Passus Decimus Tertius, etc

And I awaked therwith Wit-lees ner-hande, And as a freke that fre were Forth gan I walke In manere of a mendinaunt Many a yer after, And of this metyng many tyme Muche thought I hadde.

First how Fortune me failed At my mooste nede; And how that Elde manaced me, Myghte we evere mete; And how that freres folwede Folk that was riche, And folk that was povere At litel pris thei sette; And no corps in hir kirk-yerde Nor in his kirk was buryed, But quik he biquethe aught To quyte with hir dettes; And how this Coveitise over-com Clerkes and preestes; And how that lewed men ben lad, But oure Lord hem helpe,

Thorugh un-konnynge curatours, To incurable peynes.

And how that Ymaginatif In dremels me tolde Of Kynde and of his konnynge, And how curteis he is to bestes, And how lovynge he is to briddes On londe and on watre. Leneth he no lif Lasse ne moore. The creatures that crepen Of kynde ben engendred. And sithen how Ymaginatif seide, Vix salvabitur; And whan he hadde seid so, How sodeynliche he passed.

I lay doun longe in this thoght, And at the laste I slepte. And as Crist wolde, ther com Conscience To conforte me that tyme, And bad me come to his court, With Clergie sholde I dyne; And for Conscience of Clergie spak, I com wel the rather. And there I seigh a maister, What man he was I nyste, That lowe louted And loveliche to Scripture.

Conscience knew hym wel, And welcomed hym faire. Thei wesshen and wipeden, And wenten to the dyner. And Pacience in the paleis stood In pilgrymes clothes,

And preyde mete par charité For a povere heremyte.

Conscience called hym in, And curteisliche seide, "Welcome! wye; go and wasshe; Thow shalt sitte soone."

This maister was maad sitte, As for the mooste worthi. And thanne Clergie and Conscience And Pacience cam after.

Pacience and I Were put to be macches, And seten bi oureselve At the side borde.

Conscience called after mete; And thanne cam Scripture, And served hem thus soone Of sondry metes manye, Of Austyn, of Ambrose, And of the foure Euvangelistes, Edentis et bibentis quæ apud eos sunt. =

Ac this maister nor his man No maner flesshe eten; Ac thei eten mete of moore cost, Mortrews and potages Of that men mys-wonne Thei made hem wel at ese. Ac hir sauce was over sour, And unsavourly grounde In a morter post mortem Of many a bitter peyne, But if thei synge for tho soules, And wepe salte teris.

Vos qui peccata hominum comeditis, nisi pro eis lacrimas et orationes effunderitis, ea quæ in deliciis comeditis, in tormentis evometis.

Conscience ful curteisly tho Comaunded Scripture Bifore Pacience breed to brynge And me that was his macche. He sette a sour loof to-forn us, And seide, "agite pænitentiam." "As longe," quod I, "as I lyve, And lycame may dure." "Here is propre service," quod Pacience, "Ther fareth no prince bettre,"

And thanne he broughte us forth a mees of oother mete, Of Miserere mei, Deus, And he broughte us of Beati quorum, Of Beatus-virres makyng. Et quorum tecta sunt peccata in a disshe, Of derne shrifte Dixi et confitebor tibi. "Bryng Pacience som pitaunce," Pryveliche quod Conscience.

And thanne hadde Pacience a pitaunce. Pro hac orabit ad te omnis sanctus in tempore oportuno. And Conscience conforted us, And carped us murye tales. Cor contritum et humiliatum Deus non despicies. =

Pacience was proud Of that propre service, And made hym murthe with his mete; Ac I mornede evere, For this doctour on the heighe dees Drank wyn so faste. Væ vobis qui potentes estis ad bibendum vinum! = He eet manye sondry metes, Mortrews and puddynges, Wombe-cloutes and wilde brawen, And egges y-fryed with grece.

Thanne seide I to myself so Pacience it herde, "It is noght foure dayes that this freke Bifore the deen of Poules Preched of penaunces That Poul the apostle suffrede, In fame et frigore And flappes of scourges." Ter cæsus sum, et a Judeis quinquies quadragenas, etc.

