Passus Quintus de Visione, ut supra

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

He preved that thise pestilences Were for pure synne, And the south-westrene wynd On Saterday at even Was pertliche for pure pride, And for no point ellis; Pyries and plum-trees Were puffed to the erthe, In ensaumple that the segges Sholden do the bettre; Beches and brode okes Were blowen to the grounde, Turned upward hire tailes, In tokenynge of drede That dedly synne er domes-day Shal for-doon hem alle.

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

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

He preide Pernele Hir purfil to lete, And kepe it in hire cofre For catel at hire nede.

Tomme Stowne he taughte To take two staves, And fecche Felice hom Fro the wynen pyne.

He warnede Watte His wif was to blame, For hire heed was worth half marc, And his hood noght worth a grote; And bad Bette kutte A bough outher tweye, And bete Beton therwith, But if she wolde werche.

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

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

And sithen he radde Religion

Hir rule to holde; "Lest the kyng and his conseil Youre comunes apeire, And be stywardes of youre stedes, Til ye be ruled bettre."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Envye with hevy herte Asked after shrifte, And carefully mea culpa He comsed to shewe. He was as pale as a pelet, In the palsy he semed; And clothed in a kaurymaury, I kouthe it nought discryve,

In kirtel and courtepy, And a knyf by his syde; Of a freres frokke Were the fore-sleves; And as a leek that hadde y-leye Longe in the sonne, So loked he with lene chekes Lourynge foule.

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

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

"I have a neghebore by me, I have anoyed hym ofte, And lowen on hym to lordes To doon hym lese his silver, And maad his frendes be his foon Thorugh my false tonge; His grace and his goode happes Greven me ful soore.

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

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

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

"And of mennes lesynge I laughe, That liketh myn herte; And for hir wynnynge I wepe, And waille the tyme; And deme that thei doon ille, There I do wel werse.

Who so under-nymeth me hero I hate hym dedly after; I wolde that ech a wight Were my knave, For who so hath moore than I, Than angreth me soore. And thus I lyve love-lees, Lik a luther dogge; That al my body bolneth, For bitter of my galle.

"I myghte noght ete many yeres As a man oughte, For envye and yvel wil Is yvel to defie. May no sugre ne swete thyng Aswage my swellyng? Ne no diapenidion Dryve it fro myn herte? Ne neither shrifte ne shame, But who so shrape my mawe?"

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

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

"Amonges burgeises have I be Dwellyng at Londone, And gart bakbityng be a brocour To blame mennes ware; Whan he solde and I nought, Thanne was I redy

To lye and to loure on my neghebore, And to lakke his chaffare; I wole amende this, if I may, Thorugh myght of God almyghty."

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

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

"And now persons han perceyved That freres parte with hem, Thise possessioners preche And deprave freres.

"And freres fyndeth hem in defaute, As folk bereth witnesse, That whan thei preche the peple In many places aboute, I Wrathe walke with hem, And wisse hem of my bokes. Thus thei speken of my spiritualté, That either despiseth oother,

Til thei be bothe beggers And by my spiritualté libben, Or ellis al riche And ryden aboute. I Wrathe reste nevere, That I ne moste folwe This wikked folk, For swich is my grace.

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

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

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

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

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

"Now repente thee," quod Repentaunce, "And reherce thow nevere

Counseil that thow knowest By contenaunce ne by right; And drynk nat over delicatly, Ne to depe neither, That thi wille by cause therof To wrathe myghte turne. Esto sobrius," he seide, And assoiled me after, And bad me wilne to wepe My wikkednesse to amende.

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

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

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

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

"My wif was a webbe, And wollen cloth made; She spak to spynnesteres To spynnen it oute,

Ac the pound that she paied by Peised a quatron moore Than myn owene auncer, Who so weyed truthe.

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

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

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

"Yis, ones I was y-herberwed," quod he,

"With an heep of chapmen, I roos whan thei were a-reste And riflede hire males."

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

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

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

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

"I have lent lordes And ladies my chaffare, And ben hire brocour after, And bought it myselve;

Eschaunges and chevysaunces With swich chaffare I dele, And lene folk that lese wole A lippe at every noble, And with Lumbardes lettres I ladde gold to Rome, And took it by tale here, And tolde hem there lasse."

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

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

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

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

"Artow manlich among thi neghebores Of thi mete and drynke?"

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

"Now God lene thee nevere," quod Repentaunce, "But thow repente the rather, The grace on this grounde

Thi good wel to bi-sette, Ne thyne heires after thee Have joie of that thow wynnest, Ne thyne executours wel bi-sette The silver that thow hem levest; And that was wonne with wrong With wikked men be despended. For were I frere of that hous Ther good feith and charité is, I nolde cope us with thi catel, Ne oure kirk amende, Ne have a peny to my pitaunce, So God my soule save! For the beste book in oure hous, Theigh brent gold were the leves, And I wiste witterly Thow were swich as thow tellest. Servus es alterius, Dum fercula pinguia quæris; Pane tuo potius Vescere, liber eris.

