!Ben holden at the heighe doomTo helpe thee to restitue;And who so leveth noght this be sooth,Loke in the Sauter glose,In Miserere mei, Deus,Wher I mene truthe;Ecce enim veritatem dilexisti, etc.Shal nevere werkman in this worldThryve with that thow wynnest.Cum sancto sanctus eris;Construwe me this on Englisshe."

Thanne weex that sherewe in wanhope,And wolde han hanged hym;Ne hadde Repentaunce the ratherReconforted hym in this manere.

"Have mercy in thi mynde,And with thi mouth biseche it;For Goddes mercy is mooreThan alle hise othere werkes.And al the wikkednesse in this worldThat man myghte werche or thynke,Nis na-moore to the mercy of God,Than in the see a gleede.Omnis iniquitas quantum ad misericordiamDei, est quasi scintillain medio maris.

"For-thi have mercy in thy mynde,And marchaundise leve it;For thow hast no good groundTo gete thee with a wastel,But if it were with thi tonge,Or ellis with thi two hondes.For the good that thow hast getenBigan al with falshede,And as longe as thow lyvest therwith,Thow yeldest noght, but borwest.

"And if thow wite nevere to whiche,Ne whom to restitue,Ber it to the bisshope,And bid hym of his graceBi-sette it hymself,As best is for thi soule;For he shal answere for theeAt the heighe dome,For thee and for many moThat man shal yeve a rekenyng,What he lerned yow in Lente,Leve thow noon oother,And what he lente yow of oure Lordes goodTo lette yow fro synne."

Now bi-gynneth GlotonFor to go to shrifte,And karieth hym to kirke-wardeHis coupe to shewe;And Beton the brewestereBad hym good morwe,And asked at hym with that,Whider-ward he wolde.

"To holy chirche," quod he,"For to here masse,And sithen I wole be shryven,And synne na-moore."

"I have good ale, gossib," quod she,"Gloton, woltow assaye?"

"Hastow ought in thi purs?" quod he,"Any hote spices?"

"I have pepir and piones," quod she,"And a pound of garleek,And a ferthyng-worth of fenel-seedFor fastynge dayes."

Thanne goth Glotin in,And grete othes after.Cesse the souteresseSat on the benche;Watte the warner,And his wif bothe;Tymme the tynkere,And tweyne of his prentices;Hikke the hakeney-man,And Hughe the nedlere;Clarice of Cokkeslane,And the clerk of the chirche;Dawe the dykere,And a dozeyne othere.

Sire Piers of Pridie,And Pernele of Flaundres;A ribibour, a ratoner,A rakiere of Chepe,A ropere, a redyng-kyng,And Rose the dyssheres;Godefray of Garlekhithe,And Griffyn the Walshe;And upholderes an heep,Erly by the morwe,Geve Gloton with glad chereGood ale to hanselle.

Clement the CobelereCaste of his cloke,And at the newe feireHe nempned it to selle,

Hikke the hakeney-manHitte his hood after,And bad Bette the bocherBen on his syde.

Ther were chapmen y-choseThis chaffare to preise,That who so hadde the hoodSholde han amendes of the cloke.

Two risen up in rape,And rouned togideres,And preised thise peny-worthesA-part by hemselve;Thei kouthe noght by hir conscienceAcorden in truthe,Til Robyn the ropereAroos by the southe,And nempned hym for a nounpere,That no debat nere.

Hikke the hostilerHadde the cloke,In covenaunt that ClementSholde the cuppe fille,And have Hikkes hood hostiler,And holden hym y-served.And who so repented rathestSholde aryse after,And greten sire GlotonWith a galon ale.

There was laughynge and lourynge,And "lat go the cuppe;"And seten so till even-song,And songen umwhile,Til Gloton hadde y-glubbedA galon and a gille.Hise guttes bigonne to gothelenAs two gredy sowes;He pissed a potelIn a pater-noster while,And blew his rounde ruwetAt his rugge-bones ende,That alle that herde that hornHeld hir noses after,And wisshed it hadde been wexedWith a wispe of firses.

He myghte neither steppe ne stonde,Er he his staf hadde;And thanne gan he to goLike a gle-mannes bicche,Som tyme aside,And som tyme arere,As who so leith lynesFor to lacche foweles.

And whan he drough to the dore,Thanne dymmed his eighen;He stumbled on the thresshfold,And threw to the erthe.Clement the cobelereKaughte hym by the myddel,For to liften hym o-lofte;And leyde hym on his knowes.Ac Gloton was a gret cherl,And a grym in the liftyng,And koughed up a cawdelIn Clementes lappe;Is noon so hungry houndIn Hertford shireDorste lape of that levynges,So un-lovely thei smaughte.

With al the wo of this world,His wif and his wencheBaren hym hom to his bed,And broughte hym therinne;And after al this excesseHe hadde an accidie,That he sleep Saterday and Sonday,Til sonne yede to reste.

Thanne waked he of his wynkyng,And wiped hise eighen;The firste word that he warpeWas "where is the bolle?"His wif gan edwyte hym tho,How wikkedly he lyvede;And Repentaunce right soRebuked hym that tyme,"As thow with wordes and werkesHas wroght yvele in thi lyve,Shryve thee, and be shamed therof,And shewe it with thi mouthe."

"I Gloton," quod the grom,"Gilty me yelde,That I have trespased with my tonge,I kan noght telle how ofte;Sworen Goddes soule,And so me God helpe!There no nede was,Nyne hundred tymes.

"And over-seyen me at my soper,And som tyme at nones,That I Gloton girte it upEr I hadde gon a myle,An y-spilt that myghte be sparedAnd spended on som hungry;Over delicatly on fastyng-dayesDronken and eten bothe,And sat som tyme so longe there,That I sleep and eet at ones.For love of tales in tavernesAnd for drynke, the moore I dyned;And hyed to the mete er noon,Whan fastyng-days were."

"This shewynge shrift," quod Repentaunce,"Shal be meryt to the."

And thanne gan Gloton greete,And gret doel to make,For his luther lifThat he lyved hadde;And avowed to faste,"For hunger or for thurste,Shal nevere fyssh on FrydayDefyen in my wombe,Til abstinence myn aunteHave gyve me leeve;And yet have I hated hireAl my lif tyme."

Thanne cam Sleuthe al bi-slabered,With two slymy eighen;"I moste sitte," seide the segge,"Or ellis sholde I nappe.I may noght stonde ne stoupe,Ne withoute a stool knele;Were I brought a-bedde,But if my tail-ende it made,Sholde no ryngynge do me ryseEr I were ripe to dyne."He bigan Benedicite with a bolk,And his brest knokked,And raxed and rored,And rutte at the laste.

"What, awake, renk!" quod Repentaunce,"And rape thee to shryfte."

"If I sholde deye bi this day,Me list nought to loke;I kan noght parfitly my pater-noster,As the preest it syngeth;But I kan rymes of Robyn Hood,And Randolf erl of Chestre;Ac neither of oure Lord ne of oure LadyThe leeste that evere was maked.

"I have maad avowes fourty,And foryete hem on the morwe;I perfournede nevere penaunceAs the preest me highte;Ne right sory for my synnesYet was I nevere.And if I bidde any bedes,But if it be in wrathe,That I telle with my tongeIs two myle fro myn herte.I am ocupied eche day,Haly-day and oother,With ydel tales at the ale,And outher while at chirche;Goddes peyne and his passionFul selde thenke I on it.

"I visited nevere feble men,Ne fettred folk in puttes;I have levere here an harlotrye,Or a somer game of souters,Or lesynge to laughen atAnd bi-lye my neghebores,Than al that evere Marc made,Mathew, Johan, and Lucas.And vigilies and fastyng-dayes,Alle thise late I passe;And ligge a-bedde in Lenten,And my lemman in myne armes,Til matyns and masse be do,And thanne go to the freres.Come I to Ite, missa est,I holde me y-served;I nam noght shryven som tyme,But if siknesse it make,Nought twyes in two yer,And thanne up gesse I shryve me.

"I have be preest and parsonPassynge thritty wynter,And yet can I neyther solne ne synge,Ne seintes lyves rede;But I kan fynden in a feld,Or in a furlang, an hare,Bettre than in Beatus vir,Or in Beati omnes,Construe oon clause welAnd kenne it to my parisshens.I kan holde love-dayes,And here a reves rekenyng;Ac in canon nor in decretalsI kan noght rede a lyne.

"If I bigge and borwe aught,But if it be y-tailed,I foryete it as yerne;And if men me it axeSixe sithes or sevene,I forsake it with othes;And thus tene I trewe menTen hundred tymes.

"And my servauntz som tymeHir salarie is bi-hynde;Ruthe it is to here the rekenyng,Whan we shul rede acountes.So with wikked wil and wrathe,My werkmen I paye.

"If any man dooth me a bienfait,Or helpeth me at nede,I am unkynde ayeins curteisie,And kan nought understounden it;For I have and have hadSom del haukes maneres,I am noght lured with love,But ther ligge aught under the thombe.

"The kyndenesse that myn even cristeneKidde me fernyere,Sixty sithes I SleutheHave foryete it siththe.In speche and in sparynge of specheY-spilt many a tymeBothe flessh and fissh,And manye othere vitailles,Both bred and ale,Buttre, melk, and chese,For-sleuthed in my serviceTil it myghte serve no man.

"I ran aboute in youthe,And yaf me naught to lerne,And evere siththe have I be beggereFor my foule sleuthe.Heu michi! quia sterilem vitam duxijuvenilem."

"Repentedestow noght?" quod Repentaunce;And right with that he swowned,Til Vigilate the veilleFette water at hise eighen,And flatte it on his face,And faste on hym cryde,And seide, "Ware thee, for WanhopeWolde thee bi-traye,'I am sory for my synnes'Seye to thiselve,And beet thiself on the brest,And bidde hym of grace;For is ne gilt here so gretThat his goodnesse nys moore."

Thanne sat Sleuthe up,And seyned hym swithe,And made a vow to-fore GodFor his foule sleuthe."Shal no Sonday be this seven yer,But siknesse it lette,That I ne shal do me er dayTo the deere chirche;And here matyns and masse,As I a monk were,Shal noon ale after meteHolde me thennes,Til I have even-song herd,I bi-hote to the roode!And yet wole I yelde ayein,If I so much have,Al that I wikkedly wanSithen I wit hadde.

"And though my liflode lakke,Leten I nelle,That ech man ne shal have his,Er I hennes wende;And with the residue and the remenaunt,Bi the Rode of Chestre!I shal seken Truthe erstEr I se Rome."

Roberd the robbereOn Reddite loked,And for ther was noght wherof,He wepte swithe soore;Ac yet the synfulle shereweSeide to hymselve,"Crist, that on CalvarieUpon the cros deidest,Tho Dysmas my brotherBi-soughte yow of grace,And haddest mercy on that manFor memento sake,So rewe on this robbereThat reddere ne have,Ne nevere wene to wynneWith craft that I owe;But for thi muchel mercyMitigacion I bi-seche,Ne dampne me noght at domes-dayFor that I dide so ille."

What bi-fel of this felounI kan noght faire shewe;Wel I woot he wepte fasteWater with bothe hise eighen,And knoweliched his giltTo Crist yet eft soones,That Poenetentia his pikHe sholde polshe newe,And lepe with hym over londAl his lif tyme,For he hadde leyen by LatroLuciferis aunte.

And thanne hadde Repentaunce ruthe,And redde hem alle to knele;"For I shal bi-seche for alle synfulleOur Saveour of grace,To amenden us of oure mysdedes,And do mercy to us alle."

"Now God," quod he, "that of thi goodnesseBi-gonne the world to make,And of naught madest aught, and manMoost lik to thiselve,And sithen suffredest for to synne,A siknesse to us alle,And al for the beste, as I bi-leve,What evere the book telleth.O felix culpa! O necessarium peccatum Adæ! etc. =

"For thorugh that synne thi soneSent was to this erthe,And bicam man of a maide,Mankynde to save:And madest thiself with thi soneAnd us synfulle y-licheFaciamus hominem ad imaginemnostram. Et alibi. Qui manetin caritate, in Deo manet, etDeus in eo.

