Chapter 6

C1ROS and curteis ChristThis begynnyng spede,For the faders frendshipeThat fourmed heaven,And through the special spiritThat sprong of hem tweyne,And al in one God-hedEndles dwelleth.A, and all myn a.b.c.10After have I lerned,And patred in my pater-nosterIche poynt after other;And after al, myne Ave-marieAlmost to the end;But al my care is to comen,For I can nought my Crede.Whan I shall shewen my shrift,Shent mote I worthen;The preeste wil me punyche,20And penaunce enjoyne;The lengthe of a lentonFlesh moot I leve,After that Estur is y-come,And that is hard fare;And Wedenesday iche wykeWithouten flesh-mete.And also Jesu hymselfeTo the Jewes he saide,"He that leeveth nought on me,30He leseth the blisse."Therfor lerne the byleveLevest me were,Gif any worldly wightWil me [it] couthe;Other lewed or lered,That lyveth thereafterAnd fulliche folweth the feith,And feyneth non other;That no worldeliche wele40Wilneth no tyme,But liveth in lovyng of God,And his lawe holdeth;And for no gettyng of goodNever his God greveth,But folweth hym the full way,As he the folke taughte.But to many maner of menThis matter is asked,Both to lered and to lewed,50That seyn that they livedenHollich on the grete God,And holden al his hestes.But by a fraynyng for thanFaileth ther manye.For first I frayned the freres,And they me fulle tolden,That al the fruyt of the faythWas in her foure orders;And the cofres of Christendom,60And the keie bothen,And the lock of byleve,Lieth loken in her hondes,Then wennede I to wytten,And with a whight I mette,A Minourein a morwe-tide;And to this man I saide,"Sire, for greate Godes love!The graith thou me tell,Of what myddel-erde man70Myght I best lerneMy Crede? For I can it nought,My kare is the more.And therfore, for Christes love!Thy counseyl I preie.A Carmme hath y-covenant,The nede me to teche;But for thou knowest Carmes wel,Thy counsail I aske."This Minour loked on me,80And laughyng he sayde,"Leve christen man,I leve that thou [art] madde:Whough shulde thei techen the god,That con non hemselve?They ben but jugulers,And japers of kynde;Lorels and lechures,And lemans holden,Neyther in order ne out,90But unneth lybbeth,And by-japeth the folkWith gestes of Rome.It is but a faynt folke,Y-founded upon japes.They maketh hemMaries men,And so thei men tellen;And leieth on oure LadyMany a long tale.And that wicked folk100Wymmen betraieth,And begileth hem her goodWith glaverynge wordes,And therwith holden her housIn harlotes warkes.And, so save me God!I hold it greate synneTo gyven hem any good,Swiche glotones to fynde,To mayntaynen swiche maner men110That michel good destruieth.Yet seyn they in her sutiltieTo sottes in townes,Thei comen out of CarmeliChrist for to folwen,And feyneth hem with holynesse,That yvele hem bisemeth.Thei lyven more in lecherie,And lyeth in her tales,Than suen any good liif;120But lurken in her selles,And wynnen werdliche good,And wasten it in synne.And ghif thei couthen her Crede,Other on Christ leveden,Thei weren nought so hardySwyche harlotri usen.Sikerli I can nought fyndenWho hem first founded;But the foles foundeden hemselfe130Freres of the Pye,And maken hem mendynans,And marre the puple.But what glut of tho gomesMay any good kachen,He wyl kepen it hemself,And cofrene it faste;And thoigh his felawes fayle good,For hym he may sterven.Her monei mai byquest,140And testament maken,And none obedience bere,But don as hym luste.And ryght asRobartes menRaken abouteAt feyres and at full ales,And fyllen the cuppe;And precheth al of pardon,To plesen the puple.Her pacience is al pased,150And put out to ferme;And pride is in her povertie,That litel is to preisen.And at the lullyng of oure ladyThe wymmen to lyken,And miracles of mydwyves,And maken wymmen to wenenThat the lace of oure Lady smokLighteth hem of children.Thei ne prechen nought of Powel,160Ne penaunce for synne;But al of merci and mensk,That Marie may helpen.With sterne staves and strongeThei over lond straketh,Thider as here lemmans liggeth,And lurketh in townes,Grey grete-heded quenesWith gold by the eighen,And seyne that her sustern thei ben,170That sojurneth aboute.And thus abouten the gon,And Godes folke betrayeth.It is the puple that PowelPreched of in his tyme;He seyde of swich folkeThat so aboute wente,Wepyng, I warne youOf walkers aboute,It beth enemyes of the cros180That Christ upon tholede.Swiche slomrers in slepe,Slaughte in her ende,And glotonye is her God,With gloppynge of drynk,And gladnesse in glees,And grete joye y-maked.In the shendyng of swicheShal mychel folk lawghe;Therfore, frend, for thy feith190Fond to don beter;Leve nought on tho losels,Put let hem forth pasen,For thei ben fals in her faith,And feele mo other.""Alas! frere," quath I tho,"My purpos is y-failed;Now is my comfort a-cast.Canstou no bote,Wher I myght meten with a man200That myghte me wyssenFor to conne my Crede,Christ for to folwen?""Certeyn, felawe," quath the frere,"Withouten any fayle,Of al men upon mold,We Minorities most shewethThe pure aposteles liif,With penance on erthe,And suen hem in sanctité,210And sufferen wel harde.We haunten no tavernes,Ne hobelen abouten;At marketes and miraclesWe medeleth us never;We hondlen no moneye,But monelich faren,And haven hunger at the mete,At ich a mel ones.We haven forsaken the world,220And in wo libbeth,In penaunce and poverte,And prechethe the pupleBy ensample of oure liifSoules to helpen;And in poverte preienFor al oure parteneres,That gyveth us any goodGod to honouren,Other bel other book,230Or bred to our foode,Other catel, other clothTo coveren with oure bones.For we buldeth a burwgh,A brod and a large,A chirch and a chapitle,With chaumbers a-lofte;With wide wyndowes y-wrought,And walles wel heye,That mote ben portreid and paint,240And pulched ful clene,With gay glitering glasGlowyng as the sunne.And mightestou amenden usWith moneye of thyn owen,Thou shouldest knely bifore ChristIn compas of gold,In the wyde window west-wardWel neigh in the myddel,And saint Fraunceis hymselfe250Shal folden the in his cope,And present the to the Trinité,And praye for thy synnes.Thy name shal noblich ben wrytenAnd wrought for the nones,And in remembraunce of theY-rad there for evere.And, brother, be thou nought a-ferd;Bythenk in thyne herte,Though thou conne nought thy Crede,260Care thou no-more!I shal asoilen the, syr,And setten it on my soule;And thou may maken this good,Thenk thou non other.""Sir," I sayde, "in certaineI shal gon and asaye."And he set on me his hond,And asoiled me clene,And there I parted him fro270Wythouten and peyne;In covenaunt that I come agayne,Christ he me be-taught.Then saide I to myself,"Here semeth litel treuthe!First to blame his brother,And bakbyten hym foule,There as curteis ChristClerliche saide,Whow myght thou in thy brothers eighe280A bare mote loken,And in thyn owen eigheNought a beme toten?See fyrst on thyself,And sithen on another,And clense clene thy syght,And kepe wel thyne eighe,And for another mannes eigheOrdeyne after.And also I see coveitise290Catel to fongen,That Christ hath clerliche forboden,And clenliche destrueden;And sayde to his sueresFor sothe on this wyse,'Nought thy neighbors goodCoveyte in no tyme.'But charité and chastitéBen chased out clene.But Christ seide by her fruit300Men shal hem ful knowen."Thanne saide I, "certeine, syr,Thou demest ful trewe."Than thought I to frayne the firstOf this foure ordres;And presed tothe Prechoures,To proven hir wille.Ich highed to her house,To herken of more;And when I came to that court,310I gaped aboute,Swich a bild boldY-buld upon erthe heighteSay I nought in certeynSyththe a long tyme.I semed opon that hous,And yerne theron loked,Whow the pileres weren y-paint,And pulched ful clene,And queyntly y-corven320With curious knottes;With wyndowes wel y-wrought,Wyde up a-lofte,And thanne I entred in,And even forth wente;And al was walled that wone,Though it wiid were,With posternes in privitéTo pasen when hem liste;Orcheyardes and erberes330Evesed wel clene,And a curious crosCraftly entayled,With tabernacles y-tightTo toten al abouten.The pris of a plough-londOf penies so roundeTo aparaile that pylerWere pure litel.Than I munte me forth340The mynstre to knowen,And awaytede a woonWonderly wel y-bild,With arches on everiche half,And bellyche y-corven,With crochetes on corneres,With knottes of gold,Wyde wyndowes y-wrought,Y-wryten ful thikke,Shynen with shapen sheldes,350To shewen aboute,With merkes of merchauntesY-medeled betwene,Mo than twentie and twoTwyse y-noumbbred.Ther is non heraud that hathHalf swich a rolle,Right as a ragemanHath rekned hem newe.Tombes upon tabernacles360Tylde opon lofte,Housed in hornes,Harde set abouten,Of armede alabaustreClad for the nones,Maad opon marbelIn many manner wyse,Knyghtes in ther conisanteClad for the nones;Alle it semed seyntes370Y-sacred opon erthe;And lovely ladies y-wroughtLeyen by her sydesIn manye gay garnemens,That weren gold beten.Though the tax of ten yereWere trewely y-gadered,Nolde it nought maken that housHalf, as I trowe.Than cam I to that cloystre,380And gaped abouten,Whough it was pilered and peynt,And portreyed wel clene,Al y-hyled with leedLowe to the stones,And y-paved with poynttylIch point after other;With cundites of clene tynClosed al aboute,With lavoures of latun390Loveliche y-greithed.I trowe the gaynage of the groundIn a gret shyreNold aparaile that placeOo poynt tyl other ende.Thanne was that chapitre houseWrought as a greet chirche,Corven and covered;And queyntelyche entayled,With semliche selure400Y-seet on lofte,As a parlement-housY-peynted aboute.Thanne ferd I into fraytoure,And fond there another,An halle for an hygh kyngeAn houshold to holden,With brode bordes aboutenY-benched wel clene,With wyndowes of glaas410Wrought as a chircheThan walkede I ferrer,And went al abouten,And seigh halles full heygh,And houses ful noble,Chambres with chymeneys,And chapeles gaye,And kychenes for an high kyngeIn casteles to holden;And her dortoure y-dight420With dores ful stronge;Fermerye and fraitur,With fele mo houses,And al strong ston walSterne upon heithe,With gaye garites and grete,And iche hole y-glased,And other houses y-noweTo herberwe the queene.And yet thise bilderes wiln beggen430A bagge ful of wheteOf a pure pore man,That may onethe payeHalf his rent in a yere,And half ben byhynde.Than turned I ayen,Whan I hadde all y-toted,And fond in a freitoureA frere on a benche,A greet chorl and a grym,440Growen as a tonne,With a face so fatAs a ful bleddereBlowen bretful of breth,And as a bagge hongedOn bothen his chekes, and his chynWith a chol lolledeSo greet as a gos ey,Growen al of grece;That al wagged his fleish450As a quick myre.His cope, that bi-clypped hym,Wel clene was it folden,Of double worstede y-dyghtDoun to the hele.His kyrtel of clene whiit,Clenlyche y-sewed,Hit was good y-now of groundGreyn for to beren.I haylsede that hirdman,460And hendlich I sayde,"Gode sire, for Godes love!Canstou me graith tellenTo any worthely wiightThat wissen me couthe,Whow I shulde conne my Crede,Christ for to folwe,That levede lelliche hymselfeAnd lyvede therafter,That feynede no falshede,470But fully Chrise suwede?For sich a certeyn manSyker wold I trosten,That he wolde telle me the trewthe,And turne to non other.And an Austyn this ender dayEgged me faste,That he wolde techen me wel,He plyght me his treuthe,And seyde me "certeyn,480Syghthen Christ deyedOure ordre waseuellesAnd erst y-founde.""First, felawe," quath he,"Fy on his pilche!He is but abortiif,Eked with cloutes,He holdeth his ordynaunceWith hores and theves,And purchaseth hem pryvyleges490With penyes so rounde.It is a pur pardoners craft,Prove and asay;For have they thy money,A moneth therafterCertes, theigh thou come agen,He wil the nought knowen.But, felawe, oure foundementWas first of the othere,And we ben founded fulliche500Withouten fayntise,And we ben clerkes y-cnowen,Cunnyng in schole,Proved in processyonBy processe of lawe.Of oure order ther bethBichopes wel manye,Seyntes on sundri stedesThat suffreden harde;And we ben proved the priis510Of popes at Rome,And of grettest degré,As godspelles telleth.""A! syre," quath I thanne,"Thou seyst a grete wonder;Sithen Christ sayd hymselfeTo alle his diciples,'Which of you that is most,Most shal he werche;And who is goere byforne,520First shal he serven.'And seyde he saugh SatanSytten ful heyghe,And ful low ben y-leid.In lyknesse he tolde,That in povernesse of spyritIs spedfullest hele;And hertes of heyneHarmeth the soule.And therefore, frere, farewel;530Here fynd I but pride.I preise nought thy prechyns,But as a pur myte."And angerich I wandredeThe Austynsto prove,And mette with a maistre of tho men,And meklich I seyde,"Maistre, for the moder loveThat Marie men calleth!Knowest thou