Passus Sextus de Visione, ut supra

"This were a wikkede wey, But who so hadde a gyde, That wolde folwen us ech a foot;" Thus this folke hem mened.

Quod Perkyn the Plowman, "By seint Peter of Rome! I have an half acre to erie By the heighe weye; Hadde I eryed this half acre, And sowen it after, I wolde wende with yow, And the wey teche."

"This were a long lettyng," Quod a lady in scleyre, "What sholde we wommen Werche the while?"

"Somme shul sowe the sak," quod Piers, "For shedyng of the whete; And ye, lovely ladies, With youre longe fyngres, That ye have silk and sandel To sowe, whan tyme is; Chesibles for chapeleyns, Chirches to honoure.

"Wyves and widewes, Wolle and flex spynneth; Maketh cloth, I counseille yow, And kenneth so youre doughtres; The nedy and the naked, Nymeth hede how thei liggeth, And casteth hem clothes, For so comaundeth Truthe. For I shal leven hem liflode, But if the lond faille, Flesshe and breed bothe To riche and to poore, As long as I lyve, For the Lordes love of hevene; And alle manere of men That thorugh mete and drynke libbeth, Helpeth hym to werche wightliche, That wynneth youre foode."

"By Crist!" quod a knyght thoo, "He kenneth us the beste; Ac on the teme, trewely, Taught was I nevere; But kenne me," quod the knyght, "And by Crist I wole assaye!"

"By seint Poul!" quod Perkyn, "Ye profre yow so faire, That I shal swynke and swete, And sowe for us bothe, And othere labours do for thi love Al my lif tyme, In covenaunt that thow kepe Holy kirke and myselve Fro wastours and fro wikked men That this world destruyeth.

And go hunte hardiliche To hares and to foxes, To bores and to brokkes That breken doun myne hegges; And so affaite thi faucons Wilde foweles to kille; For swiche cometh to my croft, And croppeth my whete."

Curteisly the knyght thanne Comsed thise wordes; "By my power, Piers!" quod he, "I plighte thee my trouthe, To fulfille this forwarde, Though I fighte sholde; Als longe as I lyve I shal thee mayntene."

"Ye, and yet a point," quod Piers, "I preye yow of moore, Loke ye tene no tenaunt, But Truthe wole assente; And though ye mowe amercy hem, Lat mercy be taxour, And mekenesse thi maister, Maugree Medes chekes. And though povere men profre yow Presentes and giftes, Nyme it noght, an aventure Ye mowe it noght deserve; For thow shalt yelde it ayein At one yeres tyme, In a ful perilous place, Purgatorie it hatte.

"And mys-bede noght thi bonde-men, The bettre may thow spede;

Though he be thyn underlyng here, Wel may happe in hevene That he worth worthier set, And with moore blisse. Amice, ascende superius. For in charnel at chirche Cherles ben yvel to knowe, Or a knyght from a knave there, Knowe this in thyn herte. And that thow be trewe of thi tonge, And tales that thow hatie, But if thei ben of wisdom or of wit Thi werkmen to chaste. Hold with none harlotes, Ne here noght hir tales, And namely at the mete Swiche men eschuwe; For it ben the develes disours, I do the to understonde."

"I assente, by seint Jame!" Seide the knyght thanne, "For to werche by thi wordes The while my lif dureth."

"And I shal apparaille me," quod Perkyn, "In pilgrymes wise, And wende with yow I wile, Til we fynde Truthe; And caste on my clothes Y-clouted and hole, My cokeres and my coffes, For cold of my nailes; And hange myn hoper at myn hals In stede of a scryppe. A busshel of bred corn

Brynge me therinne; For I wol sowe it myself, And sithenes wol I wende To pilgrymage, as palmeres doon, Pardon for to have. And who so helpeth me to erie And sowen here er I wende, Shal have leve, by oure Lorde! To lese here in hervest, And make hem murie thermyd, Maugree who so bi-gruccheth it. And alle kynne crafty-men, That konne lyven in truthe, I shal fynden hem fode, That feithfulliche libbeth.

"Save Jagge the jogelour, And Jonette of the stuwes, And Danyel the dees-pleyere, And Denote the baude, And frere the faitour, And folk of hire ordre, And Robyn the ribaudour For hise rusty wordes. Truthe tolde me ones, And bad me telle it after, Deleantur de libro viventium, I sholde noght dele with hem, For holy chirche is hote of hem No tithe to take; Qui cum justis non scribantur; They ben ascaped good aventure, God hem amende!"

Dame Werch-whan-tyme-is Piers wif highte;

His doughter highte Do-right-so,- Or-thi-dame-shal-thee-bete; His sone highte Suffre-thi-sovereyns- To-haven-hir-wille,- Deme-hem-noght,-for-if-thow-doost,- Thow-shalt-it-deere-abugge. Lat God y-worthe with al, For so his word techeth; For now I am old and hoor, And have of myn owene, To penaunce and to pilgrimage I wol passe with thise othere.