"And siththe with thi selve soneIn oure secte deidest,On Good-Fryday, for mannes sake,At ful tyme of the daye,Ther thiself ne thi soneNo sorwe in deeth feledest,But in oure secte was the sorwe,And thi sone it ladde.Captivam duxit captivitatem.

"The sonne for sorwe therofLees light of a tyme,Aboute mydday whan moost light is,And meel-tyme of seintes,Feddest with thi fresshe bloodOure fore-fadres in derknesse.Populus qui ambulabat in tenebris,vidit lucem magnam.

"And thorugh the light that lepe out of theeLucifer was blent.And blewe alle thi blessedInto the blisse of paradys.

"The thridde day afterThow yedest in oure sute,A synful Marie the seigh,Er seynte Marie thi dame;And al to solace synfulleThow suffredest it so were.Non veni vocare justos sed peccatoresad poenitentiam.

"And al that Marc hath y-maad,Mathew, Johan, and Lucas,Of thyne doughty dedesWas doon in oure armes.Verbum caro factum est, et habitavit in nobis. =

"And by so muche me semethThe sikerer we moweBidde and bi-seche,If it be thi wille,That art oure fader and oure brother,Be merciable to us,And have ruthe on thise ribaudesThat repenten hem here soore,That evere thei wrathed thee in this world,In word, thought, or dedes."

Thanne hent Hope an hornOf Deus, tu conversus vivificabis,And blew it with Beati quorumRemissæ sunt iniquitates,That alle seintes in heveneSongen at ones.Homines et jumenta salvabis, quemadmodummultiplicasti misericordiam tuam. =

A thousand of men thoThrungen togideres,Cride upward to Crist,And to his clene moder,To have grace to go with hemTruthe to seke.

Ac there was wight noon so wysThe wey thider kouthe,But blustreden forth as beestesOver bankes and hilles;Til late was and longeThat thei a leode mette,Apparailled as a paynymIn pilgrymes wise.He bar a burdoun y-boundeWith a brood liste,In a withwynde wiseY-wounden aboute;A bolle and a baggeHe bar by his syde,And hundred of ampullesOn his hat seten,Signes of Synay,And shelles of Galice,And many a crouche on his cloke,And keyes of Rome,And the vernycle bi-fore,For men sholde knoweAnd se bi hise signesWhom he sought hadde.

This folk frayned hym first,Fro whennes he come.

"Fram Syny," he seide,"And fram oure Lordes sepulcre;In Bethlem and in Babiloyne,I have ben in bothe;In Armonye and Alisaundre,In manye othere places.Ye may se by my signes,That sitten on myn hatte,That I have walked ful wideIn weet and in drye,And sought goode seintesFor my soules helthe."

"Knowestow aught a corsaint,That men calle Truthe?Koudestow aught wissen us the wey,Wher that wye dwelleth?"

"Nay, so me God helpe!"Seide the gome thanne,"I seigh nevere palmere,With pyk ne with scrippe,Asken after hym erTil now in this place."

"Peter!" quod a plowman,And putte forth his hed,"I knowe hym as kyndelyAs clerk doth hise bokes;Conscience and kynde witKenned me to his place,And diden me suren hym sikerlyTo serven hym for evere,Bothe to sowe and to sette,The while I swynke myghte.I have ben his folwereAl this fifty wynter,Bothe y-sowen his seed,And suwed hise beestes,Withinne and withoutenWaited his profit.I dyke and I delve,I do that Truthe hoteth;Som tyme I sowe,And som tyme I thresshe;In taillours craft and tynkeris craft,What Truthe kan devyse,I weve and I wynde,And do what Truthe hoteth,For though I seye it myselfe,I serve hym to paye;I have myn hire wel,And outher whiles moore.He is the presteste paiereThat povere men knoweth;He ne withhalt noon hewe his hire,That he ne hath it at even;He is as lowe as a lomb,And lovelich of speche;And if ye wilneth to witeWhere that he dwelleth,I shal wisse you witterlyThe wey to his place."

"Ye, leve Piers," quod thise pilgrimes,And profred hym huyre,For to wende with hemTo Truthes dwellyng-place.

"Nay, by my soules helpe!" quod Piers,And gan for to swere,"I nolde fange a ferthyng.For seint Thomas shryne;Truthe wolde love me the lasseA long tyme therafter;Ac if yow wilneth to wende wel,This is the wey thider.

"Ye moten go thorugh Mekenesse,Both men and wyves,Til ye come into Conscience,That Crist wite the sotheThat ye loven oure Lord GodLevest of alle thynges,And thanne youre neghebores nextIn none wise apeire,Other wise than thow woldestHe wroughte to thiselve.

"And so boweth forth by a brook,Beth-buxom-of-speche,Til he fynden a ford,Youre-fadres-honoureth,Honora patrem et matrem, etc.Wadeth in that water,And wasshe yow wel therinne,And ye shul lepe the lightlokerAl youre lif tyme;And so shaltow se Swere-noght,-But-if-it-be-for-nede,-And-nameliche-on-ydel-The-name-of-God-almyghty.

"Thanne shaltow come by a croft,But come thow noght therinne;That croft hatte Coveite-noght-Mennes-catel-ne-hire-wyves,-Ne-noon-of-hire-servauntz-That-noyen-hem-myghte;Loke ye breke no bowes there,But if it be youre owene.

"Two stokkes ther stondeth,Ac stynte ye noght there,Thei highte Stele-noght and Sle-noght,Strik forth by bothe,And leve hem on thi lift half,And loke noght therafter,And hold wel thyn hali-dayHeighe til even.

"Thanne shaltow blenche at a bergh,Bere-no-fals-witnesse,He is frythed in with florynsAnd othere fees manye;Loke thow plukke no plaunte there,For peril of thi soule;Thanne shul ye see Seye-sooth,-So-it-be-to-doone,-In-good-manere,-ellis-noght-For-no-mannes-biddyng.

"Thanne shaltow come to a courtAs cler as the sonne;The moot is of MercyThe manoir aboute,And alle the walles ben of Wit,To holden Wil oute,And kerneled wit Cristendom,Mankynde to save,Botrased with Bileef-so,-Or-thow-beest-noght-saved.

"And alle the houses ben hiled,Halles and chambres,With no leed but with love,And lowe speche as bretheren;The brugg is of Bidde-wel,-The-bet-may-thow-spede;Ech piler is of penaunce,Of preieres to seyntes;Of almes-dedes are the hokesThat the gates hangen on.

"Grace hatte the gatewarde,A good man for sothe;His man hatte Amende-yow,For many men hym knoweth;Telleth hym this tokene,That Truthe wite the sothe;'I perfourned the penaunceThat the preest me enjoyned,And am ful sory for my synnes,And so I shal evere,Whan I thynke theron,Theigh I were a pope.'

"Biddeth Amende-yow meke hymTil his maister ones,To wayven up the wiketThat the womman shette,Tho Adam and EveEten apples un-rosted.Per Evam cunctis clausa est, et perMariam virginem patefacta est.

"For he hath the keye and the cliket,Though the kyng slepe.And if grace graunte theeTo go in this wise,Thow shalt see in thiselveTruthe in thyn herte,In a cheyne of charitéAs thow a child were,To suffren hym and segge noghtAyein thi sires wille.

"And be war thanne of Wrathe-thee,That is a wikked sherewe;He hath envye to hymThat in thyn herte sitteth,And poketh forth prideTo preise thiselven.The boldnesse of thi bienfetesMaketh thee blynd thanne;And thanne worstow dryven out as dew,And the dore closed,Keyed and cliketted,To kepe thee withouten;Happily an hundred wynterEr thow eft entre.Thus myghtestow lesen his love,To lete wel by thiselve,And nevere happily eft entre,But grace thow have.

"And ther are seven sustrenThat serven Truthe evere,And arn porters of the posternesThat to the place longeth.

"That oon hatte Abstinence,And Humilité another;Charité and ChastitéBen hise chief maydenes;Pacience and PeesMuche peple thei helpeth;Largenesse the lady,She let in ful manye,Heo hath holpe a thousand outOf the develes punfolde;And who is sib to thise sevene,So me God helpe!He is wonderly welcome,And faire underfongen.And but if ye be sibbeTo some of thise sevene,It is ful hard, by myn heed!" quod Piers,"For any of yow alleTo geten in-going at any gate there,But grace be the moore."

"Now by Crist!" quod a kutte-purs"I have no kyn there.""Nor I," quod an ape-ward,"By aught that I kan knowe.""Wite God!" quod a wafrestere,"Wiste I this for sothe,Sholde I nevere ferther a foot,For no freres prechyng."

"Yis," quod Piers the Plowman,And poked hem alle to goode,"Mercy is a maiden thereHath myght over alle;And she is sib to alle synfulle,And hire sone also,And thorugh the help of hem twoHope thow noon oother,Thow myght gete grace there,So thow go bi-tyme."

"Bi seint Poul!" quod a pardoner,"Peraventure I be noght knowe there;I wol go fecche my box with my brevettes,And a bulle with bisshopes lettres."

"By Crist!" quod a commune womman,"Thi compaignie wol I folwe;Thow shalt seye I am thi suster,I ne woot where thei bicome."

"This were a wikkede wey,But who so hadde a gyde,That wolde folwen us ech a foot;"Thus this folke hem mened.

Quod Perkyn the Plowman,"By seint Peter of Rome!I have an half acre to erieBy the heighe weye;Hadde I eryed this half acre,And sowen it after,I wolde wende with yow,And the wey teche."

"This were a long lettyng,"Quod a lady in scleyre,"What sholde we wommenWerche the while?"

"Somme shul sowe the sak," quod Piers,"For shedyng of the whete;And ye, lovely ladies,With youre longe fyngres,That ye have silk and sandelTo sowe, whan tyme is;Chesibles for chapeleyns,Chirches to honoure.

"Wyves and widewes,Wolle and flex spynneth;Maketh cloth, I counseille yow,And kenneth so youre doughtres;The nedy and the naked,Nymeth hede how thei liggeth,And casteth hem clothes,For so comaundeth Truthe.For I shal leven hem liflode,But if the lond faille,Flesshe and breed botheTo riche and to poore,As long as I lyve,For the Lordes love of hevene;And alle manere of menThat thorugh mete and drynke libbeth,Helpeth hym to werche wightliche,That wynneth youre foode."

"By Crist!" quod a knyght thoo,"He kenneth us the beste;Ac on the teme, trewely,Taught was I nevere;But kenne me," quod the knyght,"And by Crist I wole assaye!"

"By seint Poul!" quod Perkyn,"Ye profre yow so faire,That I shal swynke and swete,And sowe for us bothe,And othere labours do for thi loveAl my lif tyme,In covenaunt that thow kepeHoly kirke and myselveFro wastours and fro wikked menThat this world destruyeth.And go hunte hardilicheTo hares and to foxes,To bores and to brokkesThat breken doun myne hegges;And so affaite thi fauconsWilde foweles to kille;For swiche cometh to my croft,And croppeth my whete."

Curteisly the knyght thanneComsed thise wordes;"By my power, Piers!" quod he,"I plighte thee my trouthe,To fulfille this forwarde,Though I fighte sholde;Als longe as I lyveI shal thee mayntene."

"Ye, and yet a point," quod Piers,"I preye yow of moore,Loke ye tene no tenaunt,But Truthe wole assente;And though ye mowe amercy hem,Lat mercy be taxour,And mekenesse thi maister,Maugree Medes chekes.And though povere men profre yowPresentes and giftes,Nyme it noght, an aventureYe mowe it noght deserve;For thow shalt yelde it ayeinAt one yeres tyme,In a ful perilous place,Purgatorie it hatte.

"And mys-bede noght thi bonde-men,The bettre may thow spede;Though he be thyn underlyng here,Wel may happe in heveneThat he worth worthier set,And with moore blisse.Amice, ascende superius.For in charnel at chircheCherles ben yvel to knowe,Or a knyght from a knave there,Knowe this in thyn herte.And that thow be trewe of thi tonge,And tales that thow hatie,But if thei ben of wisdom or of witThi werkmen to chaste.Hold with none harlotes,Ne here noght hir tales,And namely at the meteSwiche men eschuwe;For it ben the develes disours,I do the to understonde."