ought there thou comest540A creature on ertheThat coude me my Crede teche,And trewelich enfourme,Withouten flateryng fare,And nothing feyne,That folweth fulliche the feith,And non other fables,Withouten gabinge of glose,As the godspelles telleth?A Minoure hath me holly behyght550To helen my soule,For he seith that her secteIs sykerest on erthe,And ben kepers of the keyeThat Chrystendom helpeth,And puriche in poverteThe apostles they suweth.""Allaas!" quath the frere,"Almost I madde in mynde,To sen hough this Minoures560Many men bygyleth.Sothly somme of tho gomesHath more good hymselveThan ten knyghtes that I knowe,Of catel in cofres.In fraytoure they faren bestOf althe foure ordres,And usun ypocricieIn al that thei werchen,And prechen al of perfitnesse;570But loke now, I the prey,Nought but profre hem in privitéA peny for a masse,And, but his name be prest,Put out myn eighe,Though he had more money hidThan marchauntes of wolle.Loke hough this loresmenLordes betrayen,Seyn that they folwen580Fully Fraunceyses rewle,That in cotinge of his copeIs more cloth y-foldenThan was in Fraunceis frocWhan he hem first made.And yet under that copeA cote hathe he furredWith foyns, or with fichewes,Other fyn bevere,And that is cutted to the kne,590And queyntly y-botend,Lest any spiritual manAspie that gyle.Fraunceys bad his brethernBar-fot to wenden;Now han they buclede shone,For blenyng of her heles,And hosen in harde wederY-hamled by the ancle,And spicerie sprad in her purs600To parten where hem luste.Lordes loveth hem wel,For they so lowe crouchen;But knowen men her cautelAnd her queynte wordes,Thei wolde worshypen hemNought but a litle,The ymage of ypocricieYmped upon fendes.But, sone, gif thou wilt ben seker,610Seche thou no ferther,We freres beth the firste,And founded upon treuthe;Pauleprimus heremitaPut us hymselveAway into wildernesse,The world to despisen,And there we lengeden ful long,And leveden ful harde;For to alle this freren folke620Weren founden in tounes,And taughten untrewely,And that we wel aspiede.And for chef charyté,We chargeden us selvenIn amendyng of this men,We maden oure cellesTo ben in cytés y-set,To styghtle the puple,Prechyng and prayeng630As profetes shoulden.And so we holden us the hethevedOf al holy chirche.We han power of the PopePurliche assoylenAl that helpen oure housIn helpe of her soules;To dispensen hem withIn dedes of synne,Al that amendeth oure hous640In money other elles,With corne other catel,Or clothes to beddes,Other bedys or broche,Or breed for our fode.And gif thou hast any good,And wilt thyself helpen,Help us hertelich therwith,And here I undertakeThou shalt ben brother of oure hous,650And a book habbenAt the nexte chapitreClerliche enseled.And than oure provincialHath power to assoylenAlle sustren and bretherenThat beth of oure ordre.And though thou conne nought the Crede,Knele down here,My soule I sette for thyn,660To asoile the clene,In covenaunt that thou come ageyne,And katel us brynge."And thanne loutede I adoun,Add he me leve grauntede;And so I parted hym fro,And the frere lefte.Than seide I to myself,"Here is no bote;Here pride is the pater-noster670In preying of synne;Her Crede is coveytise:—Now can I no ferthere.Yet wil I fonden forth,And fraynen the Carmes."Than toted I into a taverne,And there I aspyedeTwo frere CarmesWith a ful coppe.There I auntrede me in,680And aisliche I seyde,"Leve sire, for the Lordes loveThat thou on levest!Lere me to som manMy Crede for to lerne,That lyveth in lel liif,And loveth no synne,And gloseth nought the godspel,But halt Godes hetes,And neyther money ne mede690Ne may hym nought letten,But werchen after Godes word,Withouten any faile.A Prechoure y-professedHath plight me his trewtheTo techen me trewely;But wouldest thou me tellen,For they ben certeyne men,And syker on to trosten,I would quiten the thy mede700As my myght were.""A trefle," quath he, "trewely!His treweth is ful litel;He dynede nought with Dominic,Sithe Christ deide.For with the prynces of prydeThe Prechours dwellen;They ben so digne as the develThat droppeth fro heven,With hartes of heynesse,710Whough halwen the cherches,And deleth in devynytéAs dogges doth bones.Thei medeleth with mesagesAnd mariages of grete;Thei leeven with lordesWith lesynges y-nowe;Thei biggeth hem bichoprichesWith bagges of gold;Thei wilneth worchipes:—720But waite on her dedes.Harkne at HerdfortheHow that they werchen,And loke when that they lyvenAnd leeve as thou fyndest.They ben counseylours of kynges,Christ wot the sothe,Whou thei curreth kyngesAnd her bak claweth.God leve hem laden wel730In lyvynge of hevene,And glose hem nought for her goodTo greven her soules.I pray the, where ben they pryvéWith any pore whightesThat may nought amenden her hous,Ne amenden hemselven?They prechen in proud herte,And preyseth her ordre,And werdlich worchype740Wilneth in erthe.Leeve it wel, lef man,And men right lokede,There is more pryvé prydeIn Prechoures hertes,Than there lefte in Lucifere,Or he were lowe fallen.They bene dygne as dich-watere,That dogges in bayteth.Lok a ribaut of hem750That can nought wel redenHis Rewel ne his Respondes,But be pure rote;Als as he were a connyng clerk,He casteth the lawesNought lowly, but lordly,And lesynges lyeth.For right as MinouresMost hypocrice useth,Ryght so ben Prechoures proude760Purlyche in herte."But, chrysten creatoure,We Carmes firste comen,Even in Elyes tyme,First of hem alle;And lyven by oure Lady,And lelly her serven,In clene commun liifKepen us out of synne;Nowt proude as Prechoures beth,770But preyen ful stylle.Wecouuenon no quentyse,Christ wot the southe!But bisyeth us in oure bedes,As us best holdeth.And, therfore, leeve leelman,Leeve that iche sigge,A masse of us meene menIs of more mede,And passeth alle prayers780Of this proude freres.—And thou wilt ghyven us any good,I wolde ye here grauntenTo taken al thy penaunceIn peril of my soule;And tho thou conne nought thy Crede,Clene the assoyle,So that thou mowe amenden oure houseWith money other elles,With som catel, other corn,790Or cuppes of sylvere.""Trewely, frere," quath I tho,"To tellen the the sothe,There is no peny in my pakkeTo payen for my mete.I have no good, ne no golde,But go thus abouten,And travaile ful trewelyTo wynnen with my fode.But woldest thou for Godes love800Lerne me my Crede,I shulde don for the wil,Whan I wele hadde.""Trewely," quath the frere,"A fole I the holde:—Thou woldest nought wetten thy fote,And woldest fich kachen.Oure pardon and oure preieresSo beth they nought parten,Oure power lasteth nought so feer,810But we som peny fongen."Fare wel," quath the frere,"For I mot hethen fonden,And hyen to an house-wiifThat hath us byquethenTen pound in hir testament.To tellen the sothe,Ho draweth to the deth-ward;But yet I am in dredeLeste ho turne hire testament,820And therfore I hygheTo haven hire to oure hous,And henten, gif I mighte,An anuel for myne owen use,To helpen to clothe.""Godys forbode!" quath his felawe,"But ho forth passeWhil ho is in purposWith us to departen!God let hir no lengere lyven!830For letteres ben manye."Thanne turnede I me forth,And talked to myselfeOf the falshede of this folke,Whow feythles thei weren.And as I wente by the wayWepynge for sorowe,I seigh a sely man me by,Opon the plough hongen.His cote was of a cloute840That cary was y-called;His hod was ful of holes,And his heare oute;With his knoppede shonClouted ful thykke;His ton toteden out,As he the lond tredede;His hosen over-hongen his hok-shynesOn everich a syde,Al beslomered in fen,850As he the plow folwede.Tweye myteynes as meterMaad al of cloutes,The fyngres weren for-werd,And ful of fen honged.This whit waselede in the feenAlmost to the ancle;Foure rotheren hym byforne,That feble were worthi;Men myghte reknen ich a ryb,860So rentful they weren.His wiif walked hym with,With a long gode,In a cuttede cote,Cutted ful heyghe,Wrapped in a wynwe sheteTo weren hire fro wederes,Bar-fot on the bare iis,That the blod folwede.And at the londes endelath870A little crom-bolle,And theron lay a lytel chyldeLapped in cloutes,And tweyne of tweie yeres oldeOpon 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,880And 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 willeSwich good as God hath sent;Go we, leeve brother."I sayde thanne, "Nay, syre,890My sorowe is wel more.For I can nought my Crede,I care wel harde;For I can fynden no manThat fulli byleveth,To techen me the heyghe weie,And therfore I wepe.For I have fonded the freresOf the foure ordres;For there I wende have wist,900But 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 feith910He fulliche hem calde,In vestimentis ovium,But only withinneThey ben wildewerwolvesThat 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 craft920The 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 rewleThey rekeneth but a fable;And purchaseth hem privilege930Of popes at Rome.They coveten confessiones,To kachen some hyre;And sepulturus also,Somme wayten to lacchen;But other cures of ChristenThey coveten nought to have,But there as wynnynge liith,He loketh non other.""Whough shal I nemne thy name,940That neyghbores the calleth?""Peres," quath he, "the pore man,The Ploughman I hatte.""A! Peres!" quath I tho,"I pray the thou me telleMore of thise tryflers,Hou trechurly they libbeth;For ichon of hem hath tolde meA tale of that other,Of her wikked liif,950In werld that he libbeth.I trowe that some wicked wightWroughte this ordres.Trow ye that gleym of that gestThatGoliasis 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 chircheHe casteth ful harde,And fluricheth his falsnesseOpon fele wise,And fer he casteth to-fornThe folk to dystroye."Of the kynrede of CaymHe cast the freres,And founded hem on Sarysenes,970Feyned for God.But they with her falshe faithMychel folk shendeth.Christ calde hem hymselfKynd ipocrites;How often he cursed hem,Wel can I tellen.He seide ons hymselfTo that sory puple:'Who worthe you, wyghtes,980Wel lerned of the lawe!'Eft he seyde to hem selfe,'Wo mote you worthenThat the toumbes of profetesBildeth 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 lawe990Than lewede freres,And in multitude of menBut maistres y-called,And wilneth worship of the werld,And sytten with heye,And leveth lovyng of GodAnd lownesse byhynde,And in beldyng of toumbesThei traveileth grete,To chargen her chirche flore,1000And chaungen it ofte.And the fader of the freresDefouled her soules,That was the dyggyng devel,That dreccheth men ofte.The devel by his dotageDissaveth the chirche,And put in the Prechours,Y-paynted withouten,And by his queyntise they comen in1010The curates to helpen;But that harmed hem harde,And halp hem ful littel.But Austynes ordinaunceWas on a good treuthe;And also Dominikes dedesWeren dernelich y-used;And Fraunceis founded his folkeFulliche on treuthe,Pure parfit prestes1020In penaunce to libben,In love and in lownesseAnd lettynge of pryde,Grounded on the Godspel,As God baad hymselve.But now the glose is so greetIn gladdyng tales,That turneth up two-foldUn-teyned upon treuthe,That they ben cursed of Christ,1030I can hem wel proveWithouten his blissyng,Bare beth thei in her werkes.For Christ seyde hymselfeTo swiche as him folwede:'Y-blissed mot they benThat mene ben in soule;'And alle power in gostGod hymself blisseth.Whou fele freres fareth so,1040Fayne 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 wrothWonderliche sone,And shewen the a sharp wilIn a short tymeTo wiln wilfully wrathe,1050And werche therafter.Wytnes on Wyclif,That warned hem with trewthe.For he in goodnesse of gostGraythliche hem warnedTo wayven her wikednesseAnd werkes of synne.Whou sone this sorimenSeweden hys soule,And overal lolled hym1060With heritikes werkes!And so of the blissyng of GodThei bereth little mede."Afterward another,Onliche he blissedeThe meke of the myddel-erdeThrough myght of his fader.Fynd foure freres in a flokThat folweth that rewle,Than have I tynt al my tast,1070Touche and assaye.Lakke hem a littel wight,And her liif blamen;But he lepe up on heighIn hardenesse of herte,And nemne the anon nought,And thy name lakke,With proude wordes apertThat passeth his rewle,Bothe with 'thou leyst,' and 'thou lext,'1080In heynesse of soule,And turnnen as a tyrauntThat turmenteth hymselve.A lord were lotherFor to leyne a knave,Thanne swich a begger,The best in a toun.Loke now, leve man,Beth nought thise y-lykeFully to the Pharisens,1090In fele of these poyntes.Al her brad beldyngBen belded with synne,And in worshipe of the worldHere wynnyng they holden;They shapen her chapolories,And strecchet hem brode,And launceth heighe her hemmesWith babelyng in stretes.They ben y-sewed with whight silke,1100And semes ful queynte,Y-stongen with stichesThat stareth as sylver.And but freres