"For-thi I wole er I wende Do write my biqueste, In Dei nomine, Amen, I make it myselve; He shal have my soule, That best hath deserved it; And fro the fend it defende, For so I bileve, Til I come to hise acountes, As my Credo me telleth, To have a relees and a remission, On that rental I leve.

"The kirke shal have my caroyne, And kepe my bones; For of my corn and catel She craved the tithe; I paide it ful prestly, For peril of my soule. For-thi is he holden I hope To have me in his masse, And mengen in his memorie Amonges alle cristene.

"My wif shal have of that I wan With truthe, and na-moore, And dele among my doughtres, And my deere children; For though I deye to day, My dettes are quyte; I bar hom that I borwed, Er I to bedde yede.

"And with the residue and the remenaunt, By the Rode of Lukes! I wol worshipe therwith Truthe by my lyve, And ben his pilgrym atte plow, For povere mennes sake. My plow-foot shall be my pikstaf, And picche a-two the rotes, And helpe my cultour to kerve And clense the furwes."

Now is Perkyn and hise pilgrimes To the plow faren; To erie his half acre Holpen hym manye; Dikeres and delveres Digged up the balkes. Therwith was Perkyn a-payed, And preised hem faste.

Othere werkmen ther were That wroghten ful yerne; Ech man in his manere Made hymself to doone, And somme to plese Perkyn Piked up the wedes.

At heigh prime Piers Leet the plowgh stonde,

To over-sen hem hymself, And who so best wroghte He sholde be hired therafter, Whan hervest tyme come.

And thanne seten somme, And songen atte nale, And holpen ere this half acre With "How, trolly lolly."

"Now, by the peril of my soule!" quod Piers, All in pure tene, "But ye arise the rather And rape yow to werche, Shal no greyn that groweth Glade yow at nede, And though ye deye for doel, The devel have that reccheth."

Tho were faitours a-fered, And feyned hem blynde; Somme leide hir legges a-liry, As swiche losels konneth, And made hir mone to Piers, And preide hym of grace; "For we have no lymes to laboure with, Lord, y-graced be the; Ac we preie for yow, Piers, And for youre plowgh bothe, That God of his grace Youre greyn multiplie, And yelde yow for youre almesse That ye gyve us here; For we may noght swynke ne swete, Swich siknesse us eyleth."

"If it be sooth," quod Piers, "that ye seyn, I shal it soone aspie.

Ye ben wastours, I woot wel, And Truthe woot the sothe; And I am his olde hyne, And highte hym to warne, Whiche thei were in this world Hise werkmen apeired. Ye wasten that men wynnen With travaille and with tene; Ac Truthe shal teche yow His teme to dryve, Or ye shul eten barley breed, And of the broke drynke.

"But if he be blynd or broke-legged, Or bolted with irens, He shall ete whete breed, And drynke with myselve, Til God of his goodnesse Amendement hym sende. Ac ye myghte travaille, as Truthe wolde, And take mete and hyre, To kepe kyen in the feld, The corn fro the beestes, Diken or delven, Or dyngen upon sheves, Or helpe make morter, Or bere muk a-feld.

"In lecherie and in losengerie Ye lyven, and in sleuthe; And al is thorugh suffraunce, That vengeaunce yow ne taketh.

"Ac ancres and heremites That eten noght but at nones, And na-moore er the morwe, Myn almesse shul thei have,

And of catel to kepe hem with, That han cloistres and chirches.

"Ac Robert Renaboute Shal noght have of myne, Ne postles, but thei preche konne And have power of the bisshope; Thei shul have payn and potage, And make hemself at ese, For it is an unreasonable religion That hath right noght of certein."

And thanne gan Wastour to wrathen hym, And wolde have y-foughte; And to Piers the Plowman He profrede his glove; A bretoner, a braggere, A-bosted Piers als, And bad hym go pissen with his plowgh, "For-pynede sherewe! Wiltow or neltow, We wol have oure wille Of thi flour and of thi flesshe, Fecche whanne us liketh; And maken us murye thermyde, Maugree thi chekes."

Thanne Piers the Plowman Pleyned hym to the knyghte, To kepen hym as covenaunt was Fro cursede sherewes, And fro thise wastours wolves-kynnes That maketh the world deere; "For tho wasten and wynnen noght, And that ilke while Worth nevere plentee among the peple,

The while my plowgh liggeth."

Curteisly the knyght thanne, As his kynde wolde, Warnede Wastour, And wissed hym bettre, "Or thow shalt abigge by the lawe, By the ordre that I bere!"