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

"For alle that han of thi good, Have God my trouthe! Ben holden at the heighe doom

To helpe thee to restitue; And who so leveth noght this be sooth, Loke in the Sauter glose, In Miserere mei, Deus, Wher I mene truthe; Ecce enim veritatem dilexisti, etc. Shal nevere werkman in this world Thryve with that thow wynnest. Cum sancto sanctus eris; Construwe me this on Englisshe."

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

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

"For-thi have mercy in thy mynde, And marchaundise leve it; For thow hast no good ground To gete thee with a wastel, But if it were with thi tonge, Or ellis with thi two hondes. For the good that thow hast geten Bigan al with falshede, And as longe as thow lyvest therwith,

Thow yeldest noght, but borwest.

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

Now bi-gynneth Gloton For to go to shrifte, And karieth hym to kirke-warde His coupe to shewe; And Beton the brewestere Bad hym good morwe, And asked at hym with that, Whider-ward he wolde.

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

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

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

"I have pepir and piones," quod she, "And a pound of garleek, And a ferthyng-worth of fenel-seed

For fastynge dayes."

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

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

Clement the Cobelere Caste of his cloke, And at the newe feire He nempned it to selle,

Hikke the hakeney-man Hitte his hood after, And bad Bette the bocher

Ben on his syde.

Ther were chapmen y-chose This chaffare to preise, That who so hadde the hood Sholde han amendes of the cloke.

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

Hikke the hostiler Hadde the cloke, In covenaunt that Clement Sholde the cuppe fille, And have Hikkes hood hostiler, And holden hym y-served. And who so repented rathest Sholde aryse after, And greten sire Gloton With a galon ale.

There was laughynge and lourynge, And "lat go the cuppe;" And seten so till even-song, And songen umwhile, Til Gloton hadde y-glubbed A galon and a gille. Hise guttes bigonne to gothelen As two gredy sowes; He pissed a potel

In a pater-noster while, And blew his rounde ruwet At his rugge-bones ende, That alle that herde that horn Held hir noses after, And wisshed it hadde been wexed With a wispe of firses.

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

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

With al the wo of this world, His wif and his wenche Baren hym hom to his bed,

And broughte hym therinne; And after al this excesse He hadde an accidie, That he sleep Saterday and Sonday, Til sonne yede to reste.

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

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

"And over-seyen me at my soper, And som tyme at nones, That I Gloton girte it up Er I hadde gon a myle, An y-spilt that myghte be spared And spended on som hungry; Over delicatly on fastyng-dayes Dronken and eten bothe, And sat som tyme so longe there,

That I sleep and eet at ones. For love of tales in tavernes And for drynke, the moore I dyned; And hyed to the mete er noon, Whan fastyng-days were."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I visited nevere feble men, Ne fettred folk in puttes; I have levere here an harlotrye, Or a somer game of souters, Or lesynge to laughen at And bi-lye my neghebores, Than al that evere Marc made,

Mathew, Johan, and Lucas. And vigilies and fastyng-dayes, Alle thise late I passe; And ligge a-bedde in Lenten, And my lemman in myne armes, Til matyns and masse be do, And thanne go to the freres. Come I to Ite, missa est, I holde me y-served; I nam noght shryven som tyme, But if siknesse it make, Nought twyes in two yer, And thanne up gesse I shryve me.

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

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

Ten hundred tymes.

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

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

"The kyndenesse that myn even cristene Kidde me fernyere, Sixty sithes I Sleuthe Have foryete it siththe. In speche and in sparynge of speche Y-spilt many a tyme Bothe flessh and fissh, And manye othere vitailles, Both bred and ale, Buttre, melk, and chese, For-sleuthed in my service Til it myghte serve no man.

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

"Repentedestow noght?" quod Repentaunce;

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

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

"And though my liflode lakke, Leten I nelle, That ech man ne shal have his,

Er I hennes wende; And with the residue and the remenaunt, Bi the Rode of Chestre! I shal seken Truthe erst Er I se Rome."

Roberd the robbere On Reddite loked, And for ther was noght wherof, He wepte swithe soore; Ac yet the synfulle sherewe Seide to hymselve, "Crist, that on Calvarie Upon the cros deidest, Tho Dysmas my brother Bi-soughte yow of grace, And haddest mercy on that man For memento sake, So rewe on this robbere That reddere ne have, Ne nevere wene to wynne With craft that I owe; But for thi muchel mercy Mitigacion I bi-seche, Ne dampne me noght at domes-day For that I dide so ille."

What bi-fel of this feloun I kan noght faire shewe; Wel I woot he wepte faste Water with bothe hise eighen, And knoweliched his gilt To Crist yet eft soones, That Poenetentia his pik He sholde polshe newe, And lepe with hym over lond

Al his lif tyme, For he hadde leyen by Latro Luciferis aunte.