ben fyrst y-setAt sopers and at festes,They wiln ben wonderly wrothY-wis, as I trowe;But they ben at the lordes borde,Louren they willeth.He mot bygynne that bord,1110A beggere with sorowe;And first sitten in seIn her synagoges,That beth her heigh helle hous,Of Caymes kynd.For though a man in her mynstreA masse wolde heren,His sight shal so by setOn sondrye werkes,The penonnes and the pomels1120And poyntes of sheldesWithdrawen his devocion,And dusken his herte.I likene it to a lim-yerdeTo drawen men to helle,And to worchipe of the fend,To wraththen the soules.And also Christ himself seideTo swich ypocrites,He loveth in marketes ben met1130With gretynges of povere,And lowynge of lewed menIn Lentenes tyme;For thei han of bichopes y-boughtWith her propre silverAnd purchased of penaunceThe puple to asoyle.But money may makenMesure of the peyne;After that his power is to payen,1140His penaunce shal fayle.God leve it be a good helpFor hele of the soules!And also this myster menBen maysters i-called,That the gentill JesusGeneralliche blamed,And that poynt to his apostlesPurly defended.But freres haven forgeten this,1150And the fend suweth,He that maystri loved,Lucifer the olde.Where Fraunceys or Dominik,Other Austyn ordeynde,And of this dotardesDoctur to worthe,Maysters of divinitéHer matynes to leve,And cherlich as a cheveteyn1160Hys 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 wordesGrysliche gloseth;I trowe he toucheth nought the text,But taketh it for a tale.God forbad to his folk,1170And fullyche defendede,They shoulden nought stodyen biforneNe sturren her wyttes,But sodenly the same wordWith here mouth shewe,That weren given hem of God,Thorugh gost of hemselve.Now mot a frere studyenAnd stumlen in tales,And leven his matynes,1180And no masse syngen,And loken hem lesyngesThat 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,1190Over 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 beggyngHe bad his folke leven,And only serven hymself,And his ruwel sechen,And al that nedly nedeth,1200That 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 liifIn lustes to dwellen;Withouten any travailUntrulych libbeth;Thei beth nought maymed men,1210Ne 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 blissenBodies on ertheThat wepen for wikkednesse1220That 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 falshedesThat thei before deden.And therfore of that blissyng,1230Trewely, as I trowe,Thei may trussen her partIn a terre powghe."Alle tho blissed bethThat bodyliche hongreth;That ben the pore penyles,That han over-passedThe poynt of her pris liif,Inpenaunce of werkes,And mown nought swynken ne sweten,1240But 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-greithedUnder a pot he shall be put1250In a pryvye chaumbre,That he shal lyven ne lastBut lytel whyle after.Almyghti God and man,The merciable blessed,That han mercy on menThat mis-don hem here.But who so for-gabbed a frereY-founden at the stues,And brought blod of his bodi,1260On back or on syde,Hym were as good grevenA 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 bedenA beggere frere."The clene hertes Christ1270He curteyliche blissedThat coveten no catelBut Christes fulle blysse,That leveth fulliche on God,And lelliche thenkethOn his lore and his lawe,And lyveth opon trewthe.Freres han forgetten this,And folweth another,That they may henten they holden,1280By-hirneth it sone;Here hertes ben clen y-hidIn her heighe cloystre,As curres from careyneThat is cast in diches."And parfiit ChristThe pesible blissede,That ben suffrant and sobre,And susteyne anger.Asay of her sobernesse,1290And thou might y-knowenTher ne is no waspe in this worldThat wil folloke styngen,For stappyng on a tooOf a styncand frere.For neyther soveren ne segetThei ne suffereth never.Al thei blessyng of GodBeouten thei walken,For of her suffraunce, for sothe,1300Men say but lytel."Alle that persecutionIn pure liif suffren,They han the beneson of God,Blissed in erthe.I pray, parceyve nowThe pursut of a frere,In what mesure of a mekenesseThise men deleth.Byhold uponWater Brut1310Whou bisiliche thei pursueden,For he seid hem the sothe.And yet, syre, fertherHy may no more marren hem,But men tellethThat he is an heretik,And yvele beleveth.And precheth it in pulpitTo blenden the puple.They wolden awyrien that wight1320For 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 woldenY-worthen so grete,To passen any manes myght,To mortheren the soules;First to brenne the body1330In a bale of fiir,And sythen the sely soule slen,And senden hyre to helle.And Christ clerly forbadHis christene, and defended,They shoulden nought after the faceNever the folke demen.""Sire," I seide myself,"Thou semest to blamen.Why dispisest thou thus1340Thise sely pore freres,None other men so mychel,Monkes ne prestes,Chanons ne charthousThat in chirche serveth?It semeth that thise sely menHan somewhat the greved,Other with word, or with werk,And therfore thou wilnestTo shenden other shamen hem1350With the sharp speche,And bannen holliche,And her hous greven.""I prey the," quath Peres,"Put that out of thy mynde;Certeyn for soule heleI say the this wordes.I preise nought pocessioneresBut pur lytel;For falshed of freres1360Hath fulliche encombredManye of this maner men,And maad hem to levenHer 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 freres1370I fele in my soule,Seyng the synful liif,That sorweth myn herte,Hou they ben clothed in clothThat clennest sheweth,For angeles and archangelesAlle they whiit useth,And al aldremenThat benante thronum.Thise toknes haven freres taken;1380But I trowe that a feweFolwen fully that cloth,But falslyche that useth.For whiit, in trowthe, bytokenethClennes in soule:—Gif he have undernethen whiit,Thanne he above werethBlack, that betokenethBale for oure synne,And mournyng for mis-dede1390Of hem that this useth,And sorwe for synful liif,So that cloth asketh.I trowe there ben nought ten freresThat for synne wepen.For that liif is her lust,And therby thei libben,In fraytour and in fermoriHer fostryng is synne;It is her mete at ich a mel,1400Her most sustinaunce.Herkne oponHildegareHou homlich he tellethHow her sustinaunce is synne;And syker, as I trowe,Weren her confessionesClenly destrued,Hy shoulde nought beren hem so brag,Ne belden so heyghe.For the fallyng of synne1410Socoreth the foles,And begileth the greteWith glaverynge wordes;With glosyng of godspelsThei Godes word turneth,And passen al the pryvylegeThat Peter after used.The power of the apostlesThie pasen in speche,For to sellen the synnes1420For selver other mede.And purlichea pœnaThe puple asoyleth,Anda culpaalso,That they may kachenMoney other money-worth,And mede to fonge;And ben at lone and at bode,As burgeises useth.Thus they serven Sathanas,1430And soules bygyleth,Marchaunes of malisones,Mansede wrecches.Thei usen russet alsoSome of this freres,That bitokeneth travaileAnd treuth upon erthe,But loke whou this lorelsLaboren the erthe.But freten the fruyt that the folke1440Ful lellich beswynketh;With travail of trewe menThei tymbren her houses,And of the curiouse clothHer copes they beggen;And als his gettyng is greteHe shal ben good holden.And right as dranes doth noughtBut drynketh up the huny,Whan been with her busynes1450Han brought it to hepe,Right so fareth freresWith folk opon erthe;They freten up the firste froyt,And falsliche lybbeth.But alle freres eten noughtY-liche good mete,But after that his wynnyng isIs his wel-fare,And after that he bringeth hom1460His bed shal ben graythed,And after that his richesse is raughtHe shal ben redy served.But se thiself in thi sightWhou somme of hem walkethWith clouted shon,And clothes ful feble,Wel neigh for-werd,And the wlon offe;And his felawe in a frok1470Worth swhich fiftene,Arayd in rede stone,And elles were reuthe:And sexe copes or sevenIn his celle hongeth;Though for fayling of goodHis felawe shulde sterve,He wolde nought lenen hym a penyHis liif for to holden.I myght tymen tho troiflardes1480To toylen with the erthe,Tylyen, and trewlich lyven,And her flesh tempren.Now mot ich soutere hys soneSeten to schole,And ich a beggeres brolOn the book lerne.And worth to a writereAnd with a lorde dwelle;Other falsly to a frere1490The fend for to serven;So of that beggares brolAn abbot shal worthen,Among the peres of the londPrese to sytten,And lordes sones lowlyTo tho losels aloute,Knyghtes crouketh hem toAnd cruccheth ful lowe;And his syre a soutere1500Y-suled in grees,His teeth with toylyng of letherTatered as a sawe.Alaas! that lordes of the londeLeveth swiche wrechen,And leveth swych lorelsFor her lowe wordes.They shulden maken abbotsHer owen bretheren childre,Other of som gentil blod,1510And so yt best semed,And fostre none forytoures,Ne swich false freres,To maken fat and fulleAnd her flesh combren.For her kynde were moreTo y-clense diches,Than ben to sopers y-set first,And served with sylver.A grete bolle-ful of benen1520Were beter in hys wombe,And with the bandes of bakunHis baly for to fillen,Then pertryches, or plovers,Or pecokes y-rosted,And comeren her stomakesWith curiuse drynkes,That maketh swyche harlotesHordom usen,And with her wikked word1530Wymmen bitrayeth.God wold her wonyyngeWere in wildernesse,And fals freres forbodenThe fayre ladis chaumbres.For knewe lordes her craft,Treuly I trowe,They shulden nought haunten her houseSo holy on nyghtes,Ne bedden swich brothels1540In 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 noughtTo faren on that wise,Ne Domynyk dued hem nevereSwyche drynkers to worthe,Ne Helye ne Austyn1550Swyche liif never used,But in povert of spiritSpended her tyme.We have seyn ourselfIn a short tymeWhou freres wolden no fleshAmong the folk usen;But now the harlotesHan hyd thilke reule,And for the love of oure Lord1560Han leyd hire in water.Wenest thou ther wolde so feleSwich warlawes worthen?Ne were werliche weleAnd her welfare,Thei shulden delven and dyken,And dongen the erthe,And menemong corn breedTo her mete fongen,And wortes fleshles wrought,1570And 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 loveIn tyme of a wyntere.""Leve Peres," quath I tho,"I pray that thou me telleWhou I may conne my Crede1580In Christen byleve.""Leve brother," quath he,"Hold that I segge,I wil techen the the trouthe,1584And tellen the the sothe.—THE CREDE.1585"Leve thou in oure Loverd GodThat al the werld wrought,Holy heven eke on heyHolliche he fourmede,And is almyghti hymself1590Over alle his werkes.And wrought as his wil wasThe werld and the heven;And on gentil Jesu Christ,Engendred of hymselven,His owen onlyche sone,Lord over all y-knowen,That was clenlich conceivedClerli in trewtheOf the heye Holy Gost,1600This is the holy beleve.And of the maiden MaryeMan 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 bodyWas in a stone byried,And descended a-doun1610To the derk helle,And fet out our formfaderes,And hy ful fayn weren.The thyrd day redelicheHymself ros fram deeth,And, on a ston there he stod,He steigh up to hevene,And on his fader ryght handRedelich he sitteth,That almyghti God,1620Over 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 GostHolly I beleve;And generall holy chirche also,Hold this in the minde;The communion of sayntes,1630For soth I to the sayn;And for our great sinnesForgivenes for to getten,And only by ChristClenlich to be clensed;Our bodies again to risenRight as we been here;And the liif everlastingLeve ich to habben. Amen."Although this flatterynge freres1640Wyln, for her pryde,Disputen of Godes deyté,As dotardes shulden,The more the matere is movedThe masedere hi worthen.Lat the loseles alone,And leve thou the trewthe;For these maystres of dyvynitéMany, als I trowe,Folwen nought fully the feith,1650As fele of the lewede.Whough may mannes wiit,Through werk of himselve,Knowen Christes privité,That alle kynde passeth?It mot ben a manOf also mek an herte,That myght with his good liifThe Holy Gost fongen;And thanne nedeth him nought1660Nevere for to studyen;He myght no maistre ben cald,For Christ that defended,Ne puten no pylionOn 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 wryten1670Is soth, as I trowe;And for amendyng of thise menIs most that I write.God wolde hy wolden ben war,And werchen the betere!But for I am a lewed man,Paraunter I myghtePassen par adventure,And in some poynt erren,I wil nought this matere1680Maistrely avowen.But gif ich have mys-said,Mercy ich aske,And pray al mannere menThis matere amende,Ich a word by hymself,And al, gif it nedeth.God of his grete myght,And his good grace,Save alle freres1690That feithfulli lybben!And alle tho that ben fals,Fayre hem amende,And gyve hem wiit and good wilSwiche dedes to werch,That thei may wynnen the liifThat evere shal lesten."Amen.

