Front matter (continued 3)

Thanne turnede I me forth, And talked to myselfe Of the falshede of this folke, Whow feythles thei weren. And as I wente by the way Wepynge for sorowe, I seigh a sely man me by, Opon the plough hongen. His cote was of a cloute 840 That cary was y-called; His hod was ful of holes, And his heare oute; With his knoppede shon Clouted ful thykke; His ton toteden out, As he the lond tredede; His hosen over-hongen his hok-shynes On everich a syde, Al beslomered in fen, 850 As he the plow folwede. Tweye myteynes as meter Maad al of cloutes, The fyngres weren for-werd, And ful of fen honged. This whit waselede in the feen Almost to the ancle; Foure rotheren hym byforne, That feble were worthi; Men myghte reknen ich a ryb, 860 So rentful they weren. His wiif walked hym with, With a long gode, In a cuttede cote, Cutted ful heyghe, Wrapped in a wynwe shete To weren hire fro wederes, Bar-fot on the bare iis, That the blod folwede. And at the londes ende lath 870 A little crom-bolle, And theron lay a lytel chylde Lapped in cloutes, And tweyne of tweie yeres olde Opon another syde. And al they songen o songe, That sorwe was to heren; They crieden alle o cry, A kareful note. The sely man sighed sore, 880 And seyde, "Children, beth stille!" This man lokede opon me, And leet the plough stonden; And seyde, "Sely man, Whi syghest thou so harde? Gif the lakke liiflode, Lene the ich wille Swich good as God hath sent; Go we, leeve brother."

I sayde thanne, "Nay, syre, 890 My sorowe is wel more. For I can nought my Crede, I care wel harde; For I can fynden no man That fulli byleveth, To techen me the heyghe weie, And therfore I wepe. For I have fonded the freres Of the foure ordres; For there I wende have wist, 900 But now my wit lakketh; And al myn hope was on hem, And myn herte also, But thei ben fulli faithles, And the fend sueth."

"A! brother," quath he tho, "Be ware of tho foles; For Christ seyde hymself, 'Of swiche I you warne,' And false profetes in the feith 910 He fulliche hem calde, In vestimentis ovium, But only withinne They ben wilde werwolves That wiln the folke robben. The fen[d] founded hem first, The feyth to distrie; And by his craft thei comen in, To combren the chirche, By the covetise of his craft 920 The curates to helpen. But nowe they haven an hold, They harmen ful manye; They don nought after Dominik, But dreccheth the puple. He folwen nought Fraunceis, But falsliche lybben; And Austynes rewle They rekeneth but a fable; And purchaseth hem privilege 930 Of popes at Rome. They coveten confessiones, To kachen some hyre; And sepulturus also, Somme wayten to lacchen; But other cures of Christen They coveten nought to have, But there as wynnynge liith, He loketh non other."

"Whough shal I nemne thy name, 940 That neyghbores the calleth?" "Peres," quath he, "the pore man, The Ploughman I hatte."

"A! Peres!" quath I tho, "I pray the thou me telle More of thise tryflers, Hou trechurly they libbeth; For ichon of hem hath tolde me A tale of that other, Of her wikked liif, 950 In werld that he libbeth. I trowe that some wicked wight Wroughte this ordres. Trow ye that gleym of that gest That Golias is y-cald, Other els Satan hymself, Sente hem fro helle, To combren men with her crafte, Christendome to shenden."

"Dere brother," quath Peres, 960 "The devel is ful queynte, To encombren holy chirche He casteth ful harde, And fluricheth his falsnesse Opon fele wise, And fer he casteth to-forn The folk to dystroye.

"Of the kynrede of Caym He cast the freres, And founded hem on Sarysenes, 970 Feyned for God. But they with her falshe faith Mychel folk shendeth. Christ calde hem hymself Kynd ipocrites; How often he cursed hem, Wel can I tellen. He seide ons hymself To that sory puple: 'Who worthe you, wyghtes, 980 Wel lerned of the lawe!' Eft he seyde to hem selfe, 'Wo mote you worthen That the toumbes of profetes Bildeth up heighe! Your faderes for-deden hem, And to the deth hem broughte.' Here I touche this two, Twynnen hem I thenke. Who wilneth be wiser of lawe 990 Than lewede freres, And in multitude of men But maistres y-called, And wilneth worship of the werld, And sytten with heye, And leveth lovyng of God And lownesse byhynde, And in beldyng of toumbes Thei traveileth grete, To chargen her chirche flore, 1000 And chaungen it ofte. And the fader of the freres Defouled her soules, That was the dyggyng devel, That dreccheth men ofte. The devel by his dotage Dissaveth the chirche, And put in the Prechours, Y-paynted withouten, And by his queyntise they comen in 1010 The curates to helpen; But that harmed hem harde, And halp hem ful littel. But Austynes ordinaunce Was on a good treuthe; And also Dominikes dedes Weren dernelich y-used; And Fraunceis founded his folke Fulliche on treuthe, Pure parfit prestes 1020 In penaunce to libben, In love and in lownesse And lettynge of pryde, Grounded on the Godspel, As God baad hymselve. But now the glose is so greet In gladdyng tales, That turneth up two-fold Un-teyned upon treuthe, That they ben cursed of Christ, 1030 I can hem wel prove Withouten his blissyng, Bare beth thei in her werkes. For Christ seyde hymselfe To swiche as him folwede: 'Y-blissed mot they ben That mene ben in soule;' And alle power in gost God hymself blisseth. Whou fele freres fareth so, 1040 Fayne wolde I knowe, Prove hem in proces, And pynch at her ordre, And deme hem after that the don, And dredles, Y leve, Thei wiln wexon pure wroth Wonderliche sone, And shewen the a sharp wil In a short tyme To wiln wilfully wrathe, 1050 And werche therafter. Wytnes on Wyclif, That warned hem with trewthe. For he in goodnesse of gost Graythliche hem warned To wayven her wikednesse And werkes of synne. Whou sone this sorimen Seweden hys soule, And overal lolled hym 1060 With heritikes werkes! And so of the blissyng of God Thei bereth little mede.