Ac o word thei over-huppen At ech a tyme that thei preche, That Poul in his Pistle To al the peple tolde: Periculum est in falsis fratribus.

Holi writ bit men be war, I wol noght write it here In Englisshe, on aventure It sholde be reherced to ofte, And greve therwith goode men, Ac gramariens shul redde. Unusquisque a fratre se custodiat,

quia, ut dicitur, periculum est in falsis fratribus.

Ac I wiste nevere freke that as a frere yede Bifore men on Englisshe Taken it for his teme, And telle it withouten glosyng. They prechen that penaunce is Profitable to the soule, And what meschief and male ese Crist for man tholede.

"Ac this Goddes gloton," quod I, "With hise grete chekes, Hath no pité on us povere, He perfourneth yvele; That he precheth he preveth noght," To Pacience I tolde, And wisshed ful witterly, With wille ful egre, That disshes and doublers Bifore this ilke doctour Were molten leed in his mawe, And Mahoun amyddes. "I shal jangle to this jurdan With his juste wombe, To telle me what penaunce is, Of which he preched rather."

Pacience perceyved what I thoughte, And wynked on me to be stille, And seide, "Thow shalt see thus soone, Whan he may na-moore, He shal have a penaunce in his paunche,

And puffe at ech a worde; And thanne shullen his guttes gothele, And he shal galpen after. For now he hath dronken so depe, He wole devyne soone, And preven it by hir Pocalips And passion of seint Avereys, That neither bacon ne braun, Blancmanger ne mortrews, Is neither fissh nor flesshe, But fode for a penaunt And thanne shal he testifie of the Trinité, And take his felawe to witnesse, What he fond in a frayel, After a freres lyvyng; And but he first lyve be lesyng, Leve me nevere after. And thanne is tyme to take, And to appose this doctour Of Do-wel and Do-bet, And if Do-wel be any penaunce."

And I sat stille, as Pacience seide, And thus soone this doctour, As rody as a rose, Rubbede hise chekes, Coughed and carped; And Conscience hym herde, And tolde hym of a Trinité, And toward us he loked.

"What is Do-wel, sire doctour?" quod I, "Is it any penaunce?"

"Do-wel," quod this doctour, And took the cuppe and drank, "Is do noon yvel to thyn even-cristen

Nought by thi power."

"By this day! sire doctour," quod I, "Thanne be ye noght in Do-wel; For ye han harmed us two, In that ye eten the puddyng, Mortrews and oother mete, And we no morsel hadde. And if ye fare so in youre fermerye, Ferly me thynketh, But cheeste be ther charité sholde be. And yonge children dorste pleyne, I wolde permute my penaunce with youre, For I am in point to Do-wel."

Thanne Conscience curteisly A contenaunce made, And preynte upon Pacience To preie me to be stille; And seide hymself, "Sire doctour, And it be youre wille, What is Do-wel and Do-bet, Ye dyvynours knoweth."

"Do-wel," quod this doctour, "Do as clerkes techeth; And Do-bet is he that techeth, And travailleth to teche othere; And Do-best doth hymself so, As he seith and precheth." Qui facit et docuerit, magnus vocabitur in regno coelorum.

"Now thow, Clergie," quod Conscience, "Carpest what is Do-wel. I have sevene sones," he seide, "Serven in a castel,

Ther the lord of lif wonyeth, To leren what is Do-wel; Til I se tho sevene And myself acorde, I am un-hardy," quod he, "To any wight to preven it. For oon Piers the Plowman Hath impugned us alle, And set alle sciences at a sope, Save love one; And no text ne taketh To mayntene his cause, But Dilige Deum, And Domine quis habitabit. And seith that Do-wel and Do-bet Arn two infinités, Whiche infinités, with a feith! Fynden out Do-best, Which shal save mannes soule; Thus seith Piers the Plowman."

"I kan noght heron," quod Conscience, "Ac I knowe wel Piers; He wol noght ayein holy writ speken, I dar wel undertake. Thanne passe we over til Piers come, And preve this in dede. Pacience hath be in many place, And peraunter mouthed That no clerk ne kan, As Crist bereth witnesse: Patientes vincunt, etc."