ROS and curteis Christ

This begynnyng spede,

For the faders frendshipe

That fourmed heaven,

And through the special spirit

That sprong of hem tweyne,

And al in one God-hed

Endles dwelleth.

A, and all myn a.b.c.

After have I lerned,

And patred in my pater-noster

Iche poynt after other;

And after al, myne Ave-marie

Almost to the end;

But al my care is to comen,

For I can nought my Crede.

Whan I shall shewen my shrift,

Shent mote I worthen;

The preeste wil me punyche,

And penaunce enjoyne;

The lengthe of a lenton

Flesh moot I leve,

After that Estur is y-come,

And that is hard fare;

And Wedenesday iche wyke

Withouten flesh-mete.

And also Jesu hymselfe

To the Jewes he saide,

"He that leeveth nought on me,

He leseth the blisse."

Therfor lerne the byleve

Levest me were,

Gif any worldly wight

Wil me [it] couthe;

Other lewed or lered,

That lyveth thereafter

And fulliche folweth the feith,

And feyneth non other;

That no worldeliche wele

Wilneth no tyme,

But liveth in lovyng of God,

And his lawe holdeth;

And for no gettyng of good

Never his God greveth,

But folweth hym the full way,

As he the folke taughte.

But to many maner of men

This matter is asked,

Both to lered and to lewed,

That seyn that they liveden

Hollich on the grete God,

And holden al his hestes.

But by a fraynyng for than

Faileth ther manye.

For first I frayned the freres,

And they me fulle tolden,

That al the fruyt of the fayth

Was in her foure orders;

And the cofres of Christendom,

And the keie bothen,

And the lock of byleve,

Lieth loken in her hondes,

Then wennede I to wytten,And with a whight I mette,A Minourein a morwe-tide;And to this man I saide,"Sire, for greate Godes love!The graith thou me tell,Of what myddel-erde man70Myght I best lerneMy Crede? For I can it nought,My kare is the more.And therfore, for Christes love!Thy counseyl I preie.A Carmme hath y-covenant,The nede me to teche;But for thou knowest Carmes wel,Thy counsail I aske."

Then wennede I to wytten,

And with a whight I mette,

A Minourein a morwe-tide;

And to this man I saide,

"Sire, for greate Godes love!

The graith thou me tell,

Of what myddel-erde man

Myght I best lerne

My Crede? For I can it nought,

My kare is the more.

And therfore, for Christes love!

Thy counseyl I preie.

A Carmme hath y-covenant,

The nede me to teche;

But for thou knowest Carmes wel,

Thy counsail I aske."

This Minour loked on me,80And laughyng he sayde,"Leve christen man,I leve that thou [art] madde:Whough shulde thei techen the god,That con non hemselve?They ben but jugulers,And japers of kynde;Lorels and lechures,And lemans holden,Neyther in order ne out,90But unneth lybbeth,And by-japeth the folkWith gestes of Rome.It is but a faynt folke,Y-founded upon japes.They maketh hemMaries men,And so thei men tellen;And leieth on oure LadyMany a long tale.And that wicked folk100Wymmen betraieth,And begileth hem her goodWith glaverynge wordes,And therwith holden her housIn harlotes warkes.And, so save me God!I hold it greate synneTo gyven hem any good,Swiche glotones to fynde,To mayntaynen swiche maner men110That michel good destruieth.Yet seyn they in her sutiltieTo sottes in townes,Thei comen out of CarmeliChrist for to folwen,And feyneth hem with holynesse,That yvele hem bisemeth.Thei lyven more in lecherie,And lyeth in her tales,Than suen any good liif;120But lurken in her selles,And wynnen werdliche good,And wasten it in synne.And ghif thei couthen her Crede,Other on Christ leveden,Thei weren nought so hardySwyche harlotri usen.Sikerli I can nought fyndenWho hem first founded;But the foles foundeden hemselfe130Freres of the Pye,And maken hem mendynans,And marre the puple.But what glut of tho gomesMay any good kachen,He wyl kepen it hemself,And cofrene it faste;And thoigh his felawes fayle good,For hym he may sterven.Her monei mai byquest,140And testament maken,And none obedience bere,But don as hym luste.And ryght asRobartes menRaken abouteAt feyres and at full ales,And fyllen the cuppe;And precheth al of pardon,To plesen the puple.Her pacience is al pased,150And put out to ferme;And pride is in her povertie,That litel is to preisen.And at the lullyng of oure ladyThe wymmen to lyken,And miracles of mydwyves,And maken wymmen to wenenThat the lace of oure Lady smokLighteth hem of children.Thei ne prechen nought of Powel,160Ne penaunce for synne;But al of merci and mensk,That Marie may helpen.With sterne staves and strongeThei over lond straketh,Thider as here lemmans liggeth,And lurketh in townes,Grey grete-heded quenesWith gold by the eighen,And seyne that her sustern thei ben,170That sojurneth aboute.And thus abouten the gon,And Godes folke betrayeth.It is the puple that PowelPreched of in his tyme;He seyde of swich folkeThat so aboute wente,Wepyng, I warne youOf walkers aboute,It beth enemyes of the cros180That Christ upon tholede.Swiche slomrers in slepe,Slaughte in her ende,And glotonye is her God,With gloppynge of drynk,And gladnesse in glees,And grete joye y-maked.In the shendyng of swicheShal mychel folk lawghe;Therfore, frend, for thy feith190Fond to don beter;Leve nought on tho losels,Put let hem forth pasen,For thei ben fals in her faith,And feele mo other."

This Minour loked on me,

And laughyng he sayde,

"Leve christen man,

I leve that thou [art] madde:

Whough shulde thei techen the god,

That con non hemselve?

They ben but jugulers,

And japers of kynde;

Lorels and lechures,

And lemans holden,

Neyther in order ne out,

But unneth lybbeth,

And by-japeth the folk

With gestes of Rome.

It is but a faynt folke,

Y-founded upon japes.

They maketh hemMaries men,

And so thei men tellen;

And leieth on oure Lady

Many a long tale.

And that wicked folk

100

Wymmen betraieth,

And begileth hem her good

With glaverynge wordes,

And therwith holden her hous

In harlotes warkes.

And, so save me God!

I hold it greate synne

To gyven hem any good,

Swiche glotones to fynde,

To mayntaynen swiche maner men

110

That michel good destruieth.

Yet seyn they in her sutiltie

To sottes in townes,

Thei comen out of Carmeli

Christ for to folwen,

And feyneth hem with holynesse,

That yvele hem bisemeth.

Thei lyven more in lecherie,

And lyeth in her tales,

Than suen any good liif;

120

But lurken in her selles,

And wynnen werdliche good,

And wasten it in synne.

And ghif thei couthen her Crede,

Other on Christ leveden,

Thei weren nought so hardy

Swyche harlotri usen.

Sikerli I can nought fynden

Who hem first founded;

But the foles foundeden hemselfe

130

Freres of the Pye,

And maken hem mendynans,

And marre the puple.

But what glut of tho gomes

May any good kachen,

He wyl kepen it hemself,

And cofrene it faste;

And thoigh his felawes fayle good,

For hym he may sterven.

Her monei mai byquest,

140

And testament maken,

And none obedience bere,

But don as hym luste.

And ryght asRobartes men

Raken aboute

At feyres and at full ales,

And fyllen the cuppe;

And precheth al of pardon,

To plesen the puple.

Her pacience is al pased,

150

And put out to ferme;

And pride is in her povertie,

That litel is to preisen.

And at the lullyng of oure lady

The wymmen to lyken,

And miracles of mydwyves,

And maken wymmen to wenen

That the lace of oure Lady smok

Lighteth hem of children.

Thei ne prechen nought of Powel,

160

Ne penaunce for synne;

But al of merci and mensk,

That Marie may helpen.

With sterne staves and stronge

Thei over lond straketh,

Thider as here lemmans liggeth,

And lurketh in townes,

Grey grete-heded quenes

With gold by the eighen,

And seyne that her sustern thei ben,

170

That sojurneth aboute.

And thus abouten the gon,

And Godes folke betrayeth.

It is the puple that Powel

Preched of in his tyme;

He seyde of swich folke

That so aboute wente,

Wepyng, I warne you

Of walkers aboute,

It beth enemyes of the cros

180

That Christ upon tholede.

Swiche slomrers in slepe,

Slaughte in her ende,

And glotonye is her God,

With gloppynge of drynk,

And gladnesse in glees,

And grete joye y-maked.

In the shendyng of swiche

Shal mychel folk lawghe;

Therfore, frend, for thy feith

190

Fond to don beter;

Leve nought on tho losels,

Put let hem forth pasen,

For thei ben fals in her faith,

And feele mo other."

"Alas! frere," quath I tho,"My purpos is y-failed;Now is my comfort a-cast.Canstou no bote,Wher I myght meten with a man200That myghte me wyssenFor to conne my Crede,Christ for to folwen?"

"Alas! frere," quath I tho,

"My purpos is y-failed;

Now is my comfort a-cast.

Canstou no bote,

Wher I myght meten with a man

200

That myghte me wyssen

For to conne my Crede,

Christ for to folwen?"

"Certeyn, felawe," quath the frere,"Withouten any fayle,Of al men upon mold,We Minorities most shewethThe pure aposteles liif,With penance on erthe,And suen hem in sanctité,210And sufferen wel harde.We haunten no tavernes,Ne hobelen abouten;At marketes and miraclesWe medeleth us never;We hondlen no moneye,But monelich faren,And haven hunger at the mete,At ich a mel ones.We haven forsaken the world,220And in wo libbeth,In penaunce and poverte,And prechethe the pupleBy ensample of oure liifSoules to helpen;And in poverte preienFor al oure parteneres,That gyveth us any goodGod to honouren,Other bel other book,230Or bred to our foode,Other catel, other clothTo coveren with oure bones.For we buldeth a burwgh,A brod and a large,A chirch and a chapitle,With chaumbers a-lofte;With wide wyndowes y-wrought,And walles wel heye,That mote ben portreid and paint,240And pulched ful clene,With gay glitering glasGlowyng as the sunne.And mightestou amenden usWith moneye of thyn owen,Thou shouldest knely bifore ChristIn compas of gold,In the wyde window west-wardWel neigh in the myddel,And saint Fraunceis hymselfe250Shal folden the in his cope,And present the to the Trinité,And praye for thy synnes.Thy name shal noblich ben wrytenAnd wrought for the nones,And in remembraunce of theY-rad there for evere.And, brother, be thou nought a-ferd;Bythenk in thyne herte,Though thou conne nought thy Crede,260Care thou no-more!I shal asoilen the, syr,And setten it on my soule;And thou may maken this good,Thenk thou non other."