"I was noght wont to werche," quod Wastour, "And now wol I noght bigynne;" And leet light of the lawe, And lasse of the knyghte; And sette Piers at a pese, And his plowgh bothe; And manaced Piers and his men, If thei mette eft soone.

"Now, by the peril of my soule!" quod Piers, "I shal apeire yow alle;" And houped after Hunger, That herde hym at the firste, "A-wreke me of thise wastours," quod he, "That this world shendeth."

Hunger in haste thoo Hente Wastour by the wombe, And wrong him so by the wombe, That bothe hise eighen watrede.

He buffeted the bretoner Aboute the chekes, That he loked lik a lanterne Al his lif after. He bette hem so bothe, He brast ner hire guttes; Ne hadde Piers with a pese loof

Preyed Hunger to cesse, They hadde be dolven, Ne deme thow noon oother.

"Suffre hem lyve," he seide, "And lat hem ete with hogges, Or ellis benes or bren Y-baken togideres, Or ellis melk and mene ale;" Thus preied Piers for hem.

Faitours for fere herof Flowen into bernes, And flapten on with flailes Fro morwe til even; That Hunger was noght so hardy On hem for to loke, For a potful of peses That Piers hadde y-maked.

An heep of heremytes Henten hem spades, And kitten hir copes, And courtepies hem maked, And wente as werkmen With spades and with shoveles And dolven and dikeden, To dryve awey hunger.

Blynde and bed-reden Were bootned a thousande, That seten to begge silver, Soone were thei heeled; For that was bake for bayarde, Was boote for many hungry; And many a beggere for benes Buxum was to swynke; And eche a povere man wel a-paied

To have pesen for his hyre, And what Piers preide hem to do, As prest as a sperhauk; And therof was Piers proud, And putte hem to werke, And yaf hem mete as he myghte aforthe, And mesurable hyre.

Thanne had Piers pité, And preide Hunger to wende Hoom unto his owene yerd, And holden hym there; "For I am wel a-wroke Of wastours, thorugh thy myghte. Ac I preie thee, er thow passe," Quod Piers to Hunger, "Of beggeris and of bidderis What best be to doone. For I woot wel, be thow went, Thei wol werche ful ille; For meschief it maketh Thei be so meke nouthe, And for defaute of hire foode This folk is at my wille.

"Thei are my blody bretheren," quod Piers, "For God boughte us alle. Truthe taughte me ones To loven hem echone; And to helpen hem of alle thyng Ay as hem nedeth. And now wolde I wite of thee What were the beste; And how I myghte a-maistren hem, And make hem to werche."

"Here now," quod Hunger, "And hoold it for a wisdom; Bolde beggeris and bigge That mowe hir breed bi-swynke, With houndes breed and horse breed Hoold up hir hertes; A-bate hem with benes, For bollynge of hir wombes; And if the gomes grucche, Bidde hem go swynke, And he shal soupe swetter Whan he it hath deserved.

"And if thow fynde any freke That fortune hath apeired, Or any manere false men, Fonde thow swiche to knowe; Conforte hym with thi catel, For Cristes love of hevene; Love hem and leve hem, So lawe of God techeth, Alter alterius onera portare.

"And alle manere of men That thow myght aspie, That nedy ben and noughty, Help hem with thi goodes; Love hem and lakke hem noght, Lat God take the vengeaunce; Theigh thei doon yvele, Lat God y-worthe. Mihi vindictam, et ego retribuam.

"And if thow wilt be gracious to God, Do as the gospel techeth, And bi-love thee amonges lewed men, So shaltow lacche grace;

Facite vos amicos de Mammone iniquitatis." =

"I wolde noght greve God," quod Piers, "For al the good on grounde. Mighte I synne-lees do as thow seist?" Seide Piers thanne.

"Ye, I bi-hote thee," quod Hunger, "Or ellis the Bible lieth; Go to Genesis the geaunt, The engendrour of us alle: In sudore and swynk Thow shalt thi mete tilie, And laboure for thi liflode, And so oure Lorde highte. And Sapience seith the same, I seigh it in the Bible, Piger præ frigore No feeld nolde tilie, And therfore he shal begge and bidde, And no man bete his hunger.

"Mathew with mannes face Mouthed thise wordes, That servus nequam hadde a mnam, And for he wolde noght chaffare, He hadde maugree of his maister Evere moore after, And by-nam hym his mnam, For he ne wolde werche, And yaf that mnam to hym That ten mnames hadde; And with that he seide, That holy chirche it herde, He that hath shal have And helpe there it nedeth;

And he that noght hath shal noght have, And no man hym helpe, And that he weneth wel to have I wole it hym bi-reve. Kynde wit wolde That ech a wight wroghte, Or in dikynge or in delvynge, Or travaillynge in preieres; Contemplatif lif or actif lif Crist wolde thei wroghte. The Sauter seith in the Psalme Of Beati omnes, The freke that fedeth hymself With his feithful labour, He is blessed by the book In body and in soule." Labores manuum tuarum, etc.