"Afterward another, Onliche he blissede The meke of the myddel-erde Through myght of his fader. Fynd foure freres in a flok That folweth that rewle, Than have I tynt al my tast, 1070 Touche and assaye. Lakke hem a littel wight, And her liif blamen; But he lepe up on heigh In hardenesse of herte, And nemne the anon nought, And thy name lakke, With proude wordes apert That passeth his rewle, Bothe with 'thou leyst,' and 'thou lext,' 1080 In heynesse of soule, And turnnen as a tyraunt That turmenteth hymselve. A lord were lother For to leyne a knave, Thanne swich a begger, The best in a toun. Loke now, leve man, Beth nought thise y-lyke Fully to the Pharisens, 1090 In fele of these poyntes. Al her brad beldyng Ben belded with synne, And in worshipe of the world Here wynnyng they holden; They shapen her chapolories, And strecchet hem brode, And launceth heighe her hemmes With babelyng in stretes. They ben y-sewed with whight silke, 1100 And semes ful queynte, Y-stongen with stiches That stareth as sylver. And but freres ben fyrst y-set At sopers and at festes, They wiln ben wonderly wroth Y-wis, as I trowe; But they ben at the lordes borde, Louren they willeth. He mot bygynne that bord, 1110 A beggere with sorowe; And first sitten in se In her synagoges, That beth her heigh helle hous, Of Caymes kynd. For though a man in her mynstre A masse wolde heren, His sight shal so by set On sondrye werkes, The penonnes and the pomels 1120 And poyntes of sheldes Withdrawen his devocion, And dusken his herte. I likene it to a lim-yerde To drawen men to helle, And to worchipe of the fend, To wraththen the soules. And also Christ himself seide To swich ypocrites, He loveth in marketes ben met 1130 With gretynges of povere, And lowynge of lewed men In Lentenes tyme; For thei han of bichopes y-bought With her propre silver And purchased of penaunce The puple to asoyle. But money may maken Mesure of the peyne; After that his power is to payen, 1140 His penaunce shal fayle. God leve it be a good help For hele of the soules! And also this myster men Ben maysters i-called, That the gentill Jesus Generalliche blamed, And that poynt to his apostles Purly defended. But freres haven forgeten this, 1150 And the fend suweth, He that maystri loved, Lucifer the olde. Where Fraunceys or Dominik, Other Austyn ordeynde, And of this dotardes Doctur to worthe, Maysters of divinité Her matynes to leve, And cherlich as a cheveteyn 1160 Hys chaumbre to holden, With chymené, and chaple, And chosen whan hem lyste, And served as a sovereyn, And as a lord sytten. Swich a gome Godes wordes Grysliche gloseth; I trowe he toucheth nought the text, But taketh it for a tale. God forbad to his folk, 1170 And fullyche defendede, They shoulden nought stodyen biforne Ne sturren her wyttes, But sodenly the same word With here mouth shewe, That weren given hem of God, Thorugh gost of hemselve. Now mot a frere studyen And stumlen in tales, And leven his matynes, 1180 And no masse syngen, And loken hem lesynges That liketh the puple, To purchasen hym his purs ful, To paye for the drynke. And, brother, when bernes ben ful, And holy tyme passed, Thanne comen cursed freres, And croucheth ful lowe, A losel, a lymytoure, 1190 Over al the lond lepeth. And loke that he leve non hous, That somwhat he ne laiche; And there thei gylen hemself, And Godes word turneth, Bagges and beggyng He bad his folke leven, And only serven hymself, And his ruwel sechen, And al that nedly nedeth, 1200 That shulden hem nought lakken. Wherto beggen thise men, And ben nought so feble? Hem fayleth no furryng, Ne clothes atte fulle, But for a lustful liif In lustes to dwellen; Withouten any travail Untrulych libbeth; Thei beth nought maymed men, 1210 Ne no mete lakketh; Thei [ben] clothed in curious cloth, And clenliche arayed. It is a lawles liif, As lordynges usen, Nether ordeyned in ordre, But onethe libbeth.

"Christ bad blissen Bodies on erthe That wepen for wikkednesse 1220 That he byforn wroughte. That ben few of tho freres, For thei ben nere dede, And put al in pur clath, With pottes on her hedes; Thanne he warieth, and wepeth, And wicheth after heven, And fyeth on her falshedes That thei before deden. And therfore of that blissyng, 1230 Trewely, as I trowe, Thei may trussen her part In a terre powghe.

"Alle tho blissed beth That bodyliche hongreth; That ben the pore penyles, That han over-passed The poynt of her pris liif, In penaunce of werkes, And mown nought swynken ne sweten, 1240 But ben swith feble, Other mayned at meschef, Or meseles lyke, And her god is a-gon, And greveth hem to beggen. Ther is no frere, in feith, That fareth in this wyse, That he may beggen his bred, His bed is y-greithed Under a pot he shall be put 1250 In a pryvye chaumbre, That he shal lyven ne last But lytel whyle after. Almyghti God and man, The merciable blessed, That han mercy on men That mis-don hem here. But who so for-gabbed a frere Y-founden at the stues, And brought blod of his bodi, 1260 On back or on syde, Hym were as good greven A grete lord of rentes; He shoulde sonnere ben shryven, Shortly to tellen, Though he kilde a comly knyght, And compasd his mother, Then a buffet to beden A beggere frere.

"The clene hertes Christ 1270 He curteyliche blissed That coveten no catel But Christes fulle blysse, That leveth fulliche on God, And lelliche thenketh On his lore and his lawe, And lyveth opon trewthe. Freres han forgetten this, And folweth another, That they may henten they holden, 1280 By-hirneth it sone; Here hertes ben clen y-hid In her heighe cloystre, As curres from careyne That is cast in diches.

"And parfiit Christ The pesible blissede, That ben suffrant and sobre, And susteyne anger. Asay of her sobernesse, 1290 And thou might y-knowen Ther ne is no waspe in this world That wil folloke styngen, For stappyng on a too Of a styncand frere. For neyther soveren ne seget Thei ne suffereth never. Al thei blessyng of God Beouten thei walken, For of her suffraunce, for sothe, 1300 Men say but lytel.

"Alle that persecution In pure liif suffren, They han the beneson of God, Blissed in erthe. I pray, parceyve now The pursut of a frere, In what mesure of a mekenesse Thise men deleth. Byhold upon Water Brut 1310 Whou bisiliche thei pursueden, For he seid hem the sothe. And yet, syre, ferther Hy may no more marren hem, But men telleth That he is an heretik, And yvele beleveth. And precheth it in pulpit To blenden the puple. They wolden awyrien that wight 1320 For his wel dedes, And so they chewen charité, As chewen shaf houndes. And thei pursueth the povere, And passeth pursutes, Bothe they wyln and thei wolden Y-worthen so grete, To passen any manes myght, To mortheren the soules; First to brenne the body 1330 In a bale of fiir, And sythen the sely soule slen, And senden hyre to helle. And Christ clerly forbad His christene, and defended, They shoulden nought after the face Never the folke demen."

"Sire," I seide myself, "Thou semest to blamen. Why dispisest thou thus 1340 Thise sely pore freres, None other men so mychel, Monkes ne prestes, Chanons ne charthous That in chirche serveth? It semeth that thise sely men Han somewhat the greved, Other with word, or with werk, And therfore thou wilnest To shenden other shamen hem 1350 With the sharp speche, And bannen holliche, And her hous greven."