"Certeyn, felawe," quath the frere,

"Withouten any fayle,

Of al men upon mold,

We Minorities most sheweth

The pure aposteles liif,

With penance on erthe,

And suen hem in sanctité,

210

And sufferen wel harde.

We haunten no tavernes,

Ne hobelen abouten;

At marketes and miracles

We medeleth us never;

We hondlen no moneye,

But monelich faren,

And haven hunger at the mete,

At ich a mel ones.

We haven forsaken the world,

220

And in wo libbeth,

In penaunce and poverte,

And prechethe the puple

By ensample of oure liif

Soules to helpen;

And in poverte preien

For al oure parteneres,

That gyveth us any good

God to honouren,

Other bel other book,

230

Or bred to our foode,

Other catel, other cloth

To coveren with oure bones.

For we buldeth a burwgh,

A brod and a large,

A chirch and a chapitle,

With chaumbers a-lofte;

With wide wyndowes y-wrought,

And walles wel heye,

That mote ben portreid and paint,

240

And pulched ful clene,

With gay glitering glas

Glowyng as the sunne.

And mightestou amenden us

With moneye of thyn owen,

Thou shouldest knely bifore Christ

In compas of gold,

In the wyde window west-ward

Wel neigh in the myddel,

And saint Fraunceis hymselfe

250

Shal folden the in his cope,

And present the to the Trinité,

And praye for thy synnes.

Thy name shal noblich ben wryten

And wrought for the nones,

And in remembraunce of the

Y-rad there for evere.

And, brother, be thou nought a-ferd;

Bythenk in thyne herte,

Though thou conne nought thy Crede,

260

Care thou no-more!

I shal asoilen the, syr,

And setten it on my soule;

And thou may maken this good,

Thenk thou non other."

"Sir," I sayde, "in certaineI shal gon and asaye."And he set on me his hond,And asoiled me clene,And there I parted him fro270Wythouten and peyne;In covenaunt that I come agayne,Christ he me be-taught.

"Sir," I sayde, "in certaine

I shal gon and asaye."

And he set on me his hond,

And asoiled me clene,

And there I parted him fro

270

Wythouten and peyne;

In covenaunt that I come agayne,

Christ he me be-taught.

Then saide I to myself,"Here semeth litel treuthe!First to blame his brother,And bakbyten hym foule,There as curteis ChristClerliche saide,Whow myght thou in thy brothers eighe280A bare mote loken,And in thyn owen eigheNought a beme toten?See fyrst on thyself,And sithen on another,And clense clene thy syght,And kepe wel thyne eighe,And for another mannes eigheOrdeyne after.And also I see coveitise290Catel to fongen,That Christ hath clerliche forboden,And clenliche destrueden;And sayde to his sueresFor sothe on this wyse,'Nought thy neighbors goodCoveyte in no tyme.'But charité and chastitéBen chased out clene.But Christ seide by her fruit300Men shal hem ful knowen."Thanne saide I, "certeine, syr,Thou demest ful trewe."

Then saide I to myself,

"Here semeth litel treuthe!

First to blame his brother,

And bakbyten hym foule,

There as curteis Christ

Clerliche saide,

Whow myght thou in thy brothers eighe

280

A bare mote loken,

And in thyn owen eighe

Nought a beme toten?

See fyrst on thyself,

And sithen on another,

And clense clene thy syght,

And kepe wel thyne eighe,

And for another mannes eighe

Ordeyne after.

And also I see coveitise

290

Catel to fongen,

That Christ hath clerliche forboden,

And clenliche destrueden;

And sayde to his sueres

For sothe on this wyse,

'Nought thy neighbors good

Coveyte in no tyme.'

But charité and chastité

Ben chased out clene.

But Christ seide by her fruit

300

Men shal hem ful knowen."

Thanne saide I, "certeine, syr,

Thou demest ful trewe."

Than thought I to frayne the firstOf this foure ordres;And presed tothe Prechoures,To proven hir wille.Ich highed to her house,To herken of more;And when I came to that court,310I gaped aboute,Swich a bild boldY-buld upon erthe heighteSay I nought in certeynSyththe a long tyme.I semed opon that hous,And yerne theron loked,Whow the pileres weren y-paint,And pulched ful clene,And queyntly y-corven320With curious knottes;With wyndowes wel y-wrought,Wyde up a-lofte,And thanne I entred in,And even forth wente;And al was walled that wone,Though it wiid were,With posternes in privitéTo pasen when hem liste;Orcheyardes and erberes330Evesed wel clene,And a curious crosCraftly entayled,With tabernacles y-tightTo toten al abouten.The pris of a plough-londOf penies so roundeTo aparaile that pylerWere pure litel.Than I munte me forth340The mynstre to knowen,And awaytede a woonWonderly wel y-bild,With arches on everiche half,And bellyche y-corven,With crochetes on corneres,With knottes of gold,Wyde wyndowes y-wrought,Y-wryten ful thikke,Shynen with shapen sheldes,350To shewen aboute,With merkes of merchauntesY-medeled betwene,Mo than twentie and twoTwyse y-noumbbred.Ther is non heraud that hathHalf swich a rolle,Right as a ragemanHath rekned hem newe.Tombes upon tabernacles360Tylde opon lofte,Housed in hornes,Harde set abouten,Of armede alabaustreClad for the nones,Maad opon marbelIn many manner wyse,Knyghtes in ther conisanteClad for the nones;Alle it semed seyntes370Y-sacred opon erthe;And lovely ladies y-wroughtLeyen by her sydesIn manye gay garnemens,That weren gold beten.Though the tax of ten yereWere trewely y-gadered,Nolde it nought maken that housHalf, as I trowe.Than cam I to that cloystre,380And gaped abouten,Whough it was pilered and peynt,And portreyed wel clene,Al y-hyled with leedLowe to the stones,And y-paved with poynttylIch point after other;With cundites of clene tynClosed al aboute,With lavoures of latun390Loveliche y-greithed.I trowe the gaynage of the groundIn a gret shyreNold aparaile that placeOo poynt tyl other ende.Thanne was that chapitre houseWrought as a greet chirche,Corven and covered;And queyntelyche entayled,With semliche selure400Y-seet on lofte,As a parlement-housY-peynted aboute.Thanne ferd I into fraytoure,And fond there another,An halle for an hygh kyngeAn houshold to holden,With brode bordes aboutenY-benched wel clene,With wyndowes of glaas410Wrought as a chircheThan walkede I ferrer,And went al abouten,And seigh halles full heygh,And houses ful noble,Chambres with chymeneys,And chapeles gaye,And kychenes for an high kyngeIn casteles to holden;And her dortoure y-dight420With dores ful stronge;Fermerye and fraitur,With fele mo houses,And al strong ston walSterne upon heithe,With gaye garites and grete,And iche hole y-glased,And other houses y-noweTo herberwe the queene.And yet thise bilderes wiln beggen430A bagge ful of wheteOf a pure pore man,That may onethe payeHalf his rent in a yere,And half ben byhynde.

Than thought I to frayne the first

Of this foure ordres;

And presed tothe Prechoures,

To proven hir wille.

Ich highed to her house,

To herken of more;

And when I came to that court,

310

I gaped aboute,

Swich a bild bold

Y-buld upon erthe heighte

Say I nought in certeyn

Syththe a long tyme.

I semed opon that hous,

And yerne theron loked,

Whow the pileres weren y-paint,

And pulched ful clene,

And queyntly y-corven

320

With curious knottes;

With wyndowes wel y-wrought,

Wyde up a-lofte,

And thanne I entred in,

And even forth wente;

And al was walled that wone,

Though it wiid were,

With posternes in privité

To pasen when hem liste;

Orcheyardes and erberes

330

Evesed wel clene,

And a curious cros

Craftly entayled,

With tabernacles y-tight

To toten al abouten.

The pris of a plough-lond

Of penies so rounde

To aparaile that pyler

Were pure litel.

Than I munte me forth

340

The mynstre to knowen,

And awaytede a woon

Wonderly wel y-bild,

With arches on everiche half,

And bellyche y-corven,

With crochetes on corneres,

With knottes of gold,

Wyde wyndowes y-wrought,

Y-wryten ful thikke,

Shynen with shapen sheldes,

350

To shewen aboute,

With merkes of merchauntes

Y-medeled betwene,

Mo than twentie and two

Twyse y-noumbbred.

Ther is non heraud that hath

Half swich a rolle,

Right as a rageman

Hath rekned hem newe.

Tombes upon tabernacles

360

Tylde opon lofte,

Housed in hornes,

Harde set abouten,

Of armede alabaustre

Clad for the nones,

Maad opon marbel

In many manner wyse,

Knyghtes in ther conisante

Clad for the nones;

Alle it semed seyntes

370

Y-sacred opon erthe;

And lovely ladies y-wrought

Leyen by her sydes

In manye gay garnemens,

That weren gold beten.

Though the tax of ten yere

Were trewely y-gadered,

Nolde it nought maken that hous

Half, as I trowe.

Than cam I to that cloystre,

380

And gaped abouten,

Whough it was pilered and peynt,

And portreyed wel clene,

Al y-hyled with leed

Lowe to the stones,

And y-paved with poynttyl

Ich point after other;

With cundites of clene tyn

Closed al aboute,

With lavoures of latun

390

Loveliche y-greithed.

I trowe the gaynage of the ground

In a gret shyre

Nold aparaile that place

Oo poynt tyl other ende.

Thanne was that chapitre house

Wrought as a greet chirche,

Corven and covered;

And queyntelyche entayled,

With semliche selure

400

Y-seet on lofte,

As a parlement-hous

Y-peynted aboute.

Thanne ferd I into fraytoure,

And fond there another,

An halle for an hygh kynge

An houshold to holden,

With brode bordes abouten

Y-benched wel clene,

With wyndowes of glaas

410

Wrought as a chirche

Than walkede I ferrer,

And went al abouten,

And seigh halles full heygh,

And houses ful noble,

Chambres with chymeneys,

And chapeles gaye,

And kychenes for an high kynge

In casteles to holden;

And her dortoure y-dight

420

With dores ful stronge;

Fermerye and fraitur,

With fele mo houses,

And al strong ston wal

Sterne upon heithe,

With gaye garites and grete,

And iche hole y-glased,

And other houses y-nowe

To herberwe the queene.

And yet thise bilderes wiln beggen

430

A bagge ful of whete

Of a pure pore man,

That may onethe paye

Half his rent in a yere,

And half ben byhynde.

Than turned I ayen,Whan I hadde all y-toted,And fond in a freitoureA frere on a benche,A greet chorl and a grym,440Growen as a tonne,With a face so fatAs a ful bleddereBlowen bretful of breth,And as a bagge hongedOn bothen his chekes, and his chynWith a chol lolledeSo greet as a gos ey,Growen al of grece;That al wagged his fleish450As a quick myre.His cope, that bi-clypped hym,Wel clene was it folden,Of double worstede y-dyghtDoun to the hele.His kyrtel of clene whiit,Clenlyche y-sewed,Hit was good y-now of groundGreyn for to beren.I haylsede that hirdman,460And hendlich I sayde,"Gode sire, for Godes love!Canstou me graith tellenTo any worthely wiightThat wissen me couthe,Whow I shulde conne my Crede,Christ for to folwe,That levede lelliche hymselfeAnd lyvede therafter,That feynede no falshede,470But fully Chrise suwede?For sich a certeyn manSyker wold I trosten,That he wolde telle me the trewthe,And turne to non other.And an Austyn this ender dayEgged me faste,That he wolde techen me wel,He plyght me his treuthe,And seyde me "certeyn,480Syghthen Christ deyedOure ordre waseuellesAnd erst y-founde."

Than turned I ayen,

Whan I hadde all y-toted,

And fond in a freitoure

A frere on a benche,

A greet chorl and a grym,

440

Growen as a tonne,

With a face so fat

As a ful bleddere

Blowen bretful of breth,

And as a bagge honged

On bothen his chekes, and his chyn

With a chol lollede

So greet as a gos ey,

Growen al of grece;

That al wagged his fleish

450

As a quick myre.

His cope, that bi-clypped hym,

Wel clene was it folden,

Of double worstede y-dyght

Doun to the hele.

His kyrtel of clene whiit,

Clenlyche y-sewed,

Hit was good y-now of ground

Greyn for to beren.