"Yet I preie yow," quod Piers, "Par charité, and ye konne Any leef of leche-craft, Lere it me, my deere; For some of my servauntz, And myself bothe, Of al a wike werche noght, So oure wombe aketh."

"I woot wel," quod Hunger, "What siknesse yow eyleth; Ye han manged over muche, And that maketh yow grone. Ac I hote thee," quod Hunger, "As thow thyn hele wilnest, That thow drynke no day Er thow dyne som what. Ete noght, I hote thee,

Er hunger thee take, And sende thee of his sauce To savore with thi lippes; And keep som til soper-tyme, And sitte noght to longe, And rys up er appetit Have eten his fille. Lat noght sire Surfet Sitten at thi borde. Leve hym noght, for he is lecherous, And likerous of tunge, And after many maner metes His mawe is a-fyngred.

"And if thow diete thee thus, I dar legge myne eris, That Phisik shal hise furred hodes For his fode selle, And his cloke of Calabre, With alle the knappes of golde, And be fayn, by my feith! His phisik to lete, And lerne to laboure with lond, For liflode is swete. For murthereris are manye leches, Lord hem amende! They do men deye thorugh hir drynkes, Er destynee it wolde." "By seint Poul!" quod Piers, "Thise arn profitable wordes! Wend now, Hunger, whan thow wolt, That wel be thow evere! For this is a lovely lesson, Lord it thee for-yelde!"

"Bi-hote God!" quod Hunger,

"Hennes ne wole I wende, Til I have dyned bi this day, And y-dronke bothe."

"I have no peny," quod Piers, "Pulettes to bugge, Ne neither gees ne grys, But two grene cheses, A fewe cruddes and creme, And an haver cake, And two loves of benes and bran Y-bake for my fauntes; And yet I seye, by my soule! I have no salt bacon, Ne no cokeney, by Crist! Coloppes for to maken.

"Ac I have percile and porettes, And manye cole plauntes, And ek a cow and a calf, And a cart mare To drawe a-feld my donge, The while the droghte lasteth; And by this liflode we mote lyve Til Lammesse tyme. And by that, I hope to have Hervest in my crofte, And thanne may I dighte thi dyner, As me deere liketh."

Al the povere peple tho Pescoddes fetten, Benes and baken apples Thei broghte in hir lappes, Chibolles and chervelles, And ripe chiries manye, And profrede Piers this present

To plese with Hunger.

Al Hunger eet in haste, And axed after moore. Thanne povere folk, for fere, Fedden Hunger yerne, With grene poret and pesen, To poisone hym thei thoghte. By that it neghed neer hervest, And newe corn cam to chepyng; Thanne was folk fayn, And fedde Hunger with the beste, With goode ale, as Gloton taghte, And garte Hunger go slepe.

And tho wolde Wastour noght werche, But wandren aboute, Ne no beggere ete breed That benes inne were, But of coket and cler-matyn, Or ellis of clene whete; Ne noon halfpeny ale In none wise drynke, But of the beste and of the brunneste That in burghe is to selle.

Laborers that have no land To lyve on but hire handes, Deyned noght to dyne a day Nyght-olde wortes; May no peny ale hem paye, Ne no pece of bacone, But if it be fresshe flessh outher fisshe, Fryed outher y-bake, And that chaud and plus chaud, For chillynge of hir mawe; And but if he be heighliche hyred;

Ellis wole he chide, And that he was werkman wroght Waille the tyme, Ayeins Catons counseil Comseth he to jangle. Paupertatis onus patienter ferre memento. =

He greveth hym ageyn God, And gruccheth ageyn Reson, And thanne corseth he the kyng, And al his counseil after, Swiche lawes to loke Laborers to greve. Ac whiles Hunger was hir maister, Ther wolde noon of hem chide, Ne stryven ayeins his statut, So sterneliche he loked.

Ac I warne yow, werkmen, Wynneth whil ye mowe, For Hunger hiderward Hasteth hym faste. He shal a-wake with water Wastours to chaste; Er fyve be fulfilled, Swich famyn shal a-ryse, Thorugh flodes and thorugh foule wedres Fruytes shul faille, And so seide Saturne, And sente yow to warne.

Whan ye se the sonne a-mys, And two monkes heddes, And a mayde have the maistrie, And multiplie by eighte, Thanne shal deeth with-drawe,

And derthe be justice, And Dawe the dykere Deye for hunger; But God of his goodnesse Graunte us a trewe.