"Ac youre preiere," quod Pacience tho, "So no man displese hym. Disce," quo he, "Doce,

Dilige inimicos. Disce, and Do-wel; Doce, and Do-bet; Dilige, and Do-best; Thus taughte me ones A lemman that I lovede, Love was hir name:

"With wordes and with werkes," quod she, "And wil of thyn herte, Thow love leelly thi soule Al thi lif tyme, And so thow lere the to lovye, For oure Lordes love of hevene, Thyn enemy in alle wise Evene forth with thiselve. Cast coles on his heed Of alle kynde speche, Bothe with werkes and with wordes Fonde his love to wynne; And leye on him thus with love, Til he laughe on the. And but he bowe for this betyng, Blynd mote he worthe.

"Ac for to fare thus with thi frend, Folie it were. For he that loveth thee leelly, Litel of thyne coveiteth. Kynde love coveiteth noght No catel but speche. With halfe a laumpe lyne, In Latyn, Ex vi transitionis, I bere therinne aboute Faste y-bounde Do-wel, In a signe of the Saterday

That sette first the kalender, And al the wit of the Wodnesday Of the nexte wike after, The myddel of the moone, As the nyght of bothe, And herwith am I welcome Ther I have it with me,

"Undo it, lat this doctour deme If Do-wel be therinne. For, by hym that me made! Myghte nevere poverte Misese ne meschief, Ne no man with his tonge, Coold ne care, Ne compaignye of theves, Ne neither hete ne hayl, Ne noon helle pouke, Ne fuyr ne flood, Ne feere of thyn enemy, Tene thee any tyme, And thow take it with the. Caritas nihil timet, etc."

"It is but a dido," quod this doctour, "A disours tale; Al the wit of this world, And wight mennes strengthe, Kan noght conformen a pees Bitwene and hise enemys, Ne bitwene two cristene kynges Kan no wight pees make Profitable to either peple;" And putte the table fro hym, And took Clergie and Conscience To conseil, as it were,

That Pacience thow most passe, For pilgrymes konne wel lye.

Ac Conscience carped loude, And curteisliche seide, "Frendes, fareth wel;" And faire spak to Clergie, "For I wol go with this gome, If God wol yeve me grace, And be pilgrym with Pacience, Til I have preved moore."

"What!" quod Clergie to Conscience, "Ar ye coveitous nouthe After yeres-geves, or giftes, Or yernen to rede redels? I shal brynge yow a Bible, A book of the olde lawe, And lere yow, if yow like, The leeste point to knowe, That Pacience the pilgrym Parfitly knew nevere."

"Nay, by Crist!" quod Conscience To Clergie, "God thee for-yelde; For al that Pacience me profreth Proud am I litel. Ac the wil of the wye, And the wil of folk here, Hath meved my mood To moorne for my synnes. The goode wil of a wight Was nevere bought to the fulle. For ther nys no tresour, for sothe, To a trewe wille.

"Hadde noght Maudeleyne moore For a box of salve,

Than Zacheus for he seide Dimidium bonorum meorum do pauperibus? = And the poore widewe For a peire of mytes, Than alle tho that offrede Into gazophilacium?"

Thus curteisliche Conscience Congeyed first the frere, And sithen softeliche he seide In Clergies ere, "Me were levere, by oure Lord! And I lyve sholde, Have pacience perfitliche, Than half thi pak of bokes."

Clergie of Conscience No congie wolde take, But seide ful sobreliche, "Thow shalt se the tyme Whan thow art wery of-walked, Wille me to counseille."

"That is sooth," quod Conscience, "So me God helpe! If Pacience be oure partyng felawe, And pryvé with us bothe, Ther nys wo in this world That we ne sholde amende, And conformen kynges to pees, And alle kynnes londes; Sarsens and Surré, And so forth alle the Jewes, Turne into the trewe feith, And intil oon bileve."

"That is sooth," quod Clergie,

"I se what thow menest; I shal dwelle as I do, My devoir to shewe, And confermen fauntekyns, And oother folk y-lered, Til Pacience have preved thee, And parfit thee maked."