I haylsede that hirdman,

460

And hendlich I sayde,

"Gode sire, for Godes love!

Canstou me graith tellen

To any worthely wiight

That wissen me couthe,

Whow I shulde conne my Crede,

Christ for to folwe,

That levede lelliche hymselfe

And lyvede therafter,

That feynede no falshede,

470

But fully Chrise suwede?

For sich a certeyn man

Syker wold I trosten,

That he wolde telle me the trewthe,

And turne to non other.

And an Austyn this ender day

Egged me faste,

That he wolde techen me wel,

He plyght me his treuthe,

And seyde me "certeyn,

480

Syghthen Christ deyed

Oure ordre waseuelles

And erst y-founde."

"First, felawe," quath he,"Fy on his pilche!He is but abortiif,Eked with cloutes,He holdeth his ordynaunceWith hores and theves,And purchaseth hem pryvyleges490With penyes so rounde.It is a pur pardoners craft,Prove and asay;For have they thy money,A moneth therafterCertes, theigh thou come agen,He wil the nought knowen.But, felawe, oure foundementWas first of the othere,And we ben founded fulliche500Withouten fayntise,And we ben clerkes y-cnowen,Cunnyng in schole,Proved in processyonBy processe of lawe.Of oure order ther bethBichopes wel manye,Seyntes on sundri stedesThat suffreden harde;And we ben proved the priis510Of popes at Rome,And of grettest degré,As godspelles telleth."

"First, felawe," quath he,

"Fy on his pilche!

He is but abortiif,

Eked with cloutes,

He holdeth his ordynaunce

With hores and theves,

And purchaseth hem pryvyleges

490

With penyes so rounde.

It is a pur pardoners craft,

Prove and asay;

For have they thy money,

A moneth therafter

Certes, theigh thou come agen,

He wil the nought knowen.

But, felawe, oure foundement

Was first of the othere,

And we ben founded fulliche

500

Withouten fayntise,

And we ben clerkes y-cnowen,

Cunnyng in schole,

Proved in processyon

By processe of lawe.

Of oure order ther beth

Bichopes wel manye,

Seyntes on sundri stedes

That suffreden harde;

And we ben proved the priis

510

Of popes at Rome,

And of grettest degré,

As godspelles telleth."

"A! syre," quath I thanne,"Thou seyst a grete wonder;Sithen Christ sayd hymselfeTo alle his diciples,'Which of you that is most,Most shal he werche;And who is goere byforne,520First shal he serven.'And seyde he saugh SatanSytten ful heyghe,And ful low ben y-leid.In lyknesse he tolde,That in povernesse of spyritIs spedfullest hele;And hertes of heyneHarmeth the soule.And therefore, frere, farewel;530Here fynd I but pride.I preise nought thy prechyns,But as a pur myte."

"A! syre," quath I thanne,

"Thou seyst a grete wonder;

Sithen Christ sayd hymselfe

To alle his diciples,

'Which of you that is most,

Most shal he werche;

And who is goere byforne,

520

First shal he serven.'

And seyde he saugh Satan

Sytten ful heyghe,

And ful low ben y-leid.

In lyknesse he tolde,

That in povernesse of spyrit

Is spedfullest hele;

And hertes of heyne

Harmeth the soule.

And therefore, frere, farewel;

530

Here fynd I but pride.

I preise nought thy prechyns,

But as a pur myte."

And angerich I wandredeThe Austynsto prove,And mette with a maistre of tho men,And meklich I seyde,"Maistre, for the moder loveThat Marie men calleth!Knowest thou ought there thou comest540A creature on ertheThat coude me my Crede teche,And trewelich enfourme,Withouten flateryng fare,And nothing feyne,That folweth fulliche the feith,And non other fables,Withouten gabinge of glose,As the godspelles telleth?A Minoure hath me holly behyght550To helen my soule,For he seith that her secteIs sykerest on erthe,And ben kepers of the keyeThat Chrystendom helpeth,And puriche in poverteThe apostles they suweth.""Allaas!" quath the frere,"Almost I madde in mynde,To sen hough this Minoures560Many men bygyleth.Sothly somme of tho gomesHath more good hymselveThan ten knyghtes that I knowe,Of catel in cofres.In fraytoure they faren bestOf althe foure ordres,And usun ypocricieIn al that thei werchen,And prechen al of perfitnesse;570But loke now, I the prey,Nought but profre hem in privitéA peny for a masse,And, but his name be prest,Put out myn eighe,Though he had more money hidThan marchauntes of wolle.Loke hough this loresmenLordes betrayen,Seyn that they folwen580Fully Fraunceyses rewle,That in cotinge of his copeIs more cloth y-foldenThan was in Fraunceis frocWhan he hem first made.And yet under that copeA cote hathe he furredWith foyns, or with fichewes,Other fyn bevere,And that is cutted to the kne,590And queyntly y-botend,Lest any spiritual manAspie that gyle.Fraunceys bad his brethernBar-fot to wenden;Now han they buclede shone,For blenyng of her heles,And hosen in harde wederY-hamled by the ancle,And spicerie sprad in her purs600To parten where hem luste.Lordes loveth hem wel,For they so lowe crouchen;But knowen men her cautelAnd her queynte wordes,Thei wolde worshypen hemNought but a litle,The ymage of ypocricieYmped upon fendes.But, sone, gif thou wilt ben seker,610Seche thou no ferther,We freres beth the firste,And founded upon treuthe;Pauleprimus heremitaPut us hymselveAway into wildernesse,The world to despisen,And there we lengeden ful long,And leveden ful harde;For to alle this freren folke620Weren founden in tounes,And taughten untrewely,And that we wel aspiede.And for chef charyté,We chargeden us selvenIn amendyng of this men,We maden oure cellesTo ben in cytés y-set,To styghtle the puple,Prechyng and prayeng630As profetes shoulden.And so we holden us the hethevedOf al holy chirche.We han power of the PopePurliche assoylenAl that helpen oure housIn helpe of her soules;To dispensen hem withIn dedes of synne,Al that amendeth oure hous640In money other elles,With corne other catel,Or clothes to beddes,Other bedys or broche,Or breed for our fode.And gif thou hast any good,And wilt thyself helpen,Help us hertelich therwith,And here I undertakeThou shalt ben brother of oure hous,650And a book habbenAt the nexte chapitreClerliche enseled.And than oure provincialHath power to assoylenAlle sustren and bretherenThat beth of oure ordre.And though thou conne nought the Crede,Knele down here,My soule I sette for thyn,660To asoile the clene,In covenaunt that thou come ageyne,And katel us brynge."And thanne loutede I adoun,Add he me leve grauntede;And so I parted hym fro,And the frere lefte.

And angerich I wandrede

The Austynsto prove,

And mette with a maistre of tho men,

And meklich I seyde,

"Maistre, for the moder love

That Marie men calleth!

Knowest thou ought there thou comest

540

A creature on erthe

That coude me my Crede teche,

And trewelich enfourme,

Withouten flateryng fare,

And nothing feyne,

That folweth fulliche the feith,

And non other fables,

Withouten gabinge of glose,

As the godspelles telleth?

A Minoure hath me holly behyght

550

To helen my soule,

For he seith that her secte

Is sykerest on erthe,

And ben kepers of the keye

That Chrystendom helpeth,

And puriche in poverte

The apostles they suweth."

"Allaas!" quath the frere,

"Almost I madde in mynde,

To sen hough this Minoures

560

Many men bygyleth.

Sothly somme of tho gomes

Hath more good hymselve

Than ten knyghtes that I knowe,

Of catel in cofres.

In fraytoure they faren best

Of althe foure ordres,

And usun ypocricie

In al that thei werchen,

And prechen al of perfitnesse;

570

But loke now, I the prey,

Nought but profre hem in privité

A peny for a masse,

And, but his name be prest,

Put out myn eighe,

Though he had more money hid

Than marchauntes of wolle.

Loke hough this loresmen

Lordes betrayen,

Seyn that they folwen

580

Fully Fraunceyses rewle,

That in cotinge of his cope

Is more cloth y-folden

Than was in Fraunceis froc

Whan he hem first made.

And yet under that cope

A cote hathe he furred

With foyns, or with fichewes,

Other fyn bevere,

And that is cutted to the kne,

590

And queyntly y-botend,

Lest any spiritual man

Aspie that gyle.

Fraunceys bad his brethern

Bar-fot to wenden;

Now han they buclede shone,

For blenyng of her heles,

And hosen in harde weder

Y-hamled by the ancle,

And spicerie sprad in her purs

600

To parten where hem luste.

Lordes loveth hem wel,

For they so lowe crouchen;

But knowen men her cautel

And her queynte wordes,

Thei wolde worshypen hem

Nought but a litle,

The ymage of ypocricie

Ymped upon fendes.

But, sone, gif thou wilt ben seker,

610

Seche thou no ferther,

We freres beth the firste,

And founded upon treuthe;

Pauleprimus heremita

Put us hymselve

Away into wildernesse,

The world to despisen,

And there we lengeden ful long,

And leveden ful harde;

For to alle this freren folke

620

Weren founden in tounes,

And taughten untrewely,

And that we wel aspiede.

And for chef charyté,

We chargeden us selven

In amendyng of this men,

We maden oure celles

To ben in cytés y-set,

To styghtle the puple,

Prechyng and prayeng

630

As profetes shoulden.

And so we holden us the hetheved

Of al holy chirche.

We han power of the Pope

Purliche assoylen

Al that helpen oure hous

In helpe of her soules;

To dispensen hem with

In dedes of synne,

Al that amendeth oure hous

640

In money other elles,

With corne other catel,

Or clothes to beddes,

Other bedys or broche,

Or breed for our fode.

And gif thou hast any good,

And wilt thyself helpen,

Help us hertelich therwith,

And here I undertake

Thou shalt ben brother of oure hous,

650

And a book habben

At the nexte chapitre

Clerliche enseled.

And than oure provincial

Hath power to assoylen

Alle sustren and bretheren

That beth of oure ordre.

And though thou conne nought the Crede,

Knele down here,

My soule I sette for thyn,

660

To asoile the clene,

In covenaunt that thou come ageyne,

And katel us brynge."

And thanne loutede I adoun,

Add he me leve grauntede;

And so I parted hym fro,

And the frere lefte.

Than seide I to myself,"Here is no bote;Here pride is the pater-noster670In preying of synne;Her Crede is coveytise:—Now can I no ferthere.Yet wil I fonden forth,And fraynen the Carmes."Than toted I into a taverne,And there I aspyedeTwo frere CarmesWith a ful coppe.There I auntrede me in,680And aisliche I seyde,"Leve sire, for the Lordes loveThat thou on levest!Lere me to som manMy Crede for to lerne,That lyveth in lel liif,And loveth no synne,And gloseth nought the godspel,But halt Godes hetes,And neyther money ne mede690Ne may hym nought letten,But werchen after Godes word,Withouten any faile.A Prechoure y-professedHath plight me his trewtheTo techen me trewely;But wouldest thou me tellen,For they ben certeyne men,And syker on to trosten,I would quiten the thy mede700As my myght were."

Than seide I to myself,

"Here is no bote;

Here pride is the pater-noster

670

In preying of synne;

Her Crede is coveytise:—

Now can I no ferthere.

Yet wil I fonden forth,

And fraynen the Carmes."

Than toted I into a taverne,

And there I aspyede

Two frere Carmes

With a ful coppe.

There I auntrede me in,

680

And aisliche I seyde,

"Leve sire, for the Lordes love

That thou on levest!

Lere me to som man

My Crede for to lerne,

That lyveth in lel liif,

And loveth no synne,

And gloseth nought the godspel,

But halt Godes hetes,

And neyther money ne mede

690

Ne may hym nought letten,

But werchen after Godes word,

Withouten any faile.

A Prechoure y-professed

Hath plight me his trewthe

To techen me trewely;

But wouldest thou me tellen,

For they ben certeyne men,

And syker on to trosten,

I would quiten the thy mede

700

As my myght were."

