Passus Primus de Visione

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

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

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

"The tour on the toft," quod she, "Truthe is therinne;

And wolde that ye wroughte, As his word techeth! For he is fader of feith, And formed yow alle Bothe with fel and with face, And yaf yow fyve wittes, For to worshipe hym therwith, While that ye ben here. And therfore he highte the erthe To helpe yow echone, Of wollene, of lynnen, Of liflode at nede, In mesurable manere To make yow at ese; And comaunded of his curteisie In commune three thynges, Are none nedfulle but tho, And nempne hem I thynke, And rekene hem by reson; Reherce thow hem after.

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

"For Lot in hise lif-dayes, For likynge of drynke, Dide by hise doughtres That the devel liked, Delited hym in drynke As the devel wolde,

And leccherie hym laughte, And lay by hem bothe, And al he witte it the wyn That wikked dede. Inebriamus eum vino, dormiamusque cum eo, ut servare possimus de patre nostro semen. Thorugh wyn and thorugh wommen Ther was Loth acombred, And there gat in glotonie Gerles that were cherles.

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

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

"Go to the gospel," quod she,

"That God seide hymselven; Tho the poeple hym apposede With a peny in the temple, Wheither thei sholde therwith Worshipe the kyng Cesar.

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

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

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

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

"That is the castel of Care; Who so comth therinne May banne that he born was, To bodi or to soule. Therinne wonyeth a wight

That Wrong is y-hote, Fader of falshede, And founded it hymselve. Adam and Eve He egged to ille; Counseilled Kaym To killen his brother; Judas he japed With Jewen silver, And sithen on an eller Hanged hymselve. He is lettere of love, And lieth hem alle That trusten on his tresour; Bitrayeth he hem sonnest."

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

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

Thanne I courbed on my knees, And cried hire of grace; And preide hire pitously

Preye for my sinnes, And also kenne me kyndely On Crist to bi-leve, That I myghte werchen his wille That wroghte me to man. "Teche me to no tresor, But tel me this ilke, How I may save my soule, That seint art y-holden."

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

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

"Kynges and knyghtes Sholde kepen it by reson, Riden and rappen doun In reaumes aboute, And taken transgressores, And tyen hem faste, Til treuthe hadde y-termyned

Hire trespas to the ende. And that is profession apertli That apendeth to knyghtes; And naught to fasten o friday In fyve score wynter, But holden with hym and with here That wolden alle truthe, And nevere leve hem for love Ne for lacchynge of silver. For David in hise dayes Dubbed knyghtes, And dide hem sweren on hir swerdes To serven truthe evere; And who so passed that point Was apostata in the ordre.

"But Crist kyngene kyng Knyghted ten, Cherubyn and seraphyn, Swiche sevene and othere And yaf hem myght in his majestee, The murier hem thoughte, And over his meene meynee Made hem archangeles; Taughte hem by the Trinitee Treuthe to knowe; To be buxom at his biddyng, He bad hem nought ellis.

"Lucifer with legions Lerned it in hevene; But for he brak buxomnesse His blisse gan he tyne, And fel fro that felawshipe In a fendes liknesse, Into a deep derk helle,

To dwelle there for evere; And mo thousandes myd hym Than man kouthe nombre Lopen out with Lucifer In lothliche forme, For thei leveden upon hym That lyed in this manere: Ponam pedem in aquilone, et similis ero altissimo. =

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

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

"And tho that werche wel, As holy writ telleth, And enden as I er seide In truthe, that is the beste, Mowe be siker that hire soules

Shul wende to hevene, Ther treuthe is in trinitee, And troneth hem alle. For-thi I seye, as I seyde er, By sighte of thise textes, Whan alle tresors arn tried, Truthe is the beste; Lereth it thise lewed men, For lettred men it knoweth, That treuthe is tresor The trieste on erthe."

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

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

"It is a kynde knowyng," quod she, "That kenneth in thyn herte, For to loven thi Lord Levere than thiselve, No dedly synne to do, Deye theigh thow sholdest; This I trowe be truthe. Who kan teche thee bettre, Loke thow suffre hym to seye, And sithen lere it after; For truthe telleth that love Is triacle of hevene. May no synne be on hym seene,

That useth that spice, And alle hise werkes be wroughte With love as hym liste; And lered it Moyses for the leveste thyng, And moost lik to hevene, And al so the plentee of pees Moost precious of vertues; For hevene myghte nat holden it, It was so hevy of hymself, Til it hadde of the erthe Eten his fille.

"And whan it hadde of this fold Flesshe and blood taken, Was nevere leef upon lynde Lighter therafter, And portatif and persaunt As the point of a nedle, That myghte noon armure it lette, Ne none heighe walles.

"For-thi is love ledere Of the Lordes folk of hevene, And a meene, as the mair is Bitwene the kyng and the commune; Right so is love a ledere, And the law shapeth, Upon man for hise mysdedes The mercyment he taxeth. And for to knowen it kyndely It comseth by myght, And in the herte there is the heed And the heighe welle; For in kynde knowynge in herte, Ther a myght bigynneth; And that falleth to the fader

That formed us alle, Loked on us with love, And leet his sone dye Mekely for oure mysdedes, To amenden us alle. And yet wolde he hem no wo That wroughte hym that peyne, But mekely with mouthe Mercy bisoughte, To have pité of that peple That peyned hym to dethe.

"There myghtow sen ensample In hymself oone, That he was myghtful and meke, And mercy gan graunte To hem that hengen hym on heigh And his herte thirled.

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

"For though ye be trewe of youre tonge And treweliche wynne, And as chaste as a child That in chirche wepeth, But if ye loven leelly And lene the povere, Swich good as God yow sent

Goodliche parteth, Ye ne have namoore merite In masse nor in houres, Than Malkyn of hire maydenhede That no man desireth.

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

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

"Manye curatours kepen hem Clene of hire bodies; Thei ben acombred with coveitise, Thei konne noght doon it from hem, So harde hath avarice Y-hasped hem togideres; And that is no truthe of the Trinité, But tricherie of helle,

And lernynge to lewed men The latter for to deele. For-thi thise wordes Ben writen in the gospel, Date, et dabitur vobis, For I deele yow alle, And that is the lok of love, And leteth out my grace, To conforten the carefulle A-combred with synne.

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

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