Conscience tho with Pacience passed, Pilgrymes as it were. Thanne hadde Pacience, as pilgrymes han, In his poke vitailles, Sobretee and symple speche, And soothfast bileve, To conforte hym and Conscience, If thei come in place There un-kyndenesse and coveitise is, Hungry contrees bothe.

And as the wente by the weye, Of Do-wel thei carped; Thei mette with a mynstral, As me tho thoughte. Pacience apposed hym first. And preyde he sholde hem telle To Conscience what craft he kouthe, And to what contree he wolde.

"I am a mynstrall," quod that man, "My name is Activa-vita; Al ydelnesse ich hatie, For of actif is my name; A wafrer, wol ye wite, And serve manye lordes, And fewe robes I fonge, Or furrede gownes. Couthe I lye to do men laughe,

Thanne lacchen I sholde Outher mantel or moneie Amonges lordes or mynstrals. Ac for I kan neither taboure ne trompe, Ne telle no gestes, Farten ne fithelen At festes, ne harpen, Jape ne jogele, Ne gentilliche pipe, Ne neither saille ne saute, Ne synge with the gyterne, I have no goode giftes Of thise grete lordes. For no breed that I brynge forth, Save a benyson on the Sonday Whan the preest preieth the peple Hir pater-noster to bidde For Piers the Plowman, And that hym profit waiten; And that am I actif, That ydelnesse hatie; For alle trewe travaillours And tiliers of the erthe, Fro Mighelmesse to Mighelmesse I fynde hem with my wafres.

"Beggeris and bidderis Of my breed craven, Faitours and freres, And folk with brode crounes. I fynde payn for the pope, And provendre for his palfrey; And I hadde nevere of hym, Have God my trouthe! Neither provendre ne personage

Yet of popes gifte, Save a pardon with a peis of leed And two polles amyddes. Hadde ich a clerc that couthe write, I wolde caste hym a bille, That he sente me under his seel A salve for the pestilence, And that his blessynge and hise bulles Bocches myghte destruye. In nomine meo dæmonia ejicient, et super ægros manus imponent, et bene habebunt.

"And thanne wolde I be prest to the peple Paast for to make, And buxom and busy Aboute breed and drynke For hym and for alle hise, Founde I that his pardon Mighte lechen a man, As I bileve it sholde. For sith he hath the power That Peter hymself hadde, He hath the pot with the salve, Soothly as me thynketh. Argentum et aurum non est mihi; quod autem habeo tibi do: in nomine Domini surge et ambula.

"Ac if myght of myracle hym faille, It is for men ben noght worthi To have the grace of God, And no gilt of pope. For may no blessynge doon us boote, But if we wile amende,

Ne mannes masse make pees Among cristene peple, Til pride be pureliche for-do, And thorugh payn defaute. For er I have breed of mele, Oft moot I swete; And er the commune have corn y-nough, Many a cold morwenyng. So er my wafres be y-wroght, Muche wo I tholye.

"At Londone, I leve, Liketh wel my wafres; And louren whan thei lakken hem. It is noght long y-passed, There was a careful commune, Whan no cart com to towne With breed fro Stratforde; Tho gonnen beggeris wepe, And werkmen were agast a lite; This wole be thought longe. In the date of oure Drighte, In a drye Aprille, A thousand and thre hundred Twies twenty and ten, My wafres there were gesene Whan Chichestre was maire."

I took good kepe, by Crist! And Conscience bothe, Of Haukyn the actif man, And how he was y-clothed. He hadde a cote of Cristendom, As holy kirke bileveth; Ac it was moled in many places With manye sondry plottes;