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

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

"For thorugh that synne thi sone Sent was to this erthe, And bicam man of a maide, Mankynde to save: And madest thiself with thi sone And us synfulle y-liche Faciamus hominem ad imaginem nostram. Et alibi. Qui manet in caritate, in Deo manet, et Deus in eo.

"And siththe with thi selve sone In oure secte deidest, On Good-Fryday, for mannes sake, At ful tyme of the daye,

Ther thiself ne thi sone No sorwe in deeth feledest, But in oure secte was the sorwe, And thi sone it ladde. Captivam duxit captivitatem.

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

"And thorugh the light that lepe out of thee Lucifer was blent. And blewe alle thi blessed Into the blisse of paradys.

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

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

"And by so muche me semeth The sikerer we mowe Bidde and bi-seche,

If it be thi wille, That art oure fader and oure brother, Be merciable to us, And have ruthe on thise ribaudes That repenten hem here soore, That evere thei wrathed thee in this world, In word, thought, or dedes."

Thanne hent Hope an horn Of Deus, tu conversus vivificabis, And blew it with Beati quorum Remissæ sunt iniquitates, That alle seintes in hevene Songen at ones. Homines et jumenta salvabis, quemadmodum multiplicasti misericordiam tuam. =

A thousand of men tho Thrungen togideres, Cride upward to Crist, And to his clene moder, To have grace to go with hem Truthe to seke.

Ac there was wight noon so wys The wey thider kouthe, But blustreden forth as beestes Over bankes and hilles; Til late was and longe That thei a leode mette, Apparailled as a paynym In pilgrymes wise. He bar a burdoun y-bounde With a brood liste, In a withwynde wise Y-wounden aboute;

A bolle and a bagge He bar by his syde, And hundred of ampulles On his hat seten, Signes of Synay, And shelles of Galice, And many a crouche on his cloke, And keyes of Rome, And the vernycle bi-fore, For men sholde knowe And se bi hise signes Whom he sought hadde.

This folk frayned hym first, Fro whennes he come.

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

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

"Nay, so me God helpe!" Seide the gome thanne, "I seigh nevere palmere, With pyk ne with scrippe,

Asken after hym er Til now in this place."

"Peter!" quod a plowman, And putte forth his hed, "I knowe hym as kyndely As clerk doth hise bokes; Conscience and kynde wit Kenned me to his place, And diden me suren hym sikerly To serven hym for evere, Bothe to sowe and to sette, The while I swynke myghte. I have ben his folwere Al this fifty wynter, Bothe y-sowen his seed, And suwed hise beestes, Withinne and withouten Waited his profit. I dyke and I delve, I do that Truthe hoteth; Som tyme I sowe, And som tyme I thresshe; In taillours craft and tynkeris craft, What Truthe kan devyse, I weve and I wynde, And do what Truthe hoteth, For though I seye it myselfe, I serve hym to paye; I have myn hire wel, And outher whiles moore. He is the presteste paiere That povere men knoweth; He ne withhalt noon hewe his hire, That he ne hath it at even;

He is as lowe as a lomb, And lovelich of speche; And if ye wilneth to wite Where that he dwelleth, I shal wisse you witterly The wey to his place."

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

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

"Ye moten go thorugh Mekenesse, Both men and wyves, Til ye come into Conscience, That Crist wite the sothe That ye loven oure Lord God Levest of alle thynges, And thanne youre neghebores next In none wise apeire, Other wise than thow woldest He wroughte to thiselve.

"And so boweth forth by a brook, Beth-buxom-of-speche, Til he fynden a ford, Youre-fadres-honoureth, Honora patrem et matrem, etc. Wadeth in that water,

And wasshe yow wel therinne, And ye shul lepe the lightloker Al youre lif tyme; And so shaltow se Swere-noght,- But-if-it-be-for-nede,- And-nameliche-on-ydel- The-name-of-God-almyghty.

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

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

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

"Thanne shaltow come to a court

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

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

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

"Biddeth Amende-yow meke hym Til his maister ones, To wayven up the wiket

That the womman shette, Tho Adam and Eve Eten apples un-rosted. Per Evam cunctis clausa est, et per Mariam virginem patefacta est.

"For he hath the keye and the cliket, Though the kyng slepe. And if grace graunte thee To go in this wise, Thow shalt see in thiselve Truthe in thyn herte, In a cheyne of charité As thow a child were, To suffren hym and segge noght Ayein thi sires wille.

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

"And ther are seven sustren

That serven Truthe evere, And arn porters of the posternes That to the place longeth.

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

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

"Yis," quod Piers the Plowman, And poked hem alle to goode, "Mercy is a maiden there

Hath myght over alle; And she is sib to alle synfulle, And hire sone also, And thorugh the help of hem two Hope thow noon oother, Thow myght gete grace there, So thow go bi-tyme."

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

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