"A trefle," quath he, "trewely!His treweth is ful litel;He dynede nought with Dominic,Sithe Christ deide.For with the prynces of prydeThe Prechours dwellen;They ben so digne as the develThat droppeth fro heven,With hartes of heynesse,710Whough halwen the cherches,And deleth in devynytéAs dogges doth bones.Thei medeleth with mesagesAnd mariages of grete;Thei leeven with lordesWith lesynges y-nowe;Thei biggeth hem bichoprichesWith bagges of gold;Thei wilneth worchipes:—720But waite on her dedes.Harkne at HerdfortheHow that they werchen,And loke when that they lyvenAnd leeve as thou fyndest.They ben counseylours of kynges,Christ wot the sothe,Whou thei curreth kyngesAnd her bak claweth.God leve hem laden wel730In lyvynge of hevene,And glose hem nought for her goodTo greven her soules.I pray the, where ben they pryvéWith any pore whightesThat may nought amenden her hous,Ne amenden hemselven?They prechen in proud herte,And preyseth her ordre,And werdlich worchype740Wilneth in erthe.Leeve it wel, lef man,And men right lokede,There is more pryvé prydeIn Prechoures hertes,Than there lefte in Lucifere,Or he were lowe fallen.They bene dygne as dich-watere,That dogges in bayteth.Lok a ribaut of hem750That can nought wel redenHis Rewel ne his Respondes,But be pure rote;Als as he were a connyng clerk,He casteth the lawesNought lowly, but lordly,And lesynges lyeth.For right as MinouresMost hypocrice useth,Ryght so ben Prechoures proude760Purlyche in herte.

"A trefle," quath he, "trewely!

His treweth is ful litel;

He dynede nought with Dominic,

Sithe Christ deide.

For with the prynces of pryde

The Prechours dwellen;

They ben so digne as the devel

That droppeth fro heven,

With hartes of heynesse,

710

Whough halwen the cherches,

And deleth in devynyté

As dogges doth bones.

Thei medeleth with mesages

And mariages of grete;

Thei leeven with lordes

With lesynges y-nowe;

Thei biggeth hem bichopriches

With bagges of gold;

Thei wilneth worchipes:—

720

But waite on her dedes.

Harkne at Herdforthe

How that they werchen,

And loke when that they lyven

And leeve as thou fyndest.

They ben counseylours of kynges,

Christ wot the sothe,

Whou thei curreth kynges

And her bak claweth.

God leve hem laden wel

730

In lyvynge of hevene,

And glose hem nought for her good

To greven her soules.

I pray the, where ben they pryvé

With any pore whightes

That may nought amenden her hous,

Ne amenden hemselven?

They prechen in proud herte,

And preyseth her ordre,

And werdlich worchype

740

Wilneth in erthe.

Leeve it wel, lef man,

And men right lokede,

There is more pryvé pryde

In Prechoures hertes,

Than there lefte in Lucifere,

Or he were lowe fallen.

They bene dygne as dich-watere,

That dogges in bayteth.

Lok a ribaut of hem

750

That can nought wel reden

His Rewel ne his Respondes,

But be pure rote;

Als as he were a connyng clerk,

He casteth the lawes

Nought lowly, but lordly,

And lesynges lyeth.

For right as Minoures

Most hypocrice useth,

Ryght so ben Prechoures proude

760

Purlyche in herte.

"But, chrysten creatoure,We Carmes firste comen,Even in Elyes tyme,First of hem alle;And lyven by oure Lady,And lelly her serven,In clene commun liifKepen us out of synne;Nowt proude as Prechoures beth,770But preyen ful stylle.Wecouuenon no quentyse,Christ wot the southe!But bisyeth us in oure bedes,As us best holdeth.And, therfore, leeve leelman,Leeve that iche sigge,A masse of us meene menIs of more mede,And passeth alle prayers780Of this proude freres.—And thou wilt ghyven us any good,I wolde ye here grauntenTo taken al thy penaunceIn peril of my soule;And tho thou conne nought thy Crede,Clene the assoyle,So that thou mowe amenden oure houseWith money other elles,With som catel, other corn,790Or cuppes of sylvere."

"But, chrysten creatoure,

We Carmes firste comen,

Even in Elyes tyme,

First of hem alle;

And lyven by oure Lady,

And lelly her serven,

In clene commun liif

Kepen us out of synne;

Nowt proude as Prechoures beth,

770

But preyen ful stylle.

Wecouuenon no quentyse,

Christ wot the southe!

But bisyeth us in oure bedes,

As us best holdeth.

And, therfore, leeve leelman,

Leeve that iche sigge,

A masse of us meene men

Is of more mede,

And passeth alle prayers

780

Of this proude freres.—

And thou wilt ghyven us any good,

I wolde ye here graunten

To taken al thy penaunce

In peril of my soule;

And tho thou conne nought thy Crede,

Clene the assoyle,

So that thou mowe amenden oure house

With money other elles,

With som catel, other corn,

790

Or cuppes of sylvere."

"Trewely, frere," quath I tho,"To tellen the the sothe,There is no peny in my pakkeTo payen for my mete.I have no good, ne no golde,But go thus abouten,And travaile ful trewelyTo wynnen with my fode.But woldest thou for Godes love800Lerne me my Crede,I shulde don for the wil,Whan I wele hadde."

"Trewely, frere," quath I tho,

"To tellen the the sothe,

There is no peny in my pakke

To payen for my mete.

I have no good, ne no golde,

But go thus abouten,

And travaile ful trewely

To wynnen with my fode.

But woldest thou for Godes love

800

Lerne me my Crede,

I shulde don for the wil,

Whan I wele hadde."

"Trewely," quath the frere,"A fole I the holde:—Thou woldest nought wetten thy fote,And woldest fich kachen.Oure pardon and oure preieresSo beth they nought parten,Oure power lasteth nought so feer,810But we som peny fongen.

"Trewely," quath the frere,

"A fole I the holde:—

Thou woldest nought wetten thy fote,

And woldest fich kachen.

Oure pardon and oure preieres

So beth they nought parten,

Oure power lasteth nought so feer,

810

But we som peny fongen.

"Fare wel," quath the frere,"For I mot hethen fonden,And hyen to an house-wiifThat hath us byquethenTen pound in hir testament.To tellen the sothe,Ho draweth to the deth-ward;But yet I am in dredeLeste ho turne hire testament,820And therfore I hygheTo haven hire to oure hous,And henten, gif I mighte,An anuel for myne owen use,To helpen to clothe.""Godys forbode!" quath his felawe,"But ho forth passeWhil ho is in purposWith us to departen!God let hir no lengere lyven!830For letteres ben manye."

"Fare wel," quath the frere,

"For I mot hethen fonden,

And hyen to an house-wiif

That hath us byquethen

Ten pound in hir testament.

To tellen the sothe,

Ho draweth to the deth-ward;

But yet I am in drede

Leste ho turne hire testament,

820

And therfore I hyghe

To haven hire to oure hous,

And henten, gif I mighte,

An anuel for myne owen use,

To helpen to clothe."

"Godys forbode!" quath his felawe,

"But ho forth passe

Whil ho is in purpos

With us to departen!

God let hir no lengere lyven!

830

For letteres ben manye."

Thanne turnede I me forth,And talked to myselfeOf the falshede of this folke,Whow feythles thei weren.And as I wente by the wayWepynge for sorowe,I seigh a sely man me by,Opon the plough hongen.His cote was of a cloute840That cary was y-called;His hod was ful of holes,And his heare oute;With his knoppede shonClouted ful thykke;His ton toteden out,As he the lond tredede;His hosen over-hongen his hok-shynesOn everich a syde,Al beslomered in fen,850As he the plow folwede.Tweye myteynes as meterMaad al of cloutes,The fyngres weren for-werd,And ful of fen honged.This whit waselede in the feenAlmost to the ancle;Foure rotheren hym byforne,That feble were worthi;Men myghte reknen ich a ryb,860So rentful they weren.His wiif walked hym with,With a long gode,In a cuttede cote,Cutted ful heyghe,Wrapped in a wynwe sheteTo weren hire fro wederes,Bar-fot on the bare iis,That the blod folwede.And at the londes endelath870A little crom-bolle,And theron lay a lytel chyldeLapped in cloutes,And tweyne of tweie yeres oldeOpon 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,880And 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 willeSwich good as God hath sent;Go we, leeve brother."

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 endelath

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

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 feith910He fulliche hem calde,In vestimentis ovium,But only withinneThey ben wildewerwolvesThat 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 craft920The 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 rewleThey rekeneth but a fable;And purchaseth hem privilege930Of popes at Rome.They coveten confessiones,To kachen some hyre;And sepulturus also,Somme wayten to lacchen;But other cures of ChristenThey coveten nought to have,But there as wynnynge liith,He loketh non other."

"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 wildewerwolves

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,940That neyghbores the calleth?""Peres," quath he, "the pore man,The Ploughman I hatte."

"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 telleMore of thise tryflers,Hou trechurly they libbeth;For ichon of hem hath tolde meA tale of that other,Of her wikked liif,950In werld that he libbeth.I trowe that some wicked wightWroughte this ordres.Trow ye that gleym of that gestThatGoliasis y-cald,Other els Satan hymself,Sente hem fro helle,To combren men with her crafte,Christendome to shenden."

"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

ThatGoliasis 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 chircheHe casteth ful harde,And fluricheth his falsnesseOpon fele wise,And fer he casteth to-fornThe folk to dystroye.

"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 CaymHe cast the freres,And founded hem on Sarysenes,970Feyned for God.But they with her falshe faithMychel folk shendeth.Christ calde hem hymselfKynd ipocrites;How often he cursed hem,Wel can I tellen.He seide ons hymselfTo that sory puple:'Who worthe you, wyghtes,980Wel lerned of the lawe!'Eft he seyde to hem selfe,'Wo mote you worthenThat the toumbes of profetesBildeth 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 lawe990Than lewede freres,And in multitude of menBut maistres y-called,And wilneth worship of the werld,And sytten with heye,And leveth lovyng of GodAnd lownesse byhynde,And in beldyng of toumbesThei traveileth grete,To chargen her chirche flore,1000And chaungen it ofte.And the fader of the freresDefouled her soules,That was the dyggyng devel,That dreccheth men ofte.The devel by his dotageDissaveth the chirche,And put in the Prechours,Y-paynted withouten,And by his queyntise they comen in1010The curates to helpen;But that harmed hem harde,And halp hem ful littel.But Austynes ordinaunceWas on a good treuthe;And also Dominikes dedesWeren dernelich y-used;And Fraunceis founded his folkeFulliche on treuthe,Pure parfit prestes1020In penaunce to libben,In love and in lownesseAnd lettynge of pryde,Grounded on the Godspel,As God baad hymselve.But now the glose is so greetIn gladdyng tales,That turneth up two-foldUn-teyned upon treuthe,That they ben cursed of Christ,1030I can hem wel proveWithouten his blissyng,Bare beth thei in her werkes.For Christ seyde hymselfeTo swiche as him folwede:'Y-blissed mot they benThat mene ben in soule;'And alle power in gostGod hymself blisseth.Whou fele freres fareth so,1040Fayne 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 wrothWonderliche sone,And shewen the a sharp wilIn a short tymeTo wiln wilfully wrathe,1050And werche therafter.Wytnes on Wyclif,That warned hem with trewthe.For he in goodnesse of gostGraythliche hem warnedTo wayven her wikednesseAnd werkes of synne.Whou sone this sorimenSeweden hys soule,And overal lolled hym1060With heritikes werkes!And so of the blissyng of GodThei bereth little mede.