Of pride here a plot, And there a plot of unbuxome speche, Of scornyng and of scoffyng, And of unskilful berynge, As in apparaill and in porte Proud amonges the peple, Oother wise than he hym hath With herte or sighte shewynge, Hym willyng that alle men wende He were that he is noght. For-why he bosteth and braggeth With manye bolde othes, And inobedient to ben undernome Of any lif lyvynge; And noon so singuler by hymself, Ne so pomp holy, Y-habited as an heremyte, An ordre by hymselve, Religion saunz rule Or resonable obedience, Lakkynge lettrede men And lewed men bothe In likynge of lele lif, And a liere in soule, With inwit and with outwit Ymagynen and studie, As best for his body be To have a badde name, And entremetten hym over al Ther he hath noght to doone, Willynge that men wende His wit were the beste. And if he gyveth ought to povere gomes, Telle what he deleth,

Povere of possession in purs And in cofre bothe. And as a lyoun on to loke, And lordlich of speche, Boldest of beggeris, A bostere that noght hath, In towne and in tavernes Tales to telle, And segge thyng that he nevere seigh, And for sothe sweren it, Of dedes that he nevere dide Demen and bosten And of werkes that he wel dide Witnesse, and siggen— "Lo! if ye leve me noght, Or that I lye wenen, Asketh at hym or at hym, And he yow kan telle What I suffrede and seigh And som tymes hadde, And what I kouthe and knew, And what kyn I com of." Al he wolde that men wiste Of werkes and of wordes Which myghte plese the peple, And preisen hymselve. Si hominibus placerem, Christi servus non essem. Et alibi: Nemo potest duobus dominis servire.

"By Crist!" quod Conscience tho, "Thi beste cote, Haukyn, Hath manye moles and spottes, It moste ben y-wasshe."

"Ye, who so toke hede," quod Haukyn, "Bihynde and bifore, What on bak and what on body half, And by the two sydes, Men sholde fynde manye frounces, And manye foule plottes."

And he torned hym as tyd, And thanne took I hede, It was fouler bi fele fold Than it first semed. It was bi-dropped with wrathe And wikkede wille, With envye and yvel speche, Entisynge to fighte, Liynge and laughynge, And leve tonge to chide, Al that he wiste wikked By any wight tellen it, And blame men bihynde hir bak, And bidden hem meschaunce, And that he wiste by Wille Tellen it Watte, And that Watte wiste Wille wiste it after, And make of frendes foes Thorugh a fals tonge, Or with myght or with mouth, Or thorugh mennes strengthe Avenge me fele tymes, Other frete myselve Withinne as a shepsteres shere, Y-sherewed man and cursed. Cujus maledictione os plenum est et amaritudine, sub lingua ejus

labor et dolor. Et alibi: Filii hominum, dentes eorum arma et sagittæ, et lingua eorum gladius acutus.

"Ther is no lif that me loveth Lastynge any while; For tales that I telle, No man trusteth to me. And whan I may noght have the maistrie, Swich malencolie I take, That I cacche the crampe, And the cardiacle som tyme, Or an ague in swich an angre, And som tyme a fevere That taketh me al a twelve monthe, Til that I despise Lechecraft of oure Lord, And leve on a wicche, And seye that no clerc ne kan, Ne Crist, as I leve, To the soutere of Southwerk, Or of Shordyche dame Emme; And seye that no Goddes word Gaf me nevere boote, But thorugh a charme hadde I chaunce And my chief heele."

I waitede wisloker, And thanne was it soilled With likynge of lecherie, As by lokynge of his eighe. For ech a maide that he mette He made hire a signe Semynge to synne-warde, And some tyme he gan taste

Aboute the mouth, or bynethe Bigynneth to grope, Til eitheres wille wexeth kene, And to the werke yeden, As wel in fastyng dayes and Fridaies As forboden nyghtes, And as wel in Lente as out of Lente, Alle tymes y-liche. Swiche werkes with hem Were nevere out of seson, Til thei myghte na-moore; And thanne murye tales, And how that lecchours lovye Laughen and japen, And of hir harlotrye and horedom In hir elde tellen.