"I prey the," quath Peres, "Put that out of thy mynde; Certeyn for soule hele I say the this wordes. I preise nought pocessioneres But pur lytel; For falshed of freres 1360 Hath fulliche encombred Manye of this maner men, And maad hem to leven Her charité and chasteté, And shosen hem to lustes, And waxen to werly, And wayven the trewethe, And leven the love of her God, And the werld serven. But for falshed of freres 1370 I fele in my soule, Seyng the synful liif, That sorweth myn herte, Hou they ben clothed in cloth That clennest sheweth, For angeles and archangeles Alle they whiit useth, And al aldremen That ben ante thronum. Thise toknes haven freres taken; 1380 But I trowe that a fewe Folwen fully that cloth, But falslyche that useth. For whiit, in trowthe, bytokeneth Clennes in soule:— Gif he have undernethen whiit, Thanne he above wereth Black, that betokeneth Bale for oure synne, And mournyng for mis-dede 1390 Of hem that this useth, And sorwe for synful liif, So that cloth asketh. I trowe there ben nought ten freres That for synne wepen. For that liif is her lust, And therby thei libben, In fraytour and in fermori Her fostryng is synne; It is her mete at ich a mel, 1400 Her most sustinaunce. Herkne opon Hildegare Hou homlich he telleth How her sustinaunce is synne; And syker, as I trowe, Weren her confessiones Clenly destrued, Hy shoulde nought beren hem so brag, Ne belden so heyghe. For the fallyng of synne 1410 Socoreth the foles, And begileth the grete With glaverynge wordes; With glosyng of godspels Thei Godes word turneth, And passen al the pryvylege That Peter after used. The power of the apostles Thie pasen in speche, For to sellen the synnes 1420 For selver other mede. And purliche a pœna The puple asoyleth, And a culpa also, That they may kachen Money other money-worth, And mede to fonge; And ben at lone and at bode, As burgeises useth. Thus they serven Sathanas, 1430 And soules bygyleth, Marchaunes of malisones, Mansede wrecches. Thei usen russet also Some of this freres, That bitokeneth travaile And treuth upon erthe, But loke whou this lorels Laboren the erthe. But freten the fruyt that the folke 1440 Ful lellich beswynketh; With travail of trewe men Thei tymbren her houses, And of the curiouse cloth Her copes they beggen; And als his gettyng is grete He shal ben good holden. And right as dranes doth nought But drynketh up the huny, Whan been with her busynes 1450 Han brought it to hepe, Right so fareth freres With folk opon erthe; They freten up the firste froyt, And falsliche lybbeth. But alle freres eten nought Y-liche good mete, But after that his wynnyng is Is his wel-fare, And after that he bringeth hom 1460 His bed shal ben graythed, And after that his richesse is raught He shal ben redy served. But se thiself in thi sight Whou somme of hem walketh With clouted shon, And clothes ful feble, Wel neigh for-werd, And the wlon offe; And his felawe in a frok 1470 Worth swhich fiftene, Arayd in rede stone, And elles were reuthe: And sexe copes or seven In his celle hongeth; Though for fayling of good His felawe shulde sterve, He wolde nought lenen hym a peny His liif for to holden. I myght tymen tho troiflardes 1480 To toylen with the erthe, Tylyen, and trewlich lyven, And her flesh tempren. Now mot ich soutere hys sone Seten to schole, And ich a beggeres brol On the book lerne. And worth to a writere And with a lorde dwelle; Other falsly to a frere 1490 The fend for to serven; So of that beggares brol An abbot shal worthen, Among the peres of the lond Prese to sytten, And lordes sones lowly To tho losels aloute, Knyghtes crouketh hem to And cruccheth ful lowe; And his syre a soutere 1500 Y-suled in grees, His teeth with toylyng of lether Tatered as a sawe. Alaas! that lordes of the londe Leveth swiche wrechen, And leveth swych lorels For her lowe wordes. They shulden maken abbots Her owen bretheren childre, Other of som gentil blod, 1510 And so yt best semed, And fostre none forytoures, Ne swich false freres, To maken fat and fulle And her flesh combren. For her kynde were more To y-clense diches, Than ben to sopers y-set first, And served with sylver. A grete bolle-ful of benen 1520 Were beter in hys wombe, And with the bandes of bakun His baly for to fillen, Then pertryches, or plovers, Or pecokes y-rosted, And comeren her stomakes With curiuse drynkes, That maketh swyche harlotes Hordom usen, And with her wikked word 1530 Wymmen bitrayeth. God wold her wonyynge Were in wildernesse, And fals freres forboden The fayre ladis chaumbres. For knewe lordes her craft, Treuly I trowe, They shulden nought haunten her house So holy on nyghtes, Ne bedden swich brothels 1540 In so brode shetes; But sheten her heved in the stre, To sharpen her wittes; Ne ben kynges confessours of custom, Ne the counsel of the rewme knowe. For Fraunceis founded hem nought To faren on that wise, Ne Domynyk dued hem nevere Swyche drynkers to worthe, Ne Helye ne Austyn 1550 Swyche liif never used, But in povert of spirit Spended her tyme. We have seyn ourself In a short tyme Whou freres wolden no flesh Among the folk usen; But now the harlotes Han hyd thilke reule, And for the love of oure Lord 1560 Han leyd hire in water. Wenest thou ther wolde so fele Swich warlawes worthen? Ne were werliche wele And her welfare, Thei shulden delven and dyken, And dongen the erthe, And menemong corn breed To her mete fongen, And wortes fleshles wrought, 1570 And water to drynken, And werchen and wolward gon, As we wrecches usen. An aunter gif ther wolde on, Among an hol hundred, Lyven so for Godes love In tyme of a wyntere."

"Leve Peres," quath I tho, "I pray that thou me telle Whou I may conne my Crede 1580 In Christen byleve."

"Leve brother," quath he, "Hold that I segge, I wil techen the the trouthe, 1584 And tellen the the sothe.—

THE CREDE.

1585 "Leve thou in oure Loverd God That al the werld wrought, Holy heven eke on hey Holliche he fourmede, And is almyghti hymself 1590 Over alle his werkes. And wrought as his wil was The werld and the heven; And on gentil Jesu Christ, Engendred of hymselven, His owen onlyche sone, Lord over all y-knowen, That was clenlich conceived Clerli in trewthe Of the heye Holy Gost, 1600 This is the holy beleve. And of the maiden Marye Man was he born, Withouten synful seed, This is fully the byleve. With thorn y-crouned, crucified, And on the cros dyede, And sythen his blessed body Was in a stone byried, And descended a-doun 1610 To the derk helle, And fet out our formfaderes, And hy ful fayn weren. The thyrd day redeliche Hymself ros fram deeth, And, on a ston there he stod, He steigh up to hevene, And on his fader ryght hand Redelich he sitteth, That almyghti God, 1620 Over alle other whyghtes; And is herafter to commen, Christ all himselven, To demen the quyke and the dede, Withouten any doute. And in the heighe Holy Gost Holly I beleve; And generall holy chirche also, Hold this in the minde; The communion of sayntes, 1630 For soth I to the sayn; And for our great sinnes Forgivenes for to getten, And only by Christ Clenlich to be clensed; Our bodies again to risen Right as we been here; And the liif everlasting Leve ich to habben. Amen.

"Although this flatterynge freres 1640 Wyln, for her pryde, Disputen of Godes deyté, As dotardes shulden, The more the matere is moved The masedere hi worthen. Lat the loseles alone, And leve thou the trewthe; For these maystres of dyvynité Many, als I trowe, Folwen nought fully the feith, 1650 As fele of the lewede. Whough may mannes wiit, Through werk of himselve, Knowen Christes privité, That alle kynde passeth? It mot ben a man Of also mek an herte, That myght with his good liif The Holy Gost fongen; And thanne nedeth him nought 1660 Nevere for to studyen; He myght no maistre ben cald, For Christ that defended, Ne puten no pylion On his pild pate, But prechen in parfit liif, And no pryde usen. But al that ever I have seyd, Soth it me semeth; And al that evere I have wryten 1670 Is soth, as I trowe; And for amendyng of thise men Is most that I write. God wolde hy wolden ben war, And werchen the betere! But for I am a lewed man, Paraunter I myghte Passen par adventure, And in some poynt erren, I wil nought this matere 1680 Maistrely avowen. But gif ich have mys-said, Mercy ich aske, And pray al mannere men This matere amende, Ich a word by hymself, And al, gif it nedeth. God of his grete myght, And his good grace, Save alle freres 1690 That feithfulli lybben! And alle tho that ben fals, Fayre hem amende, And gyve hem wiit and good wil Swiche dedes to werch, That thei may wynnen the liif That evere shal lesten." Amen.