"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 blissedeThe meke of the myddel-erdeThrough myght of his fader.Fynd foure freres in a flokThat folweth that rewle,Than have I tynt al my tast,1070Touche and assaye.Lakke hem a littel wight,And her liif blamen;But he lepe up on heighIn hardenesse of herte,And nemne the anon nought,And thy name lakke,With proude wordes apertThat passeth his rewle,Bothe with 'thou leyst,' and 'thou lext,'1080In heynesse of soule,And turnnen as a tyrauntThat turmenteth hymselve.A lord were lotherFor to leyne a knave,Thanne swich a begger,The best in a toun.Loke now, leve man,Beth nought thise y-lykeFully to the Pharisens,1090In fele of these poyntes.Al her brad beldyngBen belded with synne,And in worshipe of the worldHere wynnyng they holden;They shapen her chapolories,And strecchet hem brode,And launceth heighe her hemmesWith babelyng in stretes.They ben y-sewed with whight silke,1100And semes ful queynte,Y-stongen with stichesThat stareth as sylver.And but freres ben fyrst y-setAt sopers and at festes,They wiln ben wonderly wrothY-wis, as I trowe;But they ben at the lordes borde,Louren they willeth.He mot bygynne that bord,1110A beggere with sorowe;And first sitten in seIn her synagoges,That beth her heigh helle hous,Of Caymes kynd.For though a man in her mynstreA masse wolde heren,His sight shal so by setOn sondrye werkes,The penonnes and the pomels1120And poyntes of sheldesWithdrawen his devocion,And dusken his herte.I likene it to a lim-yerdeTo drawen men to helle,And to worchipe of the fend,To wraththen the soules.And also Christ himself seideTo swich ypocrites,He loveth in marketes ben met1130With gretynges of povere,And lowynge of lewed menIn Lentenes tyme;For thei han of bichopes y-boughtWith her propre silverAnd purchased of penaunceThe puple to asoyle.But money may makenMesure of the peyne;After that his power is to payen,1140His penaunce shal fayle.God leve it be a good helpFor hele of the soules!And also this myster menBen maysters i-called,That the gentill JesusGeneralliche blamed,And that poynt to his apostlesPurly defended.But freres haven forgeten this,1150And the fend suweth,He that maystri loved,Lucifer the olde.Where Fraunceys or Dominik,Other Austyn ordeynde,And of this dotardesDoctur to worthe,Maysters of divinitéHer matynes to leve,And cherlich as a cheveteyn1160Hys 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 wordesGrysliche gloseth;I trowe he toucheth nought the text,But taketh it for a tale.God forbad to his folk,1170And fullyche defendede,They shoulden nought stodyen biforneNe sturren her wyttes,But sodenly the same wordWith here mouth shewe,That weren given hem of God,Thorugh gost of hemselve.Now mot a frere studyenAnd stumlen in tales,And leven his matynes,1180And no masse syngen,And loken hem lesyngesThat 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,1190Over 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 beggyngHe bad his folke leven,And only serven hymself,And his ruwel sechen,And al that nedly nedeth,1200That 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 liifIn lustes to dwellen;Withouten any travailUntrulych libbeth;Thei beth nought maymed men,1210Ne 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.

"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 blissenBodies on ertheThat wepen for wikkednesse1220That 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 falshedesThat thei before deden.And therfore of that blissyng,1230Trewely, as I trowe,Thei may trussen her partIn a terre powghe.

"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 bethThat bodyliche hongreth;That ben the pore penyles,That han over-passedThe poynt of her pris liif,Inpenaunce of werkes,And mown nought swynken ne sweten,1240But 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-greithedUnder a pot he shall be put1250In a pryvye chaumbre,That he shal lyven ne lastBut lytel whyle after.Almyghti God and man,The merciable blessed,That han mercy on menThat mis-don hem here.But who so for-gabbed a frereY-founden at the stues,And brought blod of his bodi,1260On back or on syde,Hym were as good grevenA 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 bedenA beggere frere.

"Alle tho blissed beth

That bodyliche hongreth;

That ben the pore penyles,

That han over-passed

The poynt of her pris liif,

Inpenaunce 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 Christ1270He curteyliche blissedThat coveten no catelBut Christes fulle blysse,That leveth fulliche on God,And lelliche thenkethOn his lore and his lawe,And lyveth opon trewthe.Freres han forgetten this,And folweth another,That they may henten they holden,1280By-hirneth it sone;Here hertes ben clen y-hidIn her heighe cloystre,As curres from careyneThat is cast in diches.

"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 ChristThe pesible blissede,That ben suffrant and sobre,And susteyne anger.Asay of her sobernesse,1290And thou might y-knowenTher ne is no waspe in this worldThat wil folloke styngen,For stappyng on a tooOf a styncand frere.For neyther soveren ne segetThei ne suffereth never.Al thei blessyng of GodBeouten thei walken,For of her suffraunce, for sothe,1300Men say but lytel.

"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 persecutionIn pure liif suffren,They han the beneson of God,Blissed in erthe.I pray, parceyve nowThe pursut of a frere,In what mesure of a mekenesseThise men deleth.Byhold uponWater Brut1310Whou bisiliche thei pursueden,For he seid hem the sothe.And yet, syre, fertherHy may no more marren hem,But men tellethThat he is an heretik,And yvele beleveth.And precheth it in pulpitTo blenden the puple.They wolden awyrien that wight1320For 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 woldenY-worthen so grete,To passen any manes myght,To mortheren the soules;First to brenne the body1330In a bale of fiir,And sythen the sely soule slen,And senden hyre to helle.And Christ clerly forbadHis christene, and defended,They shoulden nought after the faceNever the folke demen."

"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 uponWater 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 thus1340Thise sely pore freres,None other men so mychel,Monkes ne prestes,Chanons ne charthousThat in chirche serveth?It semeth that thise sely menHan somewhat the greved,Other with word, or with werk,And therfore thou wilnestTo shenden other shamen hem1350With the sharp speche,And bannen holliche,And her hous greven."

"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 heleI say the this wordes.I preise nought pocessioneresBut pur lytel;For falshed of freres1360Hath fulliche encombredManye of this maner men,And maad hem to levenHer 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 freres1370I fele in my soule,Seyng the synful liif,That sorweth myn herte,Hou they ben clothed in clothThat clennest sheweth,For angeles and archangelesAlle they whiit useth,And al aldremenThat benante thronum.Thise toknes haven freres taken;1380But I trowe that a feweFolwen fully that cloth,But falslyche that useth.For whiit, in trowthe, bytokenethClennes in soule:—Gif he have undernethen whiit,Thanne he above werethBlack, that betokenethBale for oure synne,And mournyng for mis-dede1390Of hem that this useth,And sorwe for synful liif,So that cloth asketh.I trowe there ben nought ten freresThat for synne wepen.For that liif is her lust,And therby thei libben,In fraytour and in fermoriHer fostryng is synne;It is her mete at ich a mel,1400Her most sustinaunce.Herkne oponHildegareHou homlich he tellethHow her sustinaunce is synne;And syker, as I trowe,Weren her confessionesClenly destrued,Hy shoulde nought beren hem so brag,Ne belden so heyghe.For the fallyng of synne1410Socoreth the foles,And begileth the greteWith glaverynge wordes;With glosyng of godspelsThei Godes word turneth,And passen al the pryvylegeThat Peter after used.The power of the apostlesThie pasen in speche,For to sellen the synnes1420For selver other mede.And purlichea pœnaThe puple asoyleth,Anda culpaalso,That they may kachenMoney other money-worth,And mede to fonge;And ben at lone and at bode,As burgeises useth.Thus they serven Sathanas,1430And soules bygyleth,Marchaunes of malisones,Mansede wrecches.Thei usen russet alsoSome of this freres,That bitokeneth travaileAnd treuth upon erthe,But loke whou this lorelsLaboren the erthe.But freten the fruyt that the folke1440Ful lellich beswynketh;With travail of trewe menThei tymbren her houses,And of the curiouse clothHer copes they beggen;And als his gettyng is greteHe shal ben good holden.And right as dranes doth noughtBut drynketh up the huny,Whan been with her busynes1450Han brought it to hepe,Right so fareth freresWith folk opon erthe;They freten up the firste froyt,And falsliche lybbeth.But alle freres eten noughtY-liche good mete,But after that his wynnyng isIs his wel-fare,And after that he bringeth hom1460His bed shal ben graythed,And after that his richesse is raughtHe shal ben redy served.But se thiself in thi sightWhou somme of hem walkethWith clouted shon,And clothes ful feble,Wel neigh for-werd,And the wlon offe;And his felawe in a frok1470Worth swhich fiftene,Arayd in rede stone,And elles were reuthe:And sexe copes or sevenIn his celle hongeth;Though for fayling of goodHis felawe shulde sterve,He wolde nought lenen hym a penyHis liif for to holden.I myght tymen tho troiflardes1480To toylen with the erthe,Tylyen, and trewlich lyven,And her flesh tempren.Now mot ich soutere hys soneSeten to schole,And ich a beggeres brolOn the book lerne.And worth to a writereAnd with a lorde dwelle;Other falsly to a frere1490The fend for to serven;So of that beggares brolAn abbot shal worthen,Among the peres of the londPrese to sytten,And lordes sones lowlyTo tho losels aloute,Knyghtes crouketh hem toAnd cruccheth ful lowe;And his syre a soutere1500Y-suled in grees,His teeth with toylyng of letherTatered as a sawe.Alaas! that lordes of the londeLeveth swiche wrechen,And leveth swych lorelsFor her lowe wordes.They shulden maken abbotsHer owen bretheren childre,Other of som gentil blod,1510And so yt best semed,And fostre none forytoures,Ne swich false freres,To maken fat and fulleAnd her flesh combren.For her kynde were moreTo y-clense diches,Than ben to sopers y-set first,And served with sylver.A grete bolle-ful of benen1520Were beter in hys wombe,And with the bandes of bakunHis baly for to fillen,Then pertryches, or plovers,Or pecokes y-rosted,And comeren her stomakesWith curiuse drynkes,That maketh swyche harlotesHordom usen,And with her wikked word1530Wymmen bitrayeth.God wold her wonyyngeWere in wildernesse,And fals freres forbodenThe fayre ladis chaumbres.For knewe lordes her craft,Treuly I trowe,They shulden nought haunten her houseSo holy on nyghtes,Ne bedden swich brothels1540In 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 noughtTo faren on that wise,Ne Domynyk dued hem nevereSwyche drynkers to worthe,Ne Helye ne Austyn1550Swyche liif never used,But in povert of spiritSpended her tyme.We have seyn ourselfIn a short tymeWhou freres wolden no fleshAmong the folk usen;But now the harlotesHan hyd thilke reule,And for the love of oure Lord1560Han leyd hire in water.Wenest thou ther wolde so feleSwich warlawes worthen?Ne were werliche weleAnd her welfare,Thei shulden delven and dyken,And dongen the erthe,And menemong corn breedTo her mete fongen,And wortes fleshles wrought,1570And 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 loveIn tyme of a wyntere."

"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 benante 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 oponHildegare

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 purlichea pœna

The puple asoyleth,

Anda culpaalso,

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 telleWhou I may conne my Crede1580In Christen byleve."

"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,1584And tellen the the sothe.—

"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 GodThat al the werld wrought,Holy heven eke on heyHolliche he fourmede,And is almyghti hymself1590Over alle his werkes.And wrought as his wil wasThe werld and the heven;And on gentil Jesu Christ,Engendred of hymselven,His owen onlyche sone,Lord over all y-knowen,That was clenlich conceivedClerli in trewtheOf the heye Holy Gost,1600This is the holy beleve.And of the maiden MaryeMan 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 bodyWas in a stone byried,And descended a-doun1610To the derk helle,And fet out our formfaderes,And hy ful fayn weren.The thyrd day redelicheHymself ros fram deeth,And, on a ston there he stod,He steigh up to hevene,And on his fader ryght handRedelich he sitteth,That almyghti God,1620Over 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 GostHolly I beleve;And generall holy chirche also,Hold this in the minde;The communion of sayntes,1630For soth I to the sayn;And for our great sinnesForgivenes for to getten,And only by ChristClenlich to be clensed;Our bodies again to risenRight as we been here;And the liif everlastingLeve ich to habben. Amen.

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 freres1640Wyln, for her pryde,Disputen of Godes deyté,As dotardes shulden,The more the matere is movedThe masedere hi worthen.Lat the loseles alone,And leve thou the trewthe;For these maystres of dyvynitéMany, als I trowe,Folwen nought fully the feith,1650As fele of the lewede.Whough may mannes wiit,Through werk of himselve,Knowen Christes privité,That alle kynde passeth?It mot ben a manOf also mek an herte,That myght with his good liifThe Holy Gost fongen;And thanne nedeth him nought1660Nevere for to studyen;He myght no maistre ben cald,For Christ that defended,Ne puten no pylionOn 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 wryten1670Is soth, as I trowe;And for amendyng of thise menIs most that I write.God wolde hy wolden ben war,And werchen the betere!But for I am a lewed man,Paraunter I myghtePassen par adventure,And in some poynt erren,I wil nought this matere1680Maistrely avowen.But gif ich have mys-said,Mercy ich aske,And pray al mannere menThis matere amende,Ich a word by hymself,And al, gif it nedeth.God of his grete myght,And his good grace,Save alle freres1690That feithfulli lybben!And alle tho that ben fals,Fayre hem amende,And gyve hem wiit and good wilSwiche dedes to werch,That thei may wynnen the liifThat evere shal lesten."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.

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