Thanne Pacience perceyved Of pointes of this cote, That were colomy thorugh coveitise And unkynde desiryng; Moore to good than to God The gome his love caste, And ymagynede how He it myghte have With false mesures and met, And with fals witnesse; Lened for love of the wed, And looth to do truthe; And awaited thorugh which Wey to bigile, And menged his marchaundise, And made a good moustre; "The worste withinne was, A greet wit I let it,

And if my neghebore hadde any hyne, Or any beest ellis, Moore profitable than myn, Manye sleightes I made How I myghte have it, Al my wit I caste. And but I it hadde by oother wey, At the laste I stale it; Or priveliche his purs shook, And unpikede hise lokes; Or by nyghte or by daye Aboute was ich evere, Thorugh gile to gaderen The good that ich have.

"If I yede to the plowgh, I pynched so narwe, That a foot lond or a forow Fecchen I wolde Of my nexte neghebore, And nymen of his erthe. And if I repe, over-reche, Of yaf hem reed that ropen To seise to me with hir sikel That I ne sew nevere.

"And who so borwed of me, A-boughte the tyme With presentes prively, Or paide som certeyn; So he wolde or noght wolde, Wynnen I wolde, And bothe to kith and to kyn Unkynde of that ich hadde.

"And who so cheped my chaffare, Chiden I wolde,

But he profrede to paie A peny or tweyne Moore than it was worth; And yet wolde I swere That it coste me muche moore, And swoor manye othes.

"On holy daies at holy chirche Whan ich herde masse, Hadde I nevere wille, woot God, Witterly to biseche Mercy for my mysdedes, That I ne moorned moore Nor losse of good, leve me, Than for my likames giltes. As if I hadde dedly synne doon, I dredde noght that so soore, As when I lened, and leved it lost, Or longe er it were paied. So if I kidde any kyndenesse Myn even cristen to helpe, Upon a cruwel coveitise Myn herte gan hange.

"And if I sente over see My servauntz to Brugges, Or into Pruce-lond my prentis, My profit to waiten, To marchaunden with moneie, And maken hire eschaunges, Mighte nevere me conforte. In the mene while Neither masse ne matynes, No none maner sightes; Ne nevere penaunce perfournede, Ne pater-noster seide,

That my mynde ne was moore On my good in a doute, Than in the grace of God, And hise grete helpes. Ubi thesaurus tuus, ibi et cor tuum.

"Whiche ben the braunches That bryngen a man to sleuthe? He that moorneth noght for hise mysdedes, Ne maketh no sorwe, And penaunce that the preest enjoyneth Perfourneth yvele, Dooth noon almesse, Dred hym of no synne, Lyveth ayein the bileve, And no lawe holdeth, Ech day is holy day with hym, Or an heigh ferye; And, if he aught wole here, It is an harlotes tonge. Whan men carpen of Crist, Or of clennesse of soules, He wexeth wroth and wol noght here But wordes of murthe; Penaunce of povere men, And the passion of seintes, He hateth to here therof, And alle that it telleth. Thise ben the braunches, beth war, That bryngen a man to wanhope.

"Ye lordes and ladies, And legates of holy chirche, That fedeth fooles sages, Flatereris and lieris, And han likynge to lithen hem

To do yow to laughe, Væ vobis qui ridetis, etc. And gyveth hem mete and mede, And povere men refuse; In youre deeth deyinge, I drede me ful soore Lest tho thre manner men To muche sorwe yow brynge. Consentientes et agentes pari poena punientur. =

"Patriarkes and prophetes, And prechours of Goddes wordes, Saven thorugh hir sermons Mannes soule fro helle. Right so flatereris and fooles Arn the fendes disciples To entice men thorugh hir tales To synne and to harlotrie. Ac clerkes, that knowen holy writ, Sholde kenne lordes What David seith of swiche men, As the Sauter telleth. Non habitabit in medio domus meæ, qui facit superbiam, et qui loquitur iniqua.

"Sholde noon harlot have audience In halle nor in chambre, Ther wise men were, Witnesseth Goddes wordes, Ne no mys-proud man Amonges lordes ben allowed.

"Ac flaterers and fooles Thorugh hir foule wordes Leden tho that loven hem

To Luciferis feste, With Turpiloquio, a lady of sorwe, And Luciferis fithele." Thus Haukyn the actif man Hadde y-soiled his cote, Til Conscience acouped hym therof In a curteis manere, Why he ne hadde whasshen it, Or wiped it with a brusshe.