"I assente, by seint Jame!"Seide the knyght thanne,"For to werche by thi wordesThe while my lif dureth."

"And I shal apparaille me," quod Perkyn,"In pilgrymes wise,And wende with yow I wile,Til we fynde Truthe;And caste on my clothesY-clouted and hole,My cokeres and my coffes,For cold of my nailes;And hange myn hoper at myn halsIn stede of a scryppe.A busshel of bred cornBrynge me therinne;For I wol sowe it myself,And sithenes wol I wendeTo pilgrymage, as palmeres doon,Pardon for to have.And who so helpeth me to erieAnd sowen here er I wende,Shal have leve, by oure Lorde!To lese here in hervest,And make hem murie thermyd,Maugree who so bi-gruccheth it.And alle kynne crafty-men,That konne lyven in truthe,I shal fynden hem fode,That feithfulliche libbeth.

"Save Jagge the jogelour,And Jonette of the stuwes,And Danyel the dees-pleyere,And Denote the baude,And frere the faitour,And folk of hire ordre,And Robyn the ribaudourFor hise rusty wordes.Truthe tolde me ones,And bad me telle it after,Deleantur de libro viventium,I sholde noght dele with hem,For holy chirche is hote of hemNo tithe to take;Qui cum justis non scribantur;They ben ascaped good aventure,God hem amende!"

Dame Werch-whan-tyme-isPiers wif highte;His doughter highte Do-right-so,-Or-thi-dame-shal-thee-bete;His sone highte Suffre-thi-sovereyns-To-haven-hir-wille,-Deme-hem-noght,-for-if-thow-doost,-Thow-shalt-it-deere-abugge.Lat God y-worthe with al,For so his word techeth;For now I am old and hoor,And have of myn owene,To penaunce and to pilgrimageI wol passe with thise othere.

"For-thi I wole er I wendeDo write my biqueste,In Dei nomine, Amen,I make it myselve;He shal have my soule,That best hath deserved it;And fro the fend it defende,For so I bileve,Til I come to hise acountes,As my Credo me telleth,To have a relees and a remission,On that rental I leve.

"The kirke shal have my caroyne,And kepe my bones;For of my corn and catelShe craved the tithe;I paide it ful prestly,For peril of my soule.For-thi is he holden I hopeTo have me in his masse,And mengen in his memorieAmonges alle cristene.

"My wif shal have of that I wanWith truthe, and na-moore,And dele among my doughtres,And my deere children;For though I deye to day,My dettes are quyte;I bar hom that I borwed,Er I to bedde yede.

"And with the residue and the remenaunt,By the Rode of Lukes!I wol worshipe therwithTruthe by my lyve,And ben his pilgrym atte plow,For povere mennes sake.My plow-foot shall be my pikstaf,And picche a-two the rotes,And helpe my cultour to kerveAnd clense the furwes."

Now is Perkyn and hise pilgrimesTo the plow faren;To erie his half acreHolpen hym manye;Dikeres and delveresDigged up the balkes.Therwith was Perkyn a-payed,And preised hem faste.

Othere werkmen ther wereThat wroghten ful yerne;Ech man in his manereMade hymself to doone,And somme to plese PerkynPiked up the wedes.

At heigh prime PiersLeet the plowgh stonde,To over-sen hem hymself,And who so best wroghteHe sholde be hired therafter,Whan hervest tyme come.

And thanne seten somme,And songen atte nale,And holpen ere this half acreWith "How, trolly lolly."

"Now, by the peril of my soule!" quod Piers,All in pure tene,"But ye arise the ratherAnd rape yow to werche,Shal no greyn that growethGlade yow at nede,And though ye deye for doel,The devel have that reccheth."

Tho were faitours a-fered,And feyned hem blynde;Somme leide hir legges a-liry,As swiche losels konneth,And made hir mone to Piers,And preide hym of grace;"For we have no lymes to laboure with,Lord, y-graced be the;Ac we preie for yow, Piers,And for youre plowgh bothe,That God of his graceYoure greyn multiplie,And yelde yow for youre almesseThat ye gyve us here;For we may noght swynke ne swete,Swich siknesse us eyleth."

"If it be sooth," quod Piers, "that ye seyn,I shal it soone aspie.Ye ben wastours, I woot wel,And Truthe woot the sothe;And I am his olde hyne,And highte hym to warne,Whiche thei were in this worldHise werkmen apeired.Ye wasten that men wynnenWith travaille and with tene;Ac Truthe shal teche yowHis teme to dryve,Or ye shul eten barley breed,And of the broke drynke.

"But if he be blynd or broke-legged,Or bolted with irens,He shall ete whete breed,And drynke with myselve,Til God of his goodnesseAmendement hym sende.Ac ye myghte travaille, as Truthe wolde,And take mete and hyre,To kepe kyen in the feld,The corn fro the beestes,Diken or delven,Or dyngen upon sheves,Or helpe make morter,Or bere muk a-feld.

"In lecherie and in losengerieYe lyven, and in sleuthe;And al is thorugh suffraunce,That vengeaunce yow ne taketh.

"Ac ancres and heremitesThat eten noght but at nones,And na-moore er the morwe,Myn almesse shul thei have,And of catel to kepe hem with,That han cloistres and chirches.

"Ac Robert RenabouteShal noght have of myne,Ne postles, but thei preche konneAnd have power of the bisshope;Thei shul have payn and potage,And make hemself at ese,For it is an unreasonable religionThat hath right noght of certein."

And thanne gan Wastour to wrathen hym,And wolde have y-foughte;And to Piers the PlowmanHe profrede his glove;A bretoner, a braggere,A-bosted Piers als,And bad hym go pissen with his plowgh,"For-pynede sherewe!Wiltow or neltow,We wol have oure willeOf thi flour and of thi flesshe,Fecche whanne us liketh;And maken us murye thermyde,Maugree thi chekes."

Thanne Piers the PlowmanPleyned hym to the knyghte,To kepen hym as covenaunt wasFro cursede sherewes,And fro thise wastours wolves-kynnesThat maketh the world deere;"For tho wasten and wynnen noght,And that ilke whileWorth nevere plentee among the peple,The while my plowgh liggeth."

Curteisly the knyght thanne,As his kynde wolde,Warnede Wastour,And wissed hym bettre,"Or thow shalt abigge by the lawe,By the ordre that I bere!"

"I was noght wont to werche," quod Wastour,"And now wol I noght bigynne;"And leet light of the lawe,And lasse of the knyghte;And sette Piers at a pese,And his plowgh bothe;And manaced Piers and his men,If thei mette eft soone.

"Now, by the peril of my soule!" quod Piers,"I shal apeire yow alle;"And houped after Hunger,That herde hym at the firste,"A-wreke me of thise wastours," quod he,"That this world shendeth."

Hunger in haste thooHente Wastour by the wombe,And wrong him so by the wombe,That bothe hise eighen watrede.

He buffeted the bretonerAboute the chekes,That he loked lik a lanterneAl his lif after.He bette hem so bothe,He brast ner hire guttes;Ne hadde Piers with a pese loofPreyed Hunger to cesse,They hadde be dolven,Ne deme thow noon oother.

"Suffre hem lyve," he seide,"And lat hem ete with hogges,Or ellis benes or brenY-baken togideres,Or ellis melk and mene ale;"Thus preied Piers for hem.

Faitours for fere herofFlowen into bernes,And flapten on with flailesFro morwe til even;That Hunger was noght so hardyOn hem for to loke,For a potful of pesesThat Piers hadde y-maked.

An heep of heremytesHenten hem spades,And kitten hir copes,And courtepies hem maked,And wente as werkmenWith spades and with shovelesAnd dolven and dikeden,To dryve awey hunger.

Blynde and bed-redenWere bootned a thousande,That seten to begge silver,Soone were thei heeled;For that was bake for bayarde,Was boote for many hungry;And many a beggere for benesBuxum was to swynke;And eche a povere man wel a-paiedTo have pesen for his hyre,And what Piers preide hem to do,As prest as a sperhauk;And therof was Piers proud,And putte hem to werke,And yaf hem mete as he myghte aforthe,And mesurable hyre.

Thanne had Piers pité,And preide Hunger to wendeHoom unto his owene yerd,And holden hym there;"For I am wel a-wrokeOf wastours, thorugh thy myghte.Ac I preie thee, er thow passe,"Quod Piers to Hunger,"Of beggeris and of bidderisWhat best be to doone.For I woot wel, be thow went,Thei wol werche ful ille;For meschief it makethThei be so meke nouthe,And for defaute of hire foodeThis folk is at my wille.

"Thei are my blody bretheren," quod Piers,"For God boughte us alle.Truthe taughte me onesTo loven hem echone;And to helpen hem of alle thyngAy as hem nedeth.And now wolde I wite of theeWhat were the beste;And how I myghte a-maistren hem,And make hem to werche."

"Here now," quod Hunger,"And hoold it for a wisdom;Bolde beggeris and biggeThat mowe hir breed bi-swynke,With houndes breed and horse breedHoold up hir hertes;A-bate hem with benes,For bollynge of hir wombes;And if the gomes grucche,Bidde hem go swynke,And he shal soupe swetterWhan he it hath deserved.

"And if thow fynde any frekeThat fortune hath apeired,Or any manere false men,Fonde thow swiche to knowe;Conforte hym with thi catel,For Cristes love of hevene;Love hem and leve hem,So lawe of God techeth,Alter alterius onera portare.

"And alle manere of menThat thow myght aspie,That nedy ben and noughty,Help hem with thi goodes;Love hem and lakke hem noght,Lat God take the vengeaunce;Theigh thei doon yvele,Lat God y-worthe.Mihi vindictam, et ego retribuam.

"And if thow wilt be gracious to God,Do as the gospel techeth,And bi-love thee amonges lewed men,So shaltow lacche grace;Facite vos amicos de Mammone iniquitatis." =

"I wolde noght greve God," quod Piers,"For al the good on grounde.Mighte I synne-lees do as thow seist?"Seide Piers thanne.

"Ye, I bi-hote thee," quod Hunger,"Or ellis the Bible lieth;Go to Genesis the geaunt,The engendrour of us alle:In sudore and swynkThow shalt thi mete tilie,And laboure for thi liflode,And so oure Lorde highte.And Sapience seith the same,I seigh it in the Bible,Piger præ frigoreNo feeld nolde tilie,And therfore he shal begge and bidde,And no man bete his hunger.

"Mathew with mannes faceMouthed thise wordes,That servus nequam hadde a mnam,And for he wolde noght chaffare,He hadde maugree of his maisterEvere moore after,And by-nam hym his mnam,For he ne wolde werche,And yaf that mnam to hymThat ten mnames hadde;And with that he seide,That holy chirche it herde,He that hath shal haveAnd helpe there it nedeth;And he that noght hath shal noght have,And no man hym helpe,And that he weneth wel to haveI wole it hym bi-reve.Kynde wit woldeThat ech a wight wroghte,Or in dikynge or in delvynge,Or travaillynge in preieres;Contemplatif lif or actif lifCrist wolde thei wroghte.The Sauter seith in the PsalmeOf Beati omnes,The freke that fedeth hymselfWith his feithful labour,He is blessed by the bookIn body and in soule."Labores manuum tuarum, etc.

"Yet I preie yow," quod Piers,"Par charité, and ye konneAny leef of leche-craft,Lere it me, my deere;For some of my servauntz,And myself bothe,Of al a wike werche noght,So oure wombe aketh."

"I woot wel," quod Hunger,"What siknesse yow eyleth;Ye han manged over muche,And that maketh yow grone.Ac I hote thee," quod Hunger,"As thow thyn hele wilnest,That thow drynke no dayEr thow dyne som what.Ete noght, I hote thee,Er hunger thee take,And sende thee of his sauceTo savore with thi lippes;And keep som til soper-tyme,And sitte noght to longe,And rys up er appetitHave eten his fille.Lat noght sire SurfetSitten at thi borde.Leve hym noght, for he is lecherous,And likerous of tunge,And after many maner metesHis mawe is a-fyngred.