Ich was aferd of hure face, Thauh hue faire were, And saide, mercy, madame, Wat may this be to mene, The tour upon toft, quath hue, Treuthe ys therynne. (Passus Secundus, ed. Whit.)

Conscience cam and acusede hem, And the commune herde hit, And seide, "Ydolatrie ye soffren In sondrye places menye, And boxes ben y-set forth Bounden with yren, To undertake the tool Of untrewe sacrifice, In menynge of miracles Muche wex hongeth there, Al the worldle wot wel Hit myghte nat be trywe. Ac for it profitith yow to pors-warde, Ye prelates soffren That lewede men in mysbylyve Leven and deien. Ich lyve wel, by oure Lorde! For love of youre covetyse, That al the worlde be the wors; As holy wryght telleth What cheste and meschaunce To children of Israel Ful on hem that free were, Thorwe two false preestes. For the synne of Ophni And of Finees hus brother, Thei were disconfit in bataille, And losten Archa Dei, And fore hure syre sauh hem syngen, And aoffred hem don ylle, And noght chasted hem therof, And wolde noght rebukie hem, Anon as it was y-told hyme That the children of Israel Weren disconfit in bataille, And Archa Dei y-lore, And hus sones slayen, Anon he ful for sorwe Fro hus chaire thare he sat, And brak hus necke a-tweyne; And al was for venjaunce That he but noght hus children. And for they were preestes, And men of holy churche, God was well wrother, And toke the rather venjaunce. For-thei ich seye, ye preestes, And men of holy churche, That soffren men do sacrifice And worsheppen mawmettes, And ye sholde be here fadres, And techen hem betere; God shal take venjaunce In alle swiche preestes Wel harder and grettere, On suche shrewede faderes, Than ever he dude on Ophni And Finees, or in here fadere. For youre shrewede suffraunce, And youre owen synne, Youre masse and youre matynes, And meny of youre houres, etc.

I saugh bisshopis bolde, And bacheleris of devyn, Become clerkis of acountis The king for to serve, Archideknes and denis, That dignités haven, To preche the peple And pore men to fede, Ben y-lope to Lundone Be leve of hire bisshop, And ben clerkis of the kinges bench The cuntré to shende.

Vin de Gascoigne, sa coulour N'est pas de petite valour; Les autres vins fet honnorer. Quant de soi les veult coulourer: Force donne, aide, et confort, Et d'un vin foible, fet. i. fort. Il a de vin plaine sustance; Il nourrist sans faire grevance: Aus testes est bons et au flanc. Et du rouge y a et du blanc. (Jubinal, Nouveau Recueil de Contes, &c., i. 399.)

Rochelle, qui tant a de pris, Que l'en la va de partout querre; Chascun si l'enclot et l'enserre, Car il n'est pas à garçonner, N'en ne la doit q'aus bons donner;— Por les grans seignors l'en salache. (ib. p. 300).

I am callyd Sensuall Apetyte, All craturs in me delyte; I comforte the wyttys fyve, The tastyng, smellyng, and herynge, I refresh the syght and felynge, To all creaturs alyve.

Hol. What mean you, sir? Boyet. To make Judas hang himself. Hol. Begin, sir; you are my elder. Biron. Well followed: Judas was hang'd on an elder. Love's Labours Lost, v, 2.

Lord, why wolde he tho, Thulke wrechede Lucifer, Lepen on a-lofte In the northe syde, To sitten in the sonne side Ther the day roweth, Ne were it for northerne men, Anon ich wolde telle: Ac ich wolle lacke no lyf, Quath that lady sotthly. 'Hyt is sykerer by southe, Ther the sonne regneth, Than in the north, by meny notes, No man loyne other. For theder as the fend flegh, Hus fote for to sette, Ther he failede and fuel, And hus felawes alle. And helle is ther he is, And he ther y-bounde, Evene contrarie suteth Criste, Cierkus knowen the sothe, Dixit Dominus Domino meo, sede a dextris meis. 'Ac of this matere No more mene ich nelle, He was in the halyday After heten wayten, They care noght thauh it be cold Knaves wen thei worchen.'

Frettid with rynges, Of the pureste perreighe That prince werde evere, In red scarlet robid And ribande with gold. Ther nis no quen queyntere That quyk is o-lyve, 'What is this womman,' quod I.

Talis pater, talis filius. For shal never brere bere Beries as a vyne, No on crokyd kene thorne Kynde fygys wexe. Bona arbor bonum fructum facit.

Sire Symonye is assent To asele the chartres, That Fals and Favel Be any fyn halden, And feffe Mede therwith In mariage for evere. Ther nas halle ne hous To herberwe the peple, That iche feld nas ful Of folk al aboute. In myddis a mounteyne At myd-morewe tide Was pight up a pavyloun Proud for the nones, And ten thousand of tentis Teldit beside, Of knightes of cuntrés, Of comeres aboute, For sisours, for somonours, etc.

Thei have no puteye of the puple That parcel-mele mote biggen, Thauh thei take hem untydy thyng, Thei hold it no treson; And thauh thei fulle nat ful, That for lawe y-seelde, He gripeth therfor as grete As for the grete treuthe. Meny sondry sorwes In cyté fallen ofte, Bothe thorw fyur and flod, And al for false puple, That bygylen good men, And greveth hem wrongliche, The wiche cryen on hure knees That Christ hem avenge Here on this erthe, Other elles on helle, That so bygyleth hem of here good, And God on hem sendeth Feveres, other fouler hyveles, Other fur on here houses, Moreyne, other meschaunce. And menye tyme hit falleth, That innocence ys y-herde In hevene amonge seyntes, That louten for hem to oure Lorde, And to oure Lady bothe, To granten gylours on erthe Grace to amende, And have here penaunce on pure erthe, And noght in the pyne of helle. And thenne falleth the fur On false menne houses, And good men for here gultes Gloweth on fuyr after. Al thys have we seyen, That some tyme thorw a brewere Many burgages y-brent, And bodyes therynne, And thorw a candel cloming In a cursed place, Fel a-don and for-brende Forth al the rewe, For-thy mayres that maken free-men, Me thynken that thei ouhten For to spure and aspye, For eny speche of selver, What manere mester Of merchaundise he usede, Er he were underfonge free And felawe in youre rolles. Hit ys nought semly, for soth, In cyté ne in borw-ton, That usurers other regratours For eny kynne geftes, Be fraunchised for a free-man, And have fals name.

Thenne cam Pees into parlement, And putte up a bylle. How that Wrong wilfullich Hadde hus wif for-leyen; And how he ravysed Rose, The riche widewe, by nyghte; And Margarete of here maidenhod, As he met hure late. 'Both my goos, and my grys, And my gras he taketh, Ich dar nouht for is felaweshepe, In faith!' Pees saide, 'Bere sickerlich eny selver To seint Gyles doune; He watteth ful wel, Wan ich sulfere taketh, Wat wey ich wende. Wel yerne he aspieth, To robbe me and to ryfle me, Yf ich ride softe. Yut he is bolde for to borwe, And baldelich he payeth: He borwede of me Bayarde,' etc.