"And if thow diete thee thus,I dar legge myne eris,That Phisik shal hise furred hodesFor his fode selle,And his cloke of Calabre,With alle the knappes of golde,And be fayn, by my feith!His phisik to lete,And lerne to laboure with lond,For liflode is swete.For murthereris are manye leches,Lord hem amende!They do men deye thorugh hir drynkes,Er destynee it wolde.""By seint Poul!" quod Piers,"Thise arn profitable wordes!Wend now, Hunger, whan thow wolt,That wel be thow evere!For this is a lovely lesson,Lord it thee for-yelde!"

"Bi-hote God!" quod Hunger,"Hennes ne wole I wende,Til I have dyned bi this day,And y-dronke bothe."

"I have no peny," quod Piers,"Pulettes to bugge,Ne neither gees ne grys,But two grene cheses,A fewe cruddes and creme,And an haver cake,And two loves of benes and branY-bake for my fauntes;And yet I seye, by my soule!I have no salt bacon,Ne no cokeney, by Crist!Coloppes for to maken.

"Ac I have percile and porettes,And manye cole plauntes,And ek a cow and a calf,And a cart mareTo drawe a-feld my donge,The while the droghte lasteth;And by this liflode we mote lyveTil Lammesse tyme.And by that, I hope to haveHervest in my crofte,And thanne may I dighte thi dyner,As me deere liketh."

Al the povere peple thoPescoddes fetten,Benes and baken applesThei broghte in hir lappes,Chibolles and chervelles,And ripe chiries manye,And profrede Piers this presentTo plese with Hunger.

Al Hunger eet in haste,And axed after moore.Thanne povere folk, for fere,Fedden Hunger yerne,With grene poret and pesen,To poisone hym thei thoghte.By that it neghed neer hervest,And newe corn cam to chepyng;Thanne was folk fayn,And fedde Hunger with the beste,With goode ale, as Gloton taghte,And garte Hunger go slepe.

And tho wolde Wastour noght werche,But wandren aboute,Ne no beggere ete breedThat benes inne were,But of coket and cler-matyn,Or ellis of clene whete;Ne noon halfpeny aleIn none wise drynke,But of the beste and of the brunnesteThat in burghe is to selle.

Laborers that have no landTo lyve on but hire handes,Deyned noght to dyne a dayNyght-olde wortes;May no peny ale hem paye,Ne no pece of bacone,But if it be fresshe flessh outher fisshe,Fryed outher y-bake,And that chaud and plus chaud,For chillynge of hir mawe;And but if he be heighliche hyred;Ellis wole he chide,And that he was werkman wroghtWaille the tyme,Ayeins Catons counseilComseth he to jangle.Paupertatis onus patienter ferre memento. =

He greveth hym ageyn God,And gruccheth ageyn Reson,And thanne corseth he the kyng,And al his counseil after,Swiche lawes to lokeLaborers to greve.Ac whiles Hunger was hir maister,Ther wolde noon of hem chide,Ne stryven ayeins his statut,So sterneliche he loked.

Ac I warne yow, werkmen,Wynneth whil ye mowe,For Hunger hiderwardHasteth hym faste.He shal a-wake with waterWastours to chaste;Er fyve be fulfilled,Swich famyn shal a-ryse,Thorugh flodes and thorugh foule wedresFruytes shul faille,And so seide Saturne,And sente yow to warne.

Whan ye se the sonne a-mys,And two monkes heddes,And a mayde have the maistrie,And multiplie by eighte,Thanne shal deeth with-drawe,And derthe be justice,And Dawe the dykereDeye for hunger;But God of his goodnesseGraunte us a trewe.

Treuthe herde telle herAnd to Piers he sente,To maken his temeAnd tilien the erthe,And purchaced hym a pardoneA poena et a culpa,For hym and for hise heires,For evere moore after,And bad hym holde hym at home,And erien hise leyes.And alle that holpen hym to erye,To sette or to sowe,Or any oother mestierThat myghte Piers availle,Pardon with Piers PlowmanTruthe hath y-graunted.

Kynges and knyghtes,That kepen holy chirche,And rightfully in remesRulen the peple,Han pardon thorugh purgatorieTo passen ful lightly,With patriarkes and prophetesIn paradis to be felawe.

Bysshopes y-blessed,If thei ben as thei sholde,Legistres of bothe lawes,The lewed therwith to preche,And in as muche as thei moweAmenden alle synfulle,Arn peres with the Apostles,This pardon Piers sheweth,And at the day of domeAt the heighe deys sitte.

Marchauntz in the margyneHadde manye yeres,Ac noon a poena et a culpaThe pope nolde hem graunte,For thei holde noght hir hali-dayesAs holy chirche techeth,And for thei swere by hir soule,And so God moste hem helpe,Ayein clene Conscience,Hir catel to selle.

Ac under his secret seelTruthe sente hem a lettre,That thei sholde buggen boldelyThat hem best liked,And sithenes selle it ayein,And save the wynnyng,And amende meson-dieux thermyd,And mys-eise folk helpe,And wikkede weyesWightly amende,And do boote to bruggesThat to-broke were,Marien maydenes,Or maken hem nonnes,Povere peple and prisonsFynden hem hir foode,And sette scolers to scole,Or to som othere craftes,Releve religion,And renten hem bettre;"And I shal sende yow myselveSeint Michel myn archangel,That no devel shal yow dere,Ne fere yow in youre deying,And witen yow fro wanhope,If ye wol thus werche,And sende youre soules in sauftéTo my seintes in joye."

Thanne were marchauntz murie,Manye wepten for joye,And preiseden Piers the Plowman,That purchaced this bulle.

Men of lawe leest pardon hadde,That pleteden for Mede;For the Sauter saveth hem noght,Swiche as take giftes,And nameliche of innocentzThat noon yvel ne konneth.Super innocentem munera non accipies. =

Pledours sholde peynen hemTo plede for swiche and helpe;Princes and prelatesSholde paie for hire travaille.A regibus et principibus erit merces eorum. =

Ac many a justice and jurourWolde for Johan do mooreThan pro Dei pietate,Leve thow noon oother.

Ac he that spendeth his speche,And speketh for the povereThat is innocent and nedy,And no man apeireth,Conforteth hym in that caasWithouten coveitise of giftes,And sheweth lawe for oure Lordes love,As he it hath y-lerned,Shal no devel at his deeth dayDeren hym a myte,That he ne worth saaf and his soule,The Sauter bereth witnesse:Domine, quis habitabit in tabernaculo tuo? =

Ac to bugge water, ne wynd,Ne wit, ne fir the ferthe,Thise foure the fader of heveneMade to this foold in commune.Thise ben Truthes tresoresTrewe folk to helpe,That nevere shul wexe ne wanye,Withouten God hymselve.

Whan thei drawen on to deye,And indulgences wolde have,Hir pardon is ful petitAt hir partyng hennes,That any mede of mene menFor hir motyng taketh.Ye legistres and lawieres,Holdeth this for truthe,That if that I lye,Mathew is to blame,For he bad me make yow this,And this proverbe me tolde,Quodcunque vultis ut faciant vobishomines, facite eis.

Alle libbynge laborersThat lyven with hir hondes,That treweliche taken,And treweliche wynnen,And lyven in love and in lawe,For hir lowe hertesHaveth the same absolucionThat sent was to Piers.

Beggeres ne bidderesNe beth noght in the bulle,But if the suggestion be soothThat shapeth hem to begge.For he that beggeth or bit,But if he have nede,He is fals with the feend,And defraudeth the nedy;And also he bi-gileth the gyvere,Ageynes his wille;For if he wiste he were noght nedy,He wolde gyve that anotherThat were moore nedy than he,So the nedieste sholde be holpe.Caton kenneth me thus,And the clerc of stories;Cui des videto,Is Catons techyng.

And in the stories he techethTo bistowe thyn almesse.Sit elemosina tua in manu tua,donec studes cui des.

Ac Gregory was a good man,And bad us gyven alleThat asketh for his loveThat us al leneth.Non eligas cui miserearis, ne forteprætereas illum qui mereturaccipere. Quia incertum estpro quo Deo magis placeas.

For wite ye nevere who is worthi,Ac God woot who hath nede;In hym that taketh is the trecherie,If any treson walke.For he that yeveth, yeldeth,And yarketh hym to reste;And he that biddeth, borweth,And bryngeth hymself in dette.For beggeres borwen evere mo,And hir borgh is God almyghty,To yelden hem that yeveth hem,And yet usure moore.Quare non dedisti pecuniam meamad mensam, ut ego veniam cumusuris exigere?

For-thi biddeth noght, ye beggeres,But if ye have gret nede;For who so hath to buggen hym breed,The book bereth witnesse,He hath y-nough that hath breed y-nough,Though he have noght ellis.Satis dives est, qui non indiget pane.

Lat usage be youre solas,Of seintes lyves redyng,The book banneth beggerie,And blameth hem in this manere:Junior fui, et jam senui, et non vidijustum derelictum, nec semenejus, etc.

For ye lyve in no love,Ne no lawe holde;Manye of yow ne wedde noghtThe womman that ye with deele,But as wilde bestes with 'wehee!'Worthen uppe and werchen,And bryngen forth barnes,That bastardes men calleth;Or the bak or som boonHe breketh in his youthe,And siththe goon faiten with youre fauntesFor evere moore after.Ther is moore mys-shapen pepleAmonges thise beggeres,Than of alle manere menThat on this moolde walketh.And thei that lyve thus hir lif,Mowe lothe the tymeThat evere thei were men wroght,Whan thei shal hennes fare.Ac olde men and hore,Than help-lees ben of strengthe,And wommen with childeThat werche ne mowe,Blynde and bed-reden,And broken hire membres,That taken thise myschiefs mekeliche,As mesels and othere,Han as pleyn pardonAs the plowman hymselve.For love of hir lowe hertes,Oure Lord hath hem grauntedHir penaunce and hir purgatorieHere on this erthe.

"Piers," quod a preest thoo,"Thi pardon moste I rede;For I wol construe ech clause,And kenne it thee on Englisshe."

And Piers at his preiereThe pardon unfoldeth;And I by-hynde hem botheBiheld al the bulle,And in two lynes it lay,And noght a leef more,And was writen right thus,In witnesse of Truthe:Et qui bona egerunt, ibunt in vitam eternam. =Qui vero mala, in ignem eternum.

"Peter," quod the preest thoo,"I kan no pardon fynde,But do wel and have wel,And God shal have thi soule,And do yvel and have yvel,Hope thow noon oother,But after thi deeth-dayThe devel shal have thi soule."And Piers for pure tenePulled it a-tweyne,And seide Si ambulavero in medioumbræ mortis, non timebo mala,quoniam tu mecum es.

"I shal cessen of my sowyng," quod Piers, ="And swynke noght so harde,Ne aboute my bely joyeSo bisy be na-moore;Of preieres and of penaunceMy plough shal ben herafter,And wepen whan I sholde slepe,Though whete-breed me faille.

"The prophete his payn eetIn penaunce and in sorwe,By that the Sauter seith,So dide othere manye;That loveth God lelly,His liflode is ful esy.Fuerunt mihi lacrimæ meæ panesdie ac nocte.

"And but if Luc lye,He lereth us by foweles,We sholde noght be to bisyAboute the worldes blisse;Ne soliciti sitis,He seith in the Gospel,And sheweth us by ensamplesUs selve to wisse.The foweles in the feld,Who fynt hem mete at wynter?Have thei no gerner to go to,But God fynt hem alle."

"What!" quod the preest to Perkyn,"Peter! as me thynketh,Thow art lettred a litel:--Who lerned thee on boke?"

"Abstynence the abbesse," quod Piers,"Myn a.b.c. me taughte;And Conscience cam afterward,And kenned me muche moore."

"Were thow a preest," quod he,"Thou myghtest preche where thou sholdest,As divinour in divinité,With Dixit insipiens to thi teme."

"Lewed lorel!" quod Piers,"Litel lokestow on the Bible;On Salomons sawesSelden thow biholdest:Ejice derisores et jurgia cum eis, necrescant, etc."

The preest and PerkynOpposeden either oother.And I thorugh hir wordes a-wook,And waited aboute,And seigh the sonne in the southSitte that tyme,Mete-lees and monei-leesOn Malverne hulles,Musynge on this metels,And my wey ich yede.

Many tyme this metelsHath maked me to studieOf that I seigh slepynge,If it so be myghte,And also for Piers the PlowmanFul pencif in herte,And which a pardon Piers haddeAl the peple to conforte,And how the preest impugned itWith two propre wordes.Ac I have no savour in songewarie,For I se it ofte faille;Caton and canonistresCounseillen us to leveTo sette sadnesse in songewarie,For sompnia ne cures.

Ac for the book BibleBereth witnesseHow Daniel divinedThe dreem of a kyng,That was NabugodonosorNempned of clerkes.

Daniel seide, "Sire kyng,Thi dremels bitoknethThat unkouthe knyghtes shul comeThi kyngdom to cleyme;Amonges lower lordesThi lond shal be departed."And as Daniel divined,In dede it fel after;The kyng lees his lordshipe,And lower men it hadde.

And Joseph mette merveillouslyHow the moone and the sonneAnd the ellevene sterresHailsed hym alle.

Thanne Jacob juggedJosephes swevene."Beau fitz," quod his fader,"For defaute we shullen,I myself and my sones,Seche thee for nede."

It bifel as his fader seide,In Pharaoes tyme,That Joseph was justiceEgipte to loke;It bifel as his fader tolde,Hise frendes there hym soughte,And al this maketh meOn this metels to thynke.And how the preest prevedNo pardon to Do-wel,And demed that Do-welIndulgences passed,Biennals and triennals,And bisshopes lettres;And how Do-wel at the day of domeIs digneliche underfongen,And passeth al the pardonOf seint Petres cherche.

Now hath the pope powerPardon to graunte the peple,Withouten any penaunceTo passen into hevene;This is oure bileve,As lettred men us techeth:Quodcumque ligaveris super terram,erit ligatum et in coelis, etc. =

And so I leve leelly,Lordes forbode ellis!That pardon and penaunceAnd preieres doon saveSoules that have synnedSeven sithes dedly;Ac to truste to thise triennals,Trewely me thynketh,Is noght so siker for the soule,Certes, as is Do-wel.

For-thi I rede yow, renkes,That riche ben on this erthe,Upon trust of youre tresorTriennals to have,Be ye never the bolderTo breake the .x. hestes;And namely ye maistres,Meires and jugges,That have the welthe of this worldAnd for wise men ben holden,To purchace yow pardonAnd the popes bulles.At the dredful dome,Whan dede shulle rise,And comen alle to-fore CristAcountes to yelde,How thow laddest thi lif here,And hise lawes keptest,And how thow didest day by day,The doom wole reherce.A poke ful of pardon there,Ne provincials lettres,Theigh ye be founde in the fraternitéOf alle the foure ordres,And have indulgences double-fold,But if Do-wel yow helpe,I sette youre patentes and youre pardonAt one pies hele.

For-thi I counseille alle CristeneTo crie God mercy,And Marie his moderBe oure meene bitwene,That God gyve us grace here,Er we go hennes,Swiche werkes to wercheWhile we ben here,That after oure deeth-dayDo-wel reherceAt the day of dome,We dide as he highte.

Thus y-robed in russetI romed abouteAl a somer sesonFor to seke Do-wel;And frayned ful ofteOf folk that I mette,If any wight wisteWher Do-wel was at inne;And what man he myghte beOf many man I asked.

Was nevere wight, as I wente,That me wisse koutheWhere this leode lenged,Lasse ne moore;Til it bi-fel on a FridayTwo freres I mette,Maistres of the menours,Men of grete witte.I hailsed hem hendely,As I hadde y-lerned,And preide hem par charité,Er thei passed ferther,If thei knewe any contreeOr costes, as thei wente,"Where that Do-wel dwellethDooth me to witene."For thei be men of this mooldeThat moost wide walken,And knowen contrees and courtes,And many kynnes places,Bothe princes paleisesAnd povere mennes cotes,And Do-wel and Do-yveleWher thei dwelle bothe.

"Amonges us," quod the Menours,"That man is dwellynge,And evere hath, as I hope,And evere shal herafter."

"Contra," quod I as a clerc,And comsed to disputen,And seide hem soothly,"Septies in die cadit justus.Sevene sithes, seith the book,Synneth the rightfulle;And who so synneth," I seide,"Dooth yvele, as me thynketh;And Do-wel and Do-yveleMowe noght dwelle togideres.Ergo he nys noght alweyAmonges yow freres;He is outher while ellis whereTo wisse the peple."

"I shal seye thee, my sone,"Seide the frere thanne,"How seven sithes the sadde manOn a day synneth;By a forbisne," quod the frere,"I shal thee faire shewe.Lat brynge a man in a bootAmydde the brode watre,The wynd and the waterAnd the boot waggyngMaketh the man many a tymeTo falle and to stonde;For stonde he never so stif,He stumbleth if he meve,Ac yet is he saaf and sound,And so hym bihoveth.For if he ne arise the rather,And raughte to the steere,The wynd wolde with the waterThe boot over throwe;And thanne were his lif lost,Through lachesse of hymselve.

"And thus it falleth," quod the frere,"By folk here on erthe;The water is likned to the worldThat wanyeth and wexeth;The goodes of this grounde arn likTo the grete wawes,That as wyndes and wedresWalketh aboute;The boot is likned to oure bodyThat brotel is of kynde,That thorugh the fend and the flessheAnd the frele worldeSynneth the sadde manA day seven sithes.

"Ac dedly synne doth he noght,For Do-wel hym kepeth;And that is charité the champion,Chief help ayein synne;For he strengheth men to stonde,And steereth mannes soule,And though the body boweAs boot dooth in the watre,Ay is thi soule saaf,But if thow wole thiselveDo a deedly synne,And drenche so thi soule,God wole suffre wel thi sleuthe,If thiself liketh.For he yaf thee a yeres-gyve,To yeme wel thiselve,And that is wit and free-wil,To every wight a porcion,To fleynge foweles,To fisshes and to beestes;Ac man hath moost therof,And moost is to blame,But if he werche wel therwith,As Do-wel hym teacheth."

"I have no kynde knowyng," quod I,"To conceyven alle youre wordes;Ac if I may lyve and loke,I shal go lerne bettre."

"I bikenne thee Crist," quod he,"That on cros deyde!"And I seide, "The sameSave yow fro myschaunce,And gyve yow grace on this groundeGoode men to worthe!"

And thus I wente wide wherWalkyng myn one,By a wilde wildernesse,And by a wodes side;Blisse of the briddesBroughte me a-slepe,And under a lynde upon a laundeLened I a stounde,To lythe the layesTho lovely foweles made.Murthe of hire mouthesMade me ther to sleple;The marveillouseste metelsMette me thanneThat ever dremed wightIn world, as I wene.

A muche man, as me thoughte,And lik to myselve,Cam and called meBy my kynde name.

"What artow?" quod I tho,"That thow my name knowest."

"That thou woost wel," quod he,"And no wight bettre."

"Woot I what thow art?""Thought," seide he thanne;"I have sued thee this seven yeer,Seye thow me no rather."

"Artow Thought," quod I thoo,"Thow koudest me wisse,Where that Do-wel dwelleth,And do me that to knowe."

"Do-wel and Do-bet,And Do-best the thridde," quod he,"Arn thre fair vertues,And ben noght fer to fynde.Who so is trewe of his tunge,And of his two handes,And thorugh his labour, or thorugh his land,His liflode wynneth,And is trusty of his tailende,Taketh but his owene,And his noght dronklewe ne dedeynous,Do-wel hym folweth.

"Do-bet dooth right thus:Ac he dooth muche moore;He is as lowe as a lomb,And lovelich of speche,And helpeth alle menAfter that hem nedeth.The bagges and the bigirdles,He hath to-broke hem alle,That the erl AvarousHeeld and hise heires.And thus with Mammonaes moneieHe hath maad hym frendes,And is ronne to religion,And hath rendred the Bible,And precheth to the pepleSeint Poules wordes:Libenter suffertis insipientes, cumsitis ipsi sapientes.

"And suffreth the unwiseWith yow for to libbe;And with glad wille dooth hem good,For so God yow hoteth.

"Do-best is above bothe,And bereth a bisshopes crosse,Is hoked on that oon endeTo halie men fro helle;A pik is on that potente,To putte a-down the wikkedThat waiten any wikkednesseDo-wel to tene.And Do-wel and Do-betAmonges hem han ordeyned,To crowne oon to be kyngTo rulen hem bothe;That if Do-wel or Do-betDide ayein Do-best,Thanne shal the kyng comeAnd casten hem in irens,And but if Do-best bede for hem,Thei to be ther for evere.

"Thus Do-wel and Do-bet,And Do-best the thridde,Crouned oon to the kyngTo kepen hem alle,And to rule the remeBy hire thre wittes,And noon oother wiseBut as thei thre assented."

I thonked Thoght tho,That he me thus taughte."Ac yet savoreth me noght thi seying;I coveite to lerneHow Do-wel, Do-bet, and Do-bestDoon among the peple."

"But Wit konne wisse thee," quod Thoght,"Wher tho thre dwelle,Ellis woot I noon that kanThat now is alyve."

Thoght and I thusThre daies we yeden,Disputyng upon Do-welDay after oother;And ere we were war,With Wit gonne we mete.He was long and lene,Lik to noon other;Was no pride on his apparaille,Ne poverte neither;Sad of his semblaunt,And of softe chere.I dorste meve no matereTo maken hym to jangle,But as I bad Thoght thooBe mene bitwene,And pute forth som purposTo preven hise wittes,What was Do-wel fro Do-bet,And Do-best from hem bothe.

Thanne Thoght in that tymeSeide thise wordes:"Where Do-wel, Do-bet,And Do-best ben in londe,Here is Wil wolde wite,If Wit koude teche hym;And wheither he be man or wommanThis man fayn wolde aspie,And werchen as thei thre wolde,Thus is his entente."

"Sire Do-wel dwelleth," quod Wit,"Noght a day hennes,In a castel that Kynde madeOf four kynnes thynges;Of erthe and of eyr it is maad,Medled togideres,With wynd and with waterWitterly enjoyned.Kynde hath closed therinneCraftily withalleA lemman that he lovethLik to hymselve;Anima she hatte.Ac envye hir hateth,A proud prikere of Fraunce,Princeps hujus mundi,And wolde wynne hire aweyWith wiles, and he myghte.

"Ac Kynde knoweth this wel,And kepeth hire the bettre,And dooth hire with sire Do-wel,Is duc of thise marches.

"Do-bet is hire damyselle,Sire Do-weles doughter,To serven this lady leellyBothe late and rathe.

"Do-best is above bothe,A bisshopes peere;That he bit moot be do,He ruleth hem alle.Anima, that lady,Is lad by his leryng.Ac the constable of that castel,That kepeth al the wacche,Is a wis knyght withalle,Sire Inwit he hatte,And hathe fyve faire sonesBi his firste wyve;Sire Se-wel, and Sey-wel,And Here-wel the hende,Sire Werch-wel-with-thyn-hand,A wight man of strengthe,And sire Godefray Go-wel;Grete lordes, for sothe.Thise fyve ben setTo kepe this lady Anima,Til Kynde come or sendeTo saven hire for evere."

"What kynnes thyng is Kynde?" quod I,"Kanstow me telle?"

"Kynde," quod Wit, "is a creatourOf alle kynnes thynges,Fader and formourOf al that evere was maked;And that is the grete GodThat gynnyng hadde nevere,Lord of lif and of light,Of lisse and of peyne.Aungeles and alle thyngArn at his wille;Ac man is hym moost likOf marc and of shafte;For thorugh the word that he spakWoxen forth beestes.Dixit et facta sunt.

"And made man likkestTo hymself one,And Eve of his ryb-bon,Withouten any mene,For he was synguler hymself;And seide faciamus,As who seith moore moot hertoThan my word oone,My myght moot helpeForth with my speche.Right as a lord sholde make lettres,And hym lakked parchemyn,Though he koude write never so wel,If he hadde no penne,The lettre, for al the lordshipe,I leve were nevere y-maked.