And taketh me bote a taile For ten quarters other twelve,

Thus ich awaked, God wot! Wanne ich wonede on Cornhulle, Kytte and ich in a cote, Clothede as a lollere: And a lytel ich let by, Leyve me, for sothe, Among lolleres of London, And lewede heremytes. For ich made of tho men, As Reson me tauhte. For as ich cam by Conscience, Wit Reson ich mette, In an hote hervest, Wenne ich hadde myn hele, And lymes to labore with, And lovede wel fare, And no dede to do Bote drynke and to slepe, In hele and in unité, On me aposede, Romynge in remembraunce. Thus Reson me arated: 'Canstow serven,' he seide, 'Other syngen in a churche? Other loke for my cokers? Other to the carte picche? Mowe, other mowen, Other make bond to sheves? Repe, other be a repe-reyve And arise erliche? Other have an horne and be hay-warde, And liggen out a nyghtes, And kepe my corn in my croft From pykers and theeves? Other shap shoon other clothes? Other shep other kyne kepe? Eggen, other harwen, Other swyne other gees dryve? Other eny kyne craft That to the comune nudeth, Hem that bed-reden be Bylyve to fynde?' 'Certes,' ich seyde, 'And so me God helpe! Ich am to waik to worche With sykel other with sythe; And to long, leyf me, Lowe for to stoupe, To worchen as workeman Eny wyle to dure.' 'Then havest thow londes to lyve by,' Quath Reson, 'other lynage ryche That fynden the thy fode? For an hydel man thow semest, A spendour that spende mot, Other a spille-tyme; Other beggest thy lyve Aboute ate menne hatches; Other faitest upon Fridays Other feste dayes in churches; The wiche is lollerene lyf, That lytel is preysed Ther ryghtfulnesse rewardeth Ryght as men deserveth. Reddit unicuique juxta opera sua. Ether thow ert broke, so may be, In body other in membre, Other y-maymed thorow som myshap. Werby thow myght be excusede.' 'Wanne ich yong was,' quath ich, 'Many yer hennes, My fader and my frendes Founden me to scole, Tyl ich wiste wyterliche Wat holy wryt menede, And wat is best for the body, As the bok telleth, And sykerest for the soule, By so ich wolle continue. And yut fond ich never in faith, Sytthen my frendes deyden, Lyf that me lyked, Bote in thes long clothes. Hyf ich by laboure sholde lyf, And lyflode deserven, That labour that ich lerned best Therwhit lyve ich sholde. In eadem vocatione qua vocati estis. And ich lyve in Londene And on Londen bothe. The lomes that ich laboure with And lyflode deserve, Ys paternoster and my prymer, Placebo et dirige, And my sauter some tyme, And my sevene psalmes. Thus ich synge for hure soules Of suche as me helpen. And tho that fynden me my fode Vochen saf, ich trowe, To be wolcome wan ich come Other wyle in a monthe, Now with hym, and now with hure, And thus gate ich begge Withoute bagge other botel, Bote my wombe one. And also, moreover, Me thynketh, syre Reson, Men sholde constreyne No clerke to knavene werkes. For by law of Livitici, That oure Lord ordeynede, Clerkes that aren crowned Of kynde understondyng, Sholde nother swynke ne swete, Ne swere at enquestes, Ne fyghte in no vauntwarde, Ne hus fo greve. Nou reddas malum pro malo. For it ben aires of hevene, And alle that ben crounede And in queer in churches, Cristes owene mynestres. Dominus pars hæreditatis meæ Et alibi, Clementia non constringit. Hit bycometh for clerkus Crist for to serven; And knaves uncrounede To cart and to worche. For shold no clerk be crouned, Bote yf he y-come were Of franklens and freemen And of folke y-weddede. Bondmen and bastardes, And beggers children, Thuse bylongeth to labour. And lordes children sholde serven, Bothe God and good men, As here degree asketh; Some to synge masses, Others sitten and wryte, Rede and receyve That Reson oughte spende. And sith bondemenne barnes Han be made bisshopes, And barnes bastardes Han ben archidekenes; And sopers and here sones For selver han be knyghtes, And lordene sones here laboreres, And leid here rentes to wedden For the ryght of the reame, Ryden ayens oure enemys, In consort of the comune And the kynges worshep. And monkes and moniales. That mendinauns sholden fynde, Han mad here kyn knyghtes, And knyght fees purchase. Popes and patrones Povre gentil blod refuseth, And taken Symondes sonne Seyntewarie to kepe. Lyf-holynesse and love Han ben longe hennes, And wole, til hit be wered out, Or otherwise y-chaunged. For-thy rebuke me ryht nouht, Reson, ich yow praye; For in my conscience ich knowe What Crist wolde that ich wroughte. Preyers of perfyt man, And penaunce discret, Is the levest labour That oure Lord pleseth. Non de solo, ich seyde, For sothe vivit homo, Nec in pane et pabulo, The paternoster witnesseth. Fiat voluntas tua Fynt ous alle thynges.' Quath Conscience, 'By Crist! Ich can nat see this lyeth. Ac it semeth nouht perfitnesse In cyties for to begge, Bote he be obediencer To pryour other to mynstre.' 'That ys soth,' ich seide, 'And so ich by-knowe That ich have tynt tyme, And tyme mys-spended. And yut ich hope, as he That ofte haveth chaffarede, That ay hath lost and lost, And at the latest hym happeth He bouhte suche a bargayn He was the bet evere, And sette hus lost at a lef At the laste ende; Suche a wynnynge hym warth Thorw wyrdes of his grace. Simile est regnum cœlorum thesauro abscondito in agro, etc. Mulier quæ inveniet dragmam, etc. So hope ich to have of hym That his almyghty A gobet of hus grace, And bygynne a tyme That alle tymes of my tyme To profit shal turne.' 'Ich rede the,' quath Reson tho, 'Rathe the to bygynne The lyf that ys lowable And leel to the soule.' 'Ye, and continue,' quath Conscience. And to the church ich wente. And to the church gan ich go, God to honourie, Byfor the crois on my knees Knocked ich my brest, Sykinge for my sennes, Segginge my paternoster, Wepyng and wailinge, Tyl ich was a-slepe Thenne mete me moche more Than ich byfor tolde, Of the mater that ich mete fyrst On Malverne hulles. Ich sawe the feld ful of folk Fram ende to the other; And Reson revested Ryght as a pope, And Conscience his crocer Byfore the kynge stande. Reson reverentliche Byfor all the reame Prechede and provede That thuse pestilences Was for pure synne, etc. See l. 2497, of the present edition.

Ne bue thi child never so duere, Ant hit wolle unthewes lerne, Bet hit other whyle; Mote hit al habben is wille, Woltou nultou hit wolle spille, Ant bicome a fule. Luef child lore byhoveth; Quoth Hendyng.

'And also,' quath Reson, 'Ich rede yow, riche And comuners, to acorden In alle kynne treuthe. Let no kynne consail Ne covetyze yow departe, That on wit and on wil Alle youre wardes kepe. Lo! in hevene on hy Was an holy comune, Til Lucifer the lyere Leyved that hymselve Were wittyour and worthiour Than he that was hus maister. Hold yow in unité. And ye that hother wolde Is cause of alle combraunce To confounde a reame.