"And so it semeth by hym,As the Bible telleth,There he seide Dixit et facta sunt,He moste werche with his word,And his wit shewe.And in this manere was man maad,Thorugh myght of God almighty,With his word and werkmanshipe,And with lif to laste.And thus God gaf hym a goost,Thorugh the godhede of hevene,And of his grete graceGraunted hym blisse,And that is lif that ay shal lasteTo al his lynage after.And that is the castel that Kynde made,Caro it hatte,And is as muche to meneAs man with a soule;And that he wroghte with werk,And with word bothe,Thorgh myght of the magestéMan was y-maked.

"Inwit and alle wittesClosed ben therinne,For love of the lady Anima,That lif is y-nempned;Over al in mannes bodyHe walketh and wandreth.And in the herte is hir hoomAnd hir mooste reste.

"Ac Inwit is in the heed,And to the herte he loketh;What Anima is leef or looth,He lat hire at his wille;For after the grace of God,The gretteste is Inwit.

"Muche wo worth that manThat mys-ruleth his Inwit;And that ben glotons glubberes,Hir God is hire wombe.Quorum deus venter est.

"For thei serven Sathan,Hir soules shal he have.That lyven synful lif here,Hir soule is lich the devil;And alle that lyven good lifAre lik to God almyghty,Qui manet in caritate, in Deo manet, etc. =

"Alas! that drynke shal for-doThat God deere boughte,And dooth God forsaken hemThat he shoop to his liknesse.Amen dico vobis, nescio vos. Et alibi:Et dimisi eos secundum desideriaeorum.

"Fools that fauten Inwit,I fynde that holy chircheSholde fynden hem that hem fauted,And fader-lese children,And widewes that han noght wherwithTo wynnen hem hir foode,Madde men, and maydenesThat help-lese were,Alle thise lakken Inwit,And loore bihoveth.

"Of this matere I myghteMake a long tale,And fynde fele witnessesAmong the foure doctours;And that I lye noght of that I lere thee,Luc bereth witnesse.

"God-fadres and god-modres,That seen hire god-childrenAt mys-eise and at myschief,And mowe hem amende,Shul have penaunce in purgatorieBut thei hem helpe.For moore bilongeth to the litel barn,Er he the lawe knowe,Than nempnynge of a name,And he never the wiser.Sholde no cristene creatureCryen at the yate,Ne faille payn ne potage,And prelates dide as thei sholden.A Jew wolde noght se a JewGo janglyng for defaute,For alle the mebles on this moolde,And he amende it myghte.

"Alas! that a cristene creatureShal be unkynde til another;Syn Jewes, that we juggeJudas felawes,Eyther of hem helpeth ootherOf that that hem nedeth.Whi nel we cristeneOf Cristes good be as kyndeAs Jewes, that ben oure lores-men?Shame to us alle!The commune for hir unkyndenesse,I drede me, shul abye.

"Bisshopes shul be blamedFor beggeres sake.He is wors than Judas,That gyveth a japer silver,And biddeth the beggere go,For his broke clothes.Proditor est prælatus cum Juda,qui patrimonium Christi mimisdistribuit. Et alibi: Perniciosusdispensator est, qui respauperum Christi inutiliterconsumit.

"He dooth noght wel that dooth thus,Ne drat noght God almyghty;He loveth noght Salomons sawes,That sapience taughte.Initium sapientiæ, timor Domini.

"That dredeth God, he dooth wel;That dredeth him for love,And noght for drede of vengeaunce,Dooth therfore the bettre.

"He dooth best that with-draweth hymBy daye and by nyghte,To spille any specheOr any space of tyme.Qui offendit in uno, in omnibus est reus. =

"Lesynge of tyme,Truthe woot the sothe,Is moost y-hated upon ertheOf hem that ben in hevene;And siththe to spille speche,That spicerie is of grace,And Goddes gle-man,And a game of hevene.Wolde nevere the feithful faderThis fithele were un-tempred,Ne his gle-man a gedelyng,A goere to tavernes.

"To alle trewe tidy menThat travaille desiren,Oure Lord loveth hem and lentLoude outher stilleGrace to go to hem,And of-gon hir liflode.Inquirentes autem Dominum nonminuentur omni bono.

"Trewe wedded libbynge folkIn this world is Do-wel,For thei mote werche and wynne,And the world sustene.For of hir kynde thei comeThat confessours ben nempned,Kynges and knyghtes,Kaysers and cherles,Maidenes and martires,Out of o man come.The wif was maad the weyeFor to helpe werche;And thus was wedlok y-wroghtWith a mene persone,First, by the fadres wille,And the frendes conseille;And sithenes by assent of hemself,As thei two myghte acorde.And thus was wedlok y-wroght,And God hymself it madeIn erthe and in hevene,Hymself bereth witnesse.

"Ac fals folk feyth-lees,Theves and lyeres,Wastours and wrecches,Out of wedlok, I trowe,Conceyved ben in yvel tyme,As Caym was on Eve;Of swiche synfulle sherewesThe Sauter maketh mynde:Concepit in dolore, et peperit iniquitatem, etc. =

"And alle that come of that Caym,Come to yvel ende.And God sente to Seem,And seide by an aungel,'Thyn issue in thyn issueI wol that thei be wedded,And noght thi kynde with CaymesY-coupled nor y-spoused.'

"Yet some, ayein the sondeOf oure Saveour of hevene,Caymes kynde and his kyndeCoupled togideres,Til God wrathed for hir werkes,And swich a word seide,'That I makede manIt me for-thynketh.'Poenitet me fecisse hominem.

"And com to Noe anon,And bad hym noght lette:'Swith go shape a shipOf shides and of bordes;Thyself and thi sones,And sithen youre wyves,Busketh yow to that boot,And bideth ye therinne,Til fourty daies be fulfild,That the flood have y-wasshenClene awey the corsed bloodThat Caym hath y-maked.

"'Beestes that now benShul banne the tymeThat evere that cursed CaymCoom on this erthe;Alle shul deye for hise dedes,By dales and by hulles,And the foweles that fleenForth with othere beestes,Excepte oonlicheOf ech kynde a couple,That in thi shyngled shipShul ben y-saved.'Here a-boughte the barnThe bel-sires giltes,And alle for hir fadresThei ferden the werse;The Gospel is her ayein,In o degré, I fynde:Filius non portabit iniquitatem patris,et pater non portabit iniquitatemfilii, etc.

"Ac I fynde if the faderBe fals and a sherewe,That som del the soneShal have the sires tacches.

"Impe on an ellere,And if thyn appul be swete,Muchel merveille me thynketh;And moore of a shereweThat bryngeth forth any barn,But if he be the same,And have a savour after the sire;Selde sestow oother.Nunquam colligitur de spinis uva,nec de tribulis ficus.

"And thus thorugh cursed CaymCam care upon erthe;And al for thei wroghte wedlokesAyein Goddes wille.For-thi have thei maugré of hir mariagesThat marie so hir children.For some, as I se now,Sooth for to telle,For coveitise of catelUn-kyndely ben wedded;As careful concepcionCometh of swiche mariages,As bi-fel of the folkThat I bifore of tolde,Therfore goode sholde wedde goode,Though thei no good hadde;'I am via et veritas,' seith Crist,'I may avaunce yow alle.'

"It is an uncomly couple,By Crist! as me thynketh,To yeven a yong wencheTo an old feble,Or wedden any wodeweFor welthe of hir goodes,That nevere shal barn bereBut if it be in hir armes.Many a peire, sithen the pestilence,Han plight hem togideres,The fruyt that brynge forthArn foule wordes,In jelousie joye-lees,And janglynge on bedde,Have thei no children but cheeste,And clappyng hem bitwene.And though thei do hem to Dunmowe,But if the devel helpe,To folwen after the flicche,Fecche thei it nevere;And but thi bothe be for-swore,That bacon thei tyne.

"For-thei I counseille alle cristeneCoveite noght be weddedFor coveitise of catel,Ne of kyn-rede riche;Ac maidenes and maydenesMacche yow togideres,Wodewes and wideweresWercheth the same;For no londes, but for love,Loke ye be wedded,And thanne gete ye the grace of God,And good y-nough to lyve with.

"And every maner seculerThat may noght continue,Wisely goo wedde,And ware hym fro synne;For lecherie in likyngeIs lyme-yerd of helle.Whiles thow art yong,And thi wepene kene,Wreke thee with wyvyng,If thow wolt ben excused.Dum sis vir fortis,Ne des tua robora scortis;Scribitur in portis,Meretrix est janua mortis.

"Whan ye han wyved, beth warAnd wercheth in tyme;Noght as Adam and Eve,Whan Caym was engendred.For in un-tyme, trewely,Bitwene man and womman,Ne sholde no bourde or bedde be;But if thei bothe were cleneBothe of lif and of soule,And in perfit charité,That ilke derne dede doNo man ne sholde.And if thei leden thus hir lif,It liketh God almyghty;For he made wedlok first,And hymself it seide:Bonum est ut unusquisque uxoremsuam habeat, propterfornicationem.

"And thei that other gates ben getenFor gedelynges arn holden,As fals folk fondlynges,Faitours and lieres,Ungracious to gete goodOr love of the peple,Wandren and wastenWhat thei cacche mowe,Ayeins Do-wel thei doon yvel,And the devel serve;And after hir deeth dayShul dwelle with the same,But God gyve hem grace hereHemself to amende.

"Do-wel my frend is,To doon as lawe techeth;To love thi frend and thi foo,Leve me, that is Do-bet;To gyven and to yemenBothe yonge and olde,To helen and to helpen,Is Do-best of alle.

"And Do-wel is to drede God,And Do-bet to suffre,And so cometh Do-best of bothe,And bryngeth adoun the mody,And that is wikked willeThat many a werk shendeth,And dryveth awey Do-welThorugh dedliche synnes."

Thanne hadde Wit a wif,Was hote dame Studie,That lene was of lere,And of liche bothe;She was wonderly wrothThat Wit me thus taughte;And al starynge dame StudieSterneliche loked.

"Wel artow wis," quod she to Wit,"Any wisdomes to telleTo flatereres or to fooles,That frenetike ben of wittes."And blamed hym and banned hym,And bad hym be stille,With swiche wise wordesTo wissen any sottes.And seide, "Noli mittere, man,Margery perlesAmong hogges, that hanHawes at wille;Thei doon but dryvele theron,Draf were hem levereThan al the precious perreeThat in paradis wexeth.I seye it by swiche," quod she,"That sheweth by hir werkes,That hem were levere londAnd lordshipe on erthe,Or richesse, or rentes,And reste at hir wille,Than alle the sooth sawesThat Salomon seide evere.

"Wisdom and wit nowIs noght worth a kerse,But if it be carded with coveitise,As clotheres kemben hir wolle.Who so can contreve deceitesAnd conspire wronges,And lede forth a love-dayTo lette with truthe,He that swiche craftes canTo counseil is cleped.Thei lede lordes with lesynges,And bi-lieth Truthe.

"Job the gentileIn his gestes witnesseth,That wikked men thei weldenThe welthe of this worlde;And that thei ben lordes of ech a londThat out of lawe libbeth.Quare impii vivunt, bene est omnibusqui prævaricantur et iniqueagunt.

"The Sauter seith the sameBy swiche that doon ille:Ecce ipsi peccatores abundantes insæculo obtinuerunt divitias.

"Lo! seith holy lettrure,Whiche beth thise sherewes?Thilke that God gyveth moost,Leest good thei deleth;And moost un-kynde to the communeThat moost catel weldeth.Quæ perfecisti destruxerunt, justusautem, etc.

"Harlotes for hir harlotrieMay have of hir goodes,And japeris and jogelours,And jangleris of gestes.

"Ac he that hath holy writAy in his mouthe,And kan telle of Tobye,And of twelve apostles,Or prechen of the penaunceThat Pilat wikkedly wroghteTo Jhesu the gentile,That Jewes to-drowe;Litel is he lovedThat swich a lesson sheweth,Or daunted or drawe forth,I do it on God hymselve.

"But thoo that feynen hem foolis,And with faityng libbeth,Ayein the lawe of oure Lord,And lyen on hemselve,Spitten and spuen,And speke foule wordes,Drynken and drevelen,And do men fer to gape,Likne men, and lye on hem,That leneth hem no giftes;Thei konne na-moore mynstralcieNe musik men to glade,Than Munde the millereOf Multa fecit Deus.Ne were hir vile harlotrye,Have God my trouthe!Sholde nevere kyng ne knyght,Ne chanon of seint Poules,Gyve hem to hir yeres-gyveThe gifte of a grote.

"Ac murthe and mynstralcieAmonges men is noutheLecherie, losengerye,And losels tales,Glotonye and grete othes,This murthe thei lovyeth.

"Ac if thei carpen of Crist,Thise clerkes and thise lewedAt mete in hir murthe,Whan mynstrals beth stille,Thanne telleth thei of the TrinitéA tale outher tweye,And bryngen forth a balled reson,And taken Bernard to witnesse,And putten forth a presumpcionTo preve the sothe.Thus thei dryvele at hir deysThe Deitee to knowe,And gnawen God with the gorge,Whanne hir guttes fullen.

"Ac the carefulle may crieAnd carpen at the yate,Bothe a-fyngred and a-furst,And for chele quake;Is ther noon to nyme hym neer,His anoy to amende,But hunten hym as an hound,And hoten hym go thennes.Litel loveth he that LordThat lent hym al that blisse,That thus parteth with the povereA percell whan hym nedeth.Ne were mercy in meene menMoore than in riche,Mendinauntz mete-leesMyghte go to bedde.God is muche in the gorgeOf thise grete maistres,Ac amonges meene menHis mercy and hise werkes.And so seith the Sauter,I have seighen it ofte:Ecce audivimus eam in Effrata, invenimuseam in campis silvæ.

"Clerkes and othere kynnes menCarpen of God faste,And have hym muche in the mouth;Ac meene men in herte.

"Freres and faitoursHan founde swiche questions,To plese with proude men,Syn the pestilence tyme;And prechen at seint PoulesFor pure envye of clerkes;That folk is noght fermed in the feith,Ne free of hire goodes,Ne sory for hire synnes;So is pride woxen,In religion and in al the reme,Amonges riche and povere,That preieres have no powerThe pestilence to lette.And yet the wrecches of this worldIs noon y-war by oother;Ne for drede of the deethWith-drawe noght hir pride;Ne beth plentevouse to the povere,As pure charité wolde;But in gaynesse and in glotonyeFor-glutten hir good hemselve,And breketh noght to the beggereAs the Book techeth:Frange esurienti panem tuum, etc.And the moore he wynneth and weltWelthes and richesse,And lordeth in londes,The lasse good he deleth.

"Tobye telleth yow noght so,Taketh hede, ye riche,How the book BibleOf hym bereth witnesse.Si tibi sit copia, abundanter tribue.Si autem exiguum, illud impertiristude libenter.

"Who so hath muche, spende manliche,So seith Tobye;And who so litel weldeth,Rule hym therafter.For we have no lettre of oure lif,How longe it shal dure,Swiche lessons lordes sholdeLovye to here,And how he myghte moost meyneeManliche fynde.

"Nought to fare as a fithelere or a frere,For to seke festesHomliche at othere mennes houses,And hatien hir owene.Elenge is the halleEch day in the wike,Ther the lord ne the ladyLiketh noght to sitte.Now hath ech riche a ruleTo eten by hymselveIn a pryvee parlour,For povere mennes sake,Or in a chambre with a chymenee,And leve the chief halleThat was maad for meles,Men to eten inne,And al to spare to spendeThat spille shal another.

"I have y-herd heighe men,Etynge at the table,Carpen, as thei clerkes were,Of Crist, and of hise myghtes;And leyden fautes upon the faderThat formede us alle,And carpen ayein clerkesCrabbede wordes,Why wolde oure Saveour suffreSwich a worm in his blisse,That bigiled the womman,And the man after,Thorugh whiche wiles and wordesThei wente to helle,And al hir seed for hir synneThe same deeth suffrede.

"Here lyeth youre lore,Thise lordes gynneth dispute,Of that the clerkes us kennethOf Crist by the Gospel:Filius non portabit iniquitatem patris,etc.

"Why sholde we that now ben,For the werkes of Adam,Roten and to-rende?Reson wolde it nevere.Unusquisque portabit onus suum, etc.

"Swiche motyves thei mene,Thise maistres in hir glorie,And maken men in mys-bileveThat muse muche on hire wordes,Ymaginatif herafterwardeShal answere to hir purpos.

"Austyn to swiche argueresTelleth this teme:Non plus sapere quam oportet.

"Wilneth nevere to witeWhy that God woldeSuffre SathanHis seed to bigile;Ac bileveth lellyIn the loore of holy chirche,And preie hym of pardonAnd penaunce in thi lyve,And for his muche mercyTo amende yow here.For alle that wilneth to witeThe weyes of God almyghty,I wolde his eighe were in his ers,And his fynger after,That evere wilneth to witeWhy that God woldeSuffre SathanHis seed to bigile,Or Judas to the JewesJhesu bitraye.Al was as thow woldest,Lord, y-worshiped be the!And al worth as thow wolt,What so we dispute.

"And tho that useth thise hanylonsTo blende mennes wittes,What is Do-wel fro Do-bet,That deef mote he worthe,Siththe he wilneth to witeWhiche thei ben bothe,But if he lyve in the lifThat longeth to Do-wel.For I dar ben his bolde borgh,That do-bet wole he nevere,Theigh Do-best drawe on hymDay after oother."

And whan that Wit was y-warWhat dame Studie tolde,He bicom so confus,He kouthe noght loke,And as doumb as deeth,And drough hym arere;And for no carpyng I kouthe after,Ne knelyng to the grounde,I myghte gete no greynOf his grete wittes.But al laughynge he louted,And loked upon StudieIn signe that I sholdeBi-sechen hire of grace.

And whan I was war of his wille,To his wif gan I loute,And seide, "Mercy, madame,Youre man shal I wortheAs longe as I lyve,Bothe late and rathe,For to werche youre willeThe while my lif dureth,With that ye kenne me kyndelyTo knowe what is Do-wel."

"For thi mekenesse, man," quod she,"And for thi mylde speche,I shal kenne thee to my cosynThat Clergie is hoten.He hath wedded a wifWithinne thise sixe monthes,Is sib to seven artz,Scripture is hir name.They two, as I hope,After my techyng,Shullen wissen thee to Do-wel,I dar it undertake."

Thanne was I al so fayn,As fowel of fair morwe,And gladder than the gle-manThat gold hath to gifte;And asked hire the heighe weyWhere that Clergie dwelte,"And tel me som tokene," quod I,"For tyme is that I wende."

"Aske the heighe wey," quod she,"Hennes to Suffre-Both-wele-and-wo,If that thow wolt lerne,And ryd forth by Richesse,Ac rest thow noght therinne;For if thow couplest thee therwith,To Clergie comestow nevere.

"And also the likerouse laundeThat Lecherie hatte,Leve it on thi left halfA large myle or moore,Til thow come to a court,Kepe-wel-thi-tunge-Fro-lesynges-and-lither-speche-And-likerouse-drynkes.

"Thanne shaltow se Sobretee,And Sympletee-of-speche,That ech wight be in willeHis wit thee to shewe;And thus shaltow come to Clergie,That kan manye thynges.

"Seye hym this signe,I sette hym to scole,And that I grete wel his wif,For I wroot hire manye bokes,And sette hire to Sapience,And to the Sauter glose;Logyk I lerned hire,And manye othere lawes,And alle musons in musikI made hire to knowe.

"Plato the poeteI putte first to boke,Aristotle and othere moTo argue I taughte.

"Grammer for girlesI garte first to write,And bette hem with a baleys,But if thei wolde lerne,

"Of alle kynne craftesI contreved tooles,Of carpentrie, of kerveres,And compased masons,And lerned hem level and lyne,Though I loke dymme.

"Ac Theologie hath tened meTen score tymes;The moore I muse therinneThe mystier it seemeth,And the depper I devyneThe derker me it thynketh.It is no science, for sothe,For to sotile inne;A ful lethi thyng it were,If that love nere;Ac for it leteth best bi-love,I love it the bettre.For there that love is ledere,Ther lakked nevere grace.Loke thow love lelly,If thee liketh Do-wel;For Do-bet and Do-bestBen of Loves kynne.

"In oother science it seith,I seigh it in Caton:Qui simulat verbis, nec corde est fidus amicus,Tu quoque fac simile, sic ars deluditur arte.

"Who so gloseth as gylours doon,Go me to the same;And so shaltow fals folkAnd feith-lees bigile.This is Catons kennyngTo clerkes that he lereth.

"Ac Theologie techeth noght so,Who so taketh yeme;He kenneth us the contrarie,Ayein Catons wordes.For he biddeth us be as bretheren,And bidde for our enemys.And loven hem that lyen on us,And lene hem whan hem nedeth,And do good ayein yvel,God hymself it hoteth.Dum tempus habemus, operemurbonum ad omnes, maxime autemad domesticos fidei.Poul preched the pepleThat perfitnesse lovede,To do good for Goddes love,And gyven men that asked,And namely to swicheAs suwen oure bileve,And alle that lakketh us, or lyeth,Oure Lord techeth us to lovye.And noght to greven hem that greveth us,God hymself forbad it,Mihi vindictam, et ego retribuam.

"For-thi loke thow lovye,As longe as thow durest;For is no science under sonneSo sovereyn for the soule.

"Ac astronomye is an hard thyng,And yvel for to knowe;Geometrie and geomesie,So gynful of speche,Who so thynketh werche with tho twoThryveth ful late,For sorcerie is the sovereyn bookThat to tho sciences bilongeth.

"Yet ar ther fibicches in forceresOf fele mennes makyng,Experimentz of alkenamyeThe peple to deceyve;If thow thynke to do-wel,Deel therwith nevere.

"Alle thise sciences I myselfSotilede and ordeynede,And founded hem formestFolk to deceyve.Tel Clergie this tokene,And Scripture after,To counseille thee kyndelyTo knowe what is Do-wel."

I seide, "Graunt mercy, madame,"And mekely hir grette;And wente wightly aweyWithoute moore lettyng,And til I com to ClergieI koude nevere stynte;And grette the goode man,As Studie me taughte,And afterwardes the wif,And worshiped hem bothe,And tolde hem the tokenesThat me taught were.Was nevere gome upon this ground,Sith God made the worlde,Fairer under-fongen,Ne frendlier at ese,Than myself, soothly,Soone so he wisteThan I was of Wittes hous,And with his wif, dame Studie.

I seide to hem soothlyThat sent was I thider,Do-wel and Do-betAnd Do-best to lerne.

"It is a commune lyf," quod Clergie,"On holy chirche to bileve,With alle the articles of the feithThat falleth to be knowe;And that is to bileve lelly,Bothe lered and lewed,On the grete GodThat gynnyng hadde nevere,And on the soothfast SoneThat saved mankyndeFro the dedly deethAnd devel's power,Thorugh the help of the Holy Goost,The which goost is of bothe,Thre persones, ac noghtIn plurel nombre;For al is but oon God,And ech is God hymselve.Deus pater, Deus filius, Deus spiritus sanctus. =God the fader, God the sone,God holy goost of bothe,Makere of mankynde,And of beestes bothe.

"Austyn the oldeHerof made bokes,And hymself ordeynedTo sadde us in bileve.Who was his auctour?Alle the foure euvangelistes,And Crist cleped hymself so,The euvangelistes bereth witnesse.

"Alle the clerkes under CristNe koude this assoille;But thus it bi-longeth to bileveTo lewed that willen do-wel.For hadde nevere freke fyn witThe feith to dispute,Ne man hadde no merite,Myghte it ben y-preved.Fides non habet meritum, ubi humanaratio præbetexperimentum.

"Thanne is Do-bet to suffreFor the soules helthe,Al that the book bitBi holi cherches techyng;And that is, man, bi thy myght,For mercies sake.Loke thow werche it in werk,That thi word sheweth,Swich as thow semest in sighteBe in assay y-founde.Appare quod es, vel esto quod appares. =

"And lat no body beBy thi beryng bigiled,But be swich in thi souleAs thow semest withoute.