Ich, Pruyde, patientliche Penaunce ich aske; For ich formest and ferst To fader and to moder Have y-be unboxome, Ich beseche God of mercy; And unboxome y-be, Nouht abaissed to agulte God and alle good men, So gret was myn herte; Inobedient to holy churche, And to hem that ther serven, Demed for hure yvel vices, And excited othere Thorw my word and al my wit Hure yvel workes to shewe; And scorned hem and othere, Yf a skyle founde, Lauhynge al aloude, For lewede men sholde Wene that ich were witty And wyser than anothere; Scorner and unskilful to hem That skil shewede, In all manere manners My name to be y-knowe, Semeng a sovereyn on, Wer so me byfulle To telle eny tale. Ich trowede me wiser To carpen other to counsaile Than eny, lered other lewede. Proud of aparail In porte amonge the puple, Otherwise than ich have, Withynne other withoute, Me wilnede that men wende Ich were in aveyr Riche and resonable, And ryghtful of lyvynge; Bostynge and braggynge Wyt meny bolde othes; Avauntyng upon my veine glorie For eny undernemynge; And yut so syngeler by myself Ne non so pomp holy, Som tyme on a secte, Sam tyme on another; In all kynne covetyse Contrevede how ich myghte Be holde for holy, And hondred sithe by that encheison; Wilnede that men wende My werkes were the beste And konnygest of my craft, Clerkes other othere, And strengest upon my stede, And styvest under gurdell, And lovelokest to loken on, And lykyngest a-bedde; And lykynge of such a lif That no lawe preyseth; Proud of my faire fetours; And for ich songe shrille; And what ich gaf for Godes love, To godsybbes ich tolde, Ther to wene that ich were Wel holy and wel almesful. And non so bold begger To bydden an[d] crave, Tales to telle In tavernes and in stretes, Thyng that nevere was thouhte, And yut ich swor ich sauh hit, And lyed on my lykame And on my lyf bothe. Of werkes that ich wel dude Witnesse ich take, And syggen to such That sytten me bysyde, 'Lo! yf ye leyve me nouht, Other that ye wene ich lye, Ask of hym other of hure, And thei conne yow telle What ich soffrede an[d] seih, And som tyme hadde, And what ich knew and couthe, Of wat kyn ich kam of; Al ich wolde that men wuste, When it to pruyde sonede, As to preised among the puple, Thauh ich povre semede.' Si hominibus placerem, Christi servus non essem. Nemo potest duobus dominis servire. 'Now God, of hus goodnesse, Geve the grace to amende!' Quath Repentaunce ryght with that; And thenne roos Envye.

Thanne seide Lecherie, Alas! And to oure Ladi criede, 'Ladi, for thi leve sone, Loute for me nouthe, That he have pité on me, putour, For his pure merci.' 'With that I schal,' quod that schrewe, 'Saterdaies, for thi love, Drynke with the doke, And dine but ones.' I, gulti in gost, To God I me schrive, As in likyng of lecherige My licames gultes, In wordes, in wedes, In waityng of eyen, To eche maide that I mette I made here a sigge, Semyng to synne-ward, And summe can I taste Aboute the mouth, and binethe Bigon I to grope, Til bothe oure wil was on, To werke we yeden, As wel fastyng daies, And hi festes eves, And wel in Lente as out of Lente, Al tymes i-liche; Swiche werkes with us Weren nevere out of seson, Til we mighten ne more, Tho hadde we muri tales Of putrige and of paramours, And provede thorw speche, Handelyng, and halsyng, And also thorw cussyng, Excityng heither other To oure elde synne; Sotilde songes, And sente out elde baudes For te wynne to my wil Wemmen with gile; Bi sorcerie sum time, And sum time be maistrie, I lai bi the lovelokest, And lovede hem nevere aftur. Whan I was eld and hor, And hadde i-lorn that kynde, I hadde likyng to lige Of lecherous tales. Now, lord, for thi lewté, On lecheres have merci.

With false wordes and writes Ich have wonne my goodes, And with gyle and glosynge Gadered that ich have; Meddled my merchaundise, And mad a good moustre, The werst lay withynne, A gret wit ich let hit. And yf my neyhgebore had an hyne, Other eny best ellys, More profitable than myn, Ich made meny wentes, How ich myght have hit Al my wit ich caste; And bote ich hadde hit by othes away, At last ich stal hit, Other pryvyliche hus pors shok, Unpiked his lokes. And yf ich yede to the plouh, Ich pynchede on hus half acre, That a fot londe other a forwe Fetchen ich wolde Of my neyhgeboris next, Nymen of hus erthe, And yf y repe, over reche, Other gaf hem red that repen To sese to me with here sykel, That ich sewe nevere. In haly dayes at holy churche Wenne ich hurde messe, Ich hadde nevere witerlich To byseche mercy For my mysdedes, That ich ne mornede ofter For lost of good, leyve me, Then for lycames gultes. Thauh ich dedliche synne dude, Ich dradde hit nat so sore As wenne ich lenede and leyvede hit lost, Other longe er hit were paied. And yf [ich] sente over see My servaunt to Brugges, Other into Prus my prentys, My profit to awaite, To marchaunde with monye And maken here eshaunge, Myght nevere man comforty me In the meyn time, Neither matyns ne masse, Ne othere manere syghtes, And nevere penaunce performede, Ne paternoster seyde. That my mynde ne was More in my goodes, Than in Godes grace, And hus grete myghte. Ubi thesaurus tuus, ibi cor tuum. See ll. 8751-8827.

Then was ther a Walishman That was wonderlich sory, He hight Yyvan Yeld ageyn; 'If ich so moche have, Al that ich wickedlich wan Setthen ich hit hadde; And thauh my liflode lache Leten ich nelle That ech man shal have hus, Er ich hennes wende. For me ys levere in this lif As a lorel beggen, Than in lysse to lyve, And lese lyf and soule.'

Ac whiche be the braunches That bryngeth me to sleuthe, Ys wanne a man mourneth nat For hus mysdedes; The penaunce that the prest enjoyneth Parfourmeth uvele; Doth non almys-dedes, And drat nat of synne: Lyveth ayens the byleyve, And no lawe kepeth; And hath no lykynge to lerne, Ne of houre Lord hure, Bote harlotrie other horedom, Other elles of som wynnyng. Wan men carpen of Crist Other of clennesse of soule, He wext wroth, and wol not huyre Bote wordes of murthe, Penaunce and povre men, The passion of seyntes, He hateth to huyre therof And alle that therof carpen. Thuse beth the braunches, be war, That bryngeth man to wanhope. Ye lordes and ladyes, And legates of holy churche, That feden fool sages, Flaterers and lyers, And han lykynge to lythen hem, In hope to do yow lawe— Væ! vobis qui ridetis, etc. And geveth suche mede an mete, And povre men refusen; In youre deth deynge, Ich drede me sore Lest tho maner men To moche sorwe yow brynge. Consensientes et agentes pari pæna punientur. Patriarkes and prophetes, Prechours of Godes wordes, Saven thorgh here sermons Mannes soule fro helle: Ryght so flaterers and foles Aren the fendes procuratores, Entysen men thorgh here tales To synne and to harlotrie. Clerkus that knowen this, Sholde kennen lordes What David seide of suche men, As the Sauter telleth: Non habitabit in medio domus meæ qui facit superbiam, qui loquitur iniquum. Sholde non harlot have audience In halle ne in chaumbre, Ther that wys men were. Whitnesse of Godes wordes; Nother a mys-prout man Among lordes alouwed. Clerkus and knyghtes Wolcometh kynges mynstrales, For love of here lordes Lithen hem at festes: Muche more, me thenketh, Riche men auhte Have beggers byfore hem, Wiche beth Godes mynstreles, As he seith hymself, Seynt Johan berith whittnesse: Qui vos spernit, me etiam spernit. Therfor ich rede yow, riche, Reveles when ye maken, For to solace youre soules, Suche mynstrales to have, The povre for a foul sage Syttynge at thy table, Whith a lered man to lere the What oure Lord suffrede, For to savy thy saule Fram Satan thyn enemye, And fitayle the withoute flateryng Of Good Friday the feste: And a blynde man for a bordiour, Other a bed-reden womman To crye a largesse byfor oure Lord, Youre good loos to shewe. Thuse thre manere mynstrales Maken a man to lauhe; In hus deth deyng Thei don hym gret comfort, That by hus lyfe loveth hem, And loveth hem to huyre. Thuse solaceth the soule, Til hymself be falle In a wele good hope, for he wroghte so, Among worthy seyntes, Ther flaterers and foles Whith here foule wordes Leden tho that lithen hem To Luciferes feste, With Turpiloquio, a lay of sorwe, And Lucifers fitele, To perpetual peyne Other purgatorye as wykke, For he litheth and loveth That Godes lawe despiteth. Qui histrionibus dat, dæmonibus sacrificat.

The summon'd Palmer came in place, His sable cowl o'erhung his face; In his black mantle was he clad, With Peter's keys in cloth of red On his broad shoulders wrought; The scallop shell his cap did deck; The crucifix around his neck Was from Loretto brought.

Ne hadde Peris but a pese lof, Thei preyede hym beleve, And with a bene batte He hadde betwene, And hitte hunger therwith Amydde hise lippes, And blodde in it the bodyward A bolle ful of growel, Ne hadde the fisician ferst Defendite him watir, To abate the barly bred, And the benis y-grounde, Thei hadde be ded be this day, And dolven al warm. Faitours for fer, etc.

Thenk that Dives for hus delicat lyf To the devel wente, And Lazar the lene beggere That longed after cromes, And yut had he hem nat, For ich Hunger culde hym, And suthe ich sauh hym sute, As he a syre were, At alle manere ese In Abrahame lappe. An yf you be of power, Peers, ich the rede, Alle that greden at thy gate For Godes love after fede, Parte wit hem of thy payn, Of potage and of souel, Lene hem som of thy loof, Thauh thu the lesse chewe. And thauh lyers and latchedrawers, And lolleres knocke, Let hem abyde tyl the bord be drawe, Ac bere hem none cromes, Tyl al thyn nedy neihebores Have none y-maked.

In sangwin and in pers he clad was al, Lyned with taffata, and with sendal. (Cant. T. Prolog. 441.)

Infantem nudum quum te natura crearit, Paupertatis onus patienter ferre memento.

Leel and ful of love, And no lord dreden, Merciable to meek, And mylde to the goode, And bytynge on badde men Bote yf thei wolde amende, And dredeth nat for no deth To distruye by here powere Lecherie among lordes, And hure luther custymes, And sithen lyve as thei lereth men, Oure lorde Treuthe hem graunteth, To be peeres to Apostles, &c.

Than cometh clerkys of Oxford, and mak their mone, To her scole-hire they most have money.

Maister of storyes, this doctour ful notable, Holding a chalice here in a sonne cliere.

Wot no man, as ich wene, Who is worthy to have. The most needy aren oure neighebores, And we nyme good hede; As prisoners in puttes, And poore folke in cotes Charged with children And chef lordes rente, That thei spynnynge may spare, Spynen hit in hous hyre, Bothe in mylk and in mele. To maken with papelotes To aglotye with here gurles That greden after fode. Al so hemselve Suffren muche hunger, And wo in winter tyme; With wakyng a-nyghtes To ryse to the ruel, To rocke the cradel, Bothe to karde and to kembe, To clouten and to wasche, To rubbe and to rely, Russhes to pilie, That reuthe is to rede Othere in ryme shewe The wo that theese women That wonyeth in cotes, And of meny other men That muche wo suffren, Bothe a-fyngrede and a-furst, To turne the fayre outwarde; And beth abasshed for to begge, And wolle nat be y-knowe What hem needeth att here neihebores At non and at even. This Wit wot witerly, As the world techeth, What other byhoveth That hath meny children. And hath no catel bote hus crafte To clothy hem and to fede, And fele to fonge therto, And fewe pans taketh. Ther is payn and peny ale, As for a pytaunce y-take; Cold flesch and cold fyssh, For veneson y-bake. Frydays and fastyng-dayes Ferthyng worth of muscles Were a feste for suche a folke, Other so fele cockes. Theese were almes to helpe That han suche charges, And to comforte suche cotyers, And crokede men and blynde. Ac beggers with bagges, the wiche Brewhouses ben here churches, Bote thei be blynde other broke, Other elles syke, Thauh he falle for defaute, That faiteth for hus lyflode, Reicheth nevere, ye ryche, Thauh suche lorelles sterven; For all that han here hele And here eyen syghte, And lymes to laborye with, And lolleres lyf usen, Lyven ayens Godes lawe, And love of holy churche. And yut arn ther other beggers, In hele, as it semeth; Ac hem wanteth here witt, Men and women bothe, The wiche aren lunatik lollers And leperes aboute, And mad, as the mone sitt, More other lasse: Thei caren for no cold, Ne counteth of no hete, And are mevenge after the mone, Moneyles thei walke, With a good wil wit-lees, Meny wyde contreys, Ryght as Peter dude and Paul, Save that thei preche nat, Ne myracles maken; Ac meny tymes hem happeth To prophetien of the puple, Pleyninge, as hit were, And to oure sight, as hit semeth, Suththe God hath the myghte To yeven eche a whit wit, Welthe, and his hele, And suffreth suche so gon, Hit semeth to myn inwitt, Hit arn as hus aposteles suche puple, Other as his prevye disciples; For he sente hem forth selverles, In a somer garnement, Withoute bred and bagge, As the Bok telleth. Quando misi vos sine pane et pera. Bar fot and bred-les, Beggeth thei of no man; And thauh he mete with the meyere In mydest the strete, He reverenceth hym ryght nouht No rather than another. Neminem salutaveris per viam, Suche manere of men, Matheu ous techeth, We sholde have hem to house, And help hem when thei come. Et egenos vagosque induc in domum tuam. For hit aren murye mouthede men, Mynstrales of hevene And Godes boyes bordiours, As the Bok telleth. Si quis videtur sapiens, fiet stultus ut sit sapiens. And alle manere mynstrales, Men wot wel the sothe, To underfonge hem faire Byfalle for the ryche; For the lordes love and ladies That thei with lengen, Men suffren al that suche seyn, And in solas taken; And yut more to suche men Doth, er thei passe, Gyven hem gyftes and gold, For grete lordes sake. Ryght so, ye riche, Rather ye sholde, for sothe, Wolcomen and worsshepen And with youre goode helpen Godes mynstrales, and hus messagers, And hus murye burdiers, The wiche are lunatik lollares And leperes aboute. For under Godes secré seel Here synnes ben y-keverede. For thei bereth no bagges, Ne non botels under clokes, The wiche is lollaren lyf And lewede eremytes, That loken ful louheliche To lacchen mennes almesse, In hope to suten at even By the hote coles, Unlouke hus legges abrod, Other lygge at hus ese, Reste hym and roste hym, And his ryg turne, Drynke drue and deepe, And drawe hym thanne to bedde, And when hym lyketh and lust Hus leve ys is to aryse; When he rysen, rometh out, And ryght wel aspieth War he may rathest have a repast, Other a rounde of bacon, Sulver other fode-mete And some tyme bothe, A loof other alf a loof, Other a lompe of chese, And carieth it hom to hus cote, And cast hym to lyve In ydelnesse and in ese, And by others travayle. And wat frek of thys tolde Fisketh thus aboute With a bagge at hus bak, Abegeneldes wyse, And can som manere craft, In cas he wolde hit use. Thorgh wiche craft he couthe come To bred and to ale, And ovar more to an hater To helye with hus bones, And lyveth like a lollere, Godes lawe him dampneth. Lolleres lyvinge in sleuthe, And overe lond stryken, Beeth nat in thys bulle, quath Peers, Til thei ben amended. Nother beggars that beggen, Bote yf thei have neede. The Bok blameth alle beggerye, And banneth in this manere: etc.