"Thanne is Do-best to be booldTo blame the gilty,Sythenes thow seest thiselfAs in soule clene;Ac blame thow nevere body,And thow be blame worthy.Si culpare velis,Culpabilis esse cavebis;Dogma tuum sordet,Cum te tua culpa remordet.

"God in the GospelGrevously reprevethAlle that lakketh any lif,And lakkes han hemselve.Qui consideras festucam in oculofratris tui, trabem in oculo tuo, etc. =

"Why menestow thi mood for a moteIn thi brotheres eighe,Sithen a beem in thyn oweneA-blyndeth thiselve.Ejice primo trabem in oculo tuo, etc. =Which letteth thee to lokeLasse outher more.

"I rede ech a blynd bosardeDo boote to hymselve,For abbotes and for priours,And for alle manere prelates,As persons and parisshes preestesThat preche sholde and techeAlle maner men to amendenBi hire myghtes.

"This text was told yow,To ben y-war, er ye taughte,That ye were swiche as ye seye,So salve with othere;For Goddes word wolde noght be lost,For that wercheth evere;If it availled noght the commune,It myghte availle yowselve.

"Ac it semeth now soothlyTo the worldes sighte,That Goddes word wercheth noghtOn lered ne on lewed,But in swich a manereAs Marc meneth in the gospel:Dum cæcus ducit cæcum, ambo infoveam cadunt.

"Lewed men may likne yow thus,That the beem lith in youre eighen;And the festu is fallenFor youre defaute,In alle maner men,Thorugh mansede preestes.The Bible bereth witnesseThat the folk of IsraelBittre a-boughte the giltesOf two badde preestes,Offyn and Fynes,For hir coveitise,Archa Dei mys-happed,And Ely brak his nekke.

"For-thi ye corectours claweth heron.And corecteth first yowselveAnd thanne mowe ye safly seye,As David made in the Sauter,Existimasti inique quod ero tuisimilis, arguam te, et statuamcontra faciem tuam.

"And thanne shul burel clerkes ben abasshedTo blame yow or to greve,And carpen noght as thei carpe now,Ne calle yow doumbe houndes.Canes non valentes latrare.And drede to wrathe yow in any word,Youre werkmanshipe to lette,And be prester at youre preiere,Than for a pound of nobles.And al for youre holynesse,Have ye this in herte.

"In scole there is scorn,But if a clerk wol lerne,And gret love and likyng,For ech of hem loveth oother.

"Ac now is Religion a rydere,A romere aboute,A ledere of love-dayes,And a lond-buggere,A prikere on a palfreyFro manere to manere,An heepe of houndes at his ersAs he a lord were.And but if his knave kneleThat shal his coppe brynge,He loureth on hym, and asketh hymWho taughte hym curteisie.

"Litel hadde lordes to doon,To gyve lond from hire heiresTo religiouse, that han no routhe,Though it reyne on hir auters.

"In many places ther thei ben persons,By hemself at eseOf the povere have thei no pité;And that is hir charité.Ac thei leten hem as lordesHire londes lyen so brode.

"Ac ther shal come a kyng,And confesse yow religiouses,And bete yow as the Bible tellethFor brekynge of youre rule;And amende monyals,Monkes and chanons,And puten to hir penaunceAd pristinum statum ire;And barons with erles beten hem,Thorugh Beatus-virres techyng,That hir barnes claymenAnd blame yow foule.Hi in curribus et hi in equis ipsiobligati sunt, etc.

"And thanne freres in hir fraytourShul fynden a keyeOf Costantyns cofres,In which is the catelThat Gregories god-childrenHan yvele despended.

"And thanne shal the abbot of Abyngdone =And al his issue for evere,Have a knok of a kyng,And incurable the wounde.

"That this worth sooth, seke yeThat ofte over-se the Bible:Quomodo cessavit exactor, quievittributum, contrivit Dominusbaculum impiorum et virgamdominantium cædentium plagainsanabili.

"Ac er that kyng come,Caym shal awake.But Do-wel shal dyngen hym adoun,And destruye his myghte."

"Thanne is Do-wel and Do-bet," quod I,"Dominus and knyghthode."

"I nel noght scorne," quod Scripture,"But if scryveynes lye;Kynghod ne knyghthod,By noght I kan a-wayte,Helpeth noght to hevene-wardOone heris ende;Ne richesse right noght,Ne reautee of lordes.Poul preveth it impossibleRiche men to have hevene.Salomon seith alsoThat silver is worst to lovye:Nihil iniquius quam amarepecuniam.And Caton kenneth us to coveiten itNaught but as nede techeth,Dilige denarium, sed parce dilige formam. =And patriarkes and prophetes,And poetes bothe,Writen to wissen usTo wilne no richesse,And preiseden poverte with pacience;The apostles bereth witnesseThat thei han eritage in hevene,And by trewe righte;Ther riche men no right may cleyme,But of ruthe and grace."

"Contra," quod I, "by Crist!That kan I repreve,And preven it by Peter,And by Poul bothe,That is baptized beth saaf,Be he riche or povere."

"That is in extremis," quod Scripture,"Amonges Sarzens and Jewes,They mowen be saved so,And that is oure bileve,That an un-cristene in that caasMay cristen an hethen;And for his lele bileve,Whan he the lif tyneth,Have the heritage of heveneAs any man cristene.

"Ac cristene men withoute mooreMaye noght come to hevene;For that Crist for cristene menDeide and confermed the lawe,That who so wolde and wilnethWith Crist to arise,Si cum Christo surexistis, etc.He sholde lovye and leve,And the lawe fulfille.That is, love thi lord GodLevest aboven alle;And after, alle cristene creaturesIn commune, ech man oother;And thus bi-longeth to lovye,That leveth be saved.And but we do thus in dede,At the day of domeIt shal bi-sitten us ful soureThe silver that we kepen;And oure bakkes that mothe-eten be,And seen beggeris go naked;Or delit in wyn and wilde fowel,And wite any in defaute.For every cristene creatureSholde be kynde til oother,And sithen hethen to helpe,In hope of amendement.

"God hoteth heighe and loweThat no man hurte oother;And seith, 'Slee noght that semblable isTo myn owene liknesse,But if I sende thee som tokene;'And seith 'Non moechaberis.Is slee noght, but suffre,And al for the beste;For I shal punysshe hem in purgatorieOr in the put of helle,Ech man for hise mysdedes,But mercy it lette.'"

"This is a long lesson," quod I,"And litel am I the wiser;Where Do-wel is or Do-bet,Derkliche ye shewen.Manye tales ye tellenThat Theologie lerneth;And that I man maad was,And my name y-entredIn the legende of lifLonge er I were,Or ellis un-writen for som wikkednesse,As Holy Writ witnesseth:Nemo ascendit ad coelum, nisi quide coelo descendit.

"I leve it wel," quod I, "by oure Lord!And on no lettrure bettre.For Salomon the sage,That Sapience taughte,God gat hym grace of wit,And alle hise goodes after;He demed wel and wisely,As Holy Writ telleth.Aristotle and he,Who wissed men bettre?Maistres that of Goddes mercyTechen men and prechen,Of hir wordes thei wissen usFor wisest as in hir tyme,And al holy chircheHoldeth hem bothe y-dampned.

"And if I sholde werche by hir werkesTo wynne me hevene,That for hir werkes and witNow wonyeth in pyne,Thanne wroughe I un-wisly,What so evere ye preche.

"Ac of fele witty, in feith,Litel ferly I have,Though hir goost be un-graciousGod for to plese.For many men on this mooldeMoore setten hir hertesIn good than in God;For-thi hem grace faillethAt hir mooste meschief,Whan thei shal lif lete.As Salomon dide, and swiche othereThat shewed grete wittes;Ac hir werkes, as holy writ seith,Were evere the contrarie.For-thi wise witted men,And wel y-lettrede clerkes,As thei seyen hemself,Selde doon therafter.Super cathedra Moysi, etc.

"Ac I wene it worth of manye,As was in Noes tyme,Tho he shoop that shipeOf shides and of bordes;Was nevere wrighte saved that wroghte theron, =Ne oothir werkman ellis,But briddes, and beestes,And the blissed Noe,And his wif with hise sones,And also hire wyves;Of wightes that it wroghteWas noon of hem y-saved.

"God leve it fare noght so bi folkThat the feith techethOf holi chirche, that herberwe is,And Goddes hous to save,And shilden us from shame therinne,As Noes ship dide beestes;And men that maden itA-mydde the flood a-dreynten.The culorum of this clauseCuratours is to mene,That ben carpenters holy kirk to makeFor Cristes owene beestes:Homines et jumenta salvabis, Domine, etc. =

"On Good Friday I fyndeA felon was y-saved,That hadde lyved al his lifWith lesynges and with thefte;And for he beknede to the cros,And to Crist shrof him,He was sonner y-savedThan seint Johan the Baptist;And or Adam or Ysaye,Or any of the prophetes,That hadde y-leyen with LuciferMany longe yeres,A robbere was y-raunsonedRather than thei alle,Withouten any penaunce of purgatorie,To perpetuel blisse.

"Than Marie MaudeleyneWhat womman dide werse?Or who worse than David,That Uries deeth conspired?Or Poul the apostle,That no pité haddeMuche cristene kyndeTo kille to dethe?And now ben thise as sovereynsWith seintes in hevene,Tho that wroughte wikkedlokestIn world tho thei were.And tho that wisely wordeden,And writen manye bokesOf wit and of wisedom,With dampned soules wonye.That Salomon seith, I trowe be soothAnd certein of us alle:Sunt justi atque sapientes et operaeorum in manu Dei sunt, etc.

"Ther are witty and wel libbynge,Ac hire werkes ben y-huddeIn the hondes of almyghty God,And he woot the sothe,Wherfore a man worth allowed there,And hise lele werkes,Or ellis for his yvel wille,And for envye of herte,And be allowed as he lyved so;For by the luthere men knoweth the goode.

"And wherby wiste men which were whit,If alle thyng blak were?And who were a good man,But if ther were som sherewe?For-thi lyve we forth with othere men,I leve fewe ben goode;For quant oportet vient en place,Il n'y ad que pati.And he that may al amende,Have mercy on us alle!For sothest word that ever God seideWas tho he seide Nemo bonus.

"Clergie tho of Cristes mouthComended was it litel;For he seide to seint Peter,And to swiche as he lovede,Cum steteritis ante reges et præsides, etc. =Though ye come bifore kyngesAnd clerkes of the lawe,Beth noght abasshed,For I shal be in youre mouthes,And gyve yow wit and wille,And konnyng to concludeHem alle that ayeins yowOf Cristendom disputen.

"David maketh mencion,He spak amonges kynges,And myghte no kyng over-comen hymAs by konnynge of speche,But wit and wisedomWan nevere the maistrie,Whan man was at meschief,Withoute the moore grace.

"The doughtieste doctourAnd devinour of the TriniteeWas Austyn the olde,And heighest of the foure,Seide thus in a sermon,I seigh it writen ones:Ecce ipsi idiotæ vi rapiunt coelum, ubinos sapientes in infernomergimur.

"And is to mene to men,Moore ne lesse,Arn none rather y-ravysshedFro the righte bileve,Than are thise konnynge clerkesThat konne manye bokes.

"Ne none sonner saved,Ne sadder of bileve,Than plowmen and pastours,And othere commune laborers;Souteres and shepherdes,And othere lewed juttes,Percen with a pater-nosterThe paleys of hevene,And passen purgatorie penaunce-leesAt her hennes partyngInto the blisse of paradis,For hir pure bileve,That imparfitly here knewe,And ek lyvede.

"Ye men knowe clerkes,That han corsed the tymeThat evere thei kouthe or knewe mooreThan Credo in Deum patrem;And principally hir pater-nosterMany a persone hath wisshed.

"I se ensamples myself,And so may manye othere,That servauntz that serven lordesSelde fallen in arerage,And tho that kepen the lordes catel,Clerkes and reves.

"Right so lewed men,And of litel knowyng,Selden falle thei so fouleAnd so fer in synne,As clerkes of holy chircheThat kepen Cristes tresor,The which is mannes soule to save,As God seith in the Gospel:Ite vos in vineam meam."