Ac eremites that enhabiten hem By the heye weyes, And in borwes among brewesters, And beggen in churches Al that holy eremytes Hateden and despisede, As rychesses and reverences And ryche mennes almesse. These lolleres, latche-draweres, Lewede eremytes, Coveyten the contrarie, As cotyers thei lybben, For hit beth bote boyes, Lolleres atten ale, Of linguage of lettrure Ne lyf-holy as eremytes That wonnede wyle in wodes With beres and lyones. Some had lyflode of here lynage, And of no lyf elles; And some lyvede by here lettrure And labour of here hondes; Some had foreynes to frendes, That hem fode sente; And bryddes brouhten to some bred, Werby thei lyveden. Alle thuse holy eremytes Were of hye kynne, Forsoke londe and lordshep And lykynges of the body; Ac thuse eremytes, that edefyen Thus by the hye weyes, Wylen were workmen, Webbes and taillours, And carters knaves And clerkus without grace, Heelden hungry hous, And had much defaute, Long labour and lyte wynnynge, And atte laste aspiden That faitours in frere clothynge Had fatte chekus; For-thi lefte thei here laboure, Theese lewede knaves, And clothed hem in copes, Clerkus as hit were. Other on of som ordre, Othere elles prophite, Ayens the lawe he lyveth, Yf Latyn be trywe: Non licet nobis legem voluntate, sed voluntatem conjungere legi. Now kyndeliche, by Crist! Beth suche callyd lolleres, As by Englisch of oure eldres, Of olde menne techynge, He that lolleth his lame, Other his leg out of the joynte, Other meymed in som membre, For to meschief hit souneth; And ryght so sothlyche Suche manere eremytes Lollen ayen the bylyeve And lawe of holy churche. For holy churche hoteth Alle manere puple Under obedience to bee, And buxum to the lawe, Furst religious of religion Here ruele to holde, And under obedience to be By dayes and by nyghtes, Lewede men to laborie, Lordes to honte In frythes and in forestes For fox and other bestes That in wilde wodes ben, And in wast places, As wolves that wyrhyeth men, Wommen, and children, And upon Sonedayes to cesse, Godes service to huyre, Bothe matyns and messe, And after mete in churches To huyre here eve song Every man ouhte. Thus it bylongeth for lorde, For lered and lewede, Eche halyday to huyre Hollyche the service, Vigiles and fastyng dayes Forthere to knowe, And fulfille tho fastynges Bote infirmité hit made, Poverte othere penaunces, As pilgrymages and travayles. Under this obedience Arn we echone. Who so brekyeth this, be wel war, Bot yf he repente, Amenden hym and mercy aske, And meekliche hym shryve, Ich drede me, and he deye, Hit worth for dedlich synne Acounted byfore Crist, Bote Conscience excuse hym. Loke now were theese lolleres And lewede eremytes, Yf thei breke thys obedience That ben so fro churche, Wher see we hem on Sonedays The servise to huyre? As matyns by the morwe Tyl masse bygynne, Other Sonedays at eve songe, See we wol fewe; Othere labory for our lyflode As the lawe wolde Ac at mydday meel tyme Ich mete with hem ofte, Conynge in a cope As he a clerke were, A bachelor other a beaupere Best hym bysemeth, And for the cloth that kevereth hem Cald his here a frere, Whassheth and wypeth, And with the furste suteth. Ac while he wrought in thys worlde, And wan hus mete with Treuthe, He sat atte syd benche And secounde table, Com no wyn in hus wombe Thorw the weke longe, Nother blankett in hus bed, Ne white bred byfore hym. The cause of al thys caitifté Cometh of meny bisshepes, That suffren suche sottes And othere synnes regne. Certes ho so thurste hit segge, Symon quasi dormit. Vigilate were fairour, For thow hast gret charge: For meny waker wolves Ben broke into foldes. Thyne berkeres ben al blynde, That bryngeth forth thy lambren; Disperguntur oves, thi dogge Dar nat beerke. The tarre is untydy That to thyne sheep bylongeth; Hure salve ys of supersedeas In someneres boxes, Thyne sheep are ner al shabbyd, The wolf sheteth woolle. Sub molli pastore lupus lanam cacat, et grex incustoditus dilaceratur eo. Hoow hurde wher is thyn hounde, And thyn hardy herte, For to wyne the wolf That thy woolle fouleth. Ich leyve for thy lacchesse Thow leest meny wederes, And ful meny fayre flus Falsliche wasshe. When thy lord loketh to have Alowance for hus bestes, And of the monye thow haddist thermyd, Hus meable to save, And the woolle worth weye, Woo ys the thenne! Redde rationem villicationis tuæ, Other arerage, ffalle. Then hyre hurde, as ich hope, Hath nouht to quyty thy dette, Ther as mede ne mercy May nat a myte avayle, Bote have this for that, Tho that thow toke Mercy for mede, And my lawe breke; Loke now for thi lacchesse Whether lawe wol the graunt Purgatorie for thy paye, Other perpetuel helle. For shal no pardone praye for yowe ther, Nother princes letteres.

Somnia ne cures, nam mens humana quod optans, Dum vigilat, sperat, per somnum cernit id ipsum.

Οὔτις, ἐμεῦ ζῶντος καὶ ἐπὶ χθονὶ δερκομένοιο, Σὸι κοίλῃς παρὰ νηυσί βαρείας χεῖρας ἐποίσει. Il. i, 88.

Man hath of urthe al his bodi, of water he haveth wete, Of eyr he haveth wynd, of fur he haveth hete. Ech quic thing of alle this foure, of some hath more other lasse; Ho so haveth of urthe most, he is slou as an asse; Of vad colour, of hard hide, boustes forme, and ded strong, Of moche thoght, of lute speche, of stille grounynge, and wraththe long, A slough wrecche and ferblet, fast and loth to geve his god, Sone old, and noght wilful, stable and stedefast of mode.

If we behold the substance of a man, How he is made of elements by kind, Of earth, of water, aire, and fire, than We would full often call unto our mind, That all our earthly joys we leave behind.

——I've heard Schoolmen affirm, man's body is compos'd Of the four elements.

His life was gentle; and the elements So mix'd in him, that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, This was a man. Jul. Cæs. v, 5.

I prithee, thou four elements ill brew'd Torment none but thyself: Away, I say, Thou beast of passion. B. and Fl. Nice Valour, act i, p. 312.