Piers Ploughman

In a somer seson, Whan softe was the sonne, I shoop me into shroudes As I a sheep weere, In habite as an heremite Unholy of werkes, Wente wide in this world Wondres to here; Ac on a May morwenynge On Malverne hilles Me bifel a ferly, Of fairye me thoghte. I was wery for-wandred, And wente me to reste Under a brood bank By a bournes syde; And as I lay and lenede, And loked on the watres, I slombred into a slepyng, It sweyed so murye.

Thanne gan I meten A merveillous swevene, That I was in a wildernesse, Wiste I nevere where, And as I biheeld into the eest An heigh to the sonne, I seigh a tour on a toft Trieliche y-maked, A deep dale bynethe, A dongeon therinne, With depe diches and derke And dredfulle of sighte. A fair feeld ful of folk Fond I ther bitwene, Of alle manere of men, The meene and the riche, Werchynge and wandrynge, As the world asketh.

Some putten hem to the plough, Pleiden ful selde, In settynge and sowynge Swonken ful harde, And wonnen that wastours With glotonye destruyeth.

And somme putten hem to pride, Apparailed hem therafter, In contenaunce of clothynge Comen degised.

In preires and penaunces Putten hem manye, Al for the love of oure Lord Lyveden ful streyte, In hope to have after Hevene riche blisse;

As ancres and heremites That holden hem in hire selles, And coveiten noght in contree To carien aboute, For no likerous liflode Hire likame to plese.

And somme chosen chaffare; Thei cheveden the bettre, As it semeth to our sight That swiche men thryveth.

And somme murthes to make, As mynstralles konne, And geten gold with hire glee, Giltles, I leeve.

Ac japeres and jangeleres, Judas children, Feynen hem fantasies, And fooles hem maketh, And han hire wit at wille To werken, if thei wolde. That Poul precheth of hem I wol nat preve it here; But Qui loquitur turpiloquium Is Luciferes hyne.

Bidderes and beggeres Faste aboute yede, With hire belies and hire bagges Of breed ful y-crammed; Faiteden for hire foode, Foughten at the ale. In glotonye, God woot, Go thei to bedde, And risen with ribaudie, Tho Roberdes knaves;

Sleep and sory sleuthe Seweth hem evere.

Pilgrymes and palmeres Plighten hem togidere, For to seken seint Jame, And seintes at Rome. They wenten forth in hire wey, With many wise tales, And hadden leve to lyen Al hire lif after.

I seigh somme that seiden Thei hadde y-sought seintes; To ech a tale that thei tolde Hire tonge was tempred to lye, Moore than to seye sooth, It semed bi hire speche.

Heremytes on an heep With hoked staves Wenten to Walsyngham, And hire wenches after, Grete lobies and longe That lothe were to swynke; Clothed hem in copes, To ben knowen from othere; And shopen hem heremytes, Hire ese to have.

I fond there freres, Alle the foure ordres, Prechynge the peple For profit of hemselve; Glosed the gospel, As hem good liked; For coveitise of copes, Construwed it as thei wolde.

Many of thise maistre freres Now clothen hem at likyng, For hire moneie and hire marchaundize Marchen togideres. For sith charité hath ben chapman, And chief to shryve lordes, Manye ferlies han fallen In a fewe yeres; But holy chirche and hii Holde bettre togidres, The mooste meschief on molde Is mountynge wel faste.

Ther preched a pardoner, As he a preest were; Broughte forth a bulle With many bisshopes seles, And seide that hymself myghte Assoillen hem alle, Of falshede, of fastynge, Of avowes y-broken.

Lewed men leved it wel, And liked hise wordes; Comen up knelynge To kissen hise bulles. He bouched hem with his brevet, And blered hire eighen, And raughte with his rageman Rynges and broches.

Thus thei gyven hire gold Glotons to kepe, And leveth in swiche losels As leccherie haunten.

Were the bisshope y-blessed, And worth bothe hise eris,

His seel sholde noght be sent To deceyve the peple. Ac it is noght by the bisshope That the boy precheth; For the parisshe preest and the pardoner Parten the silver, That the poraille of the parisshe Sholde have, if thei ne were.

Parsons and parisshe preestes Pleyned hem to the bisshope, That hire parisshes weren povere Sith the pestilence tyme, To have a licence and leve At London to dwelle, And syngen ther for symonie; For silver is swete.

Bisshopes and bachelers, Bothe maistres and doctours, That han cure under Crist, And crownynge in tokene And signe that thei sholden Shryven hire parisshens, Prechen and praye for hem, And the povere fede, Liggen at Londone In Lenten and ellis.

Somme serven the kyng, And his silver tellen In cheker and in chauncelrie, Chalangen hise dettes Of wardes and of wardemotes, Weyves and streyves.

And somme serven as servauntz Lordes and ladies,

And in stede of stywardes Sitten and demen; Hire messe and hire matyns And many of hire houres Arn doon un-devoutliche; Drede is at the laste, Lest Crist in consistorie A-corse ful manye.

I perceyved of the power That Peter hadde to kepe, To bynden and unbynden, As the book telleth; How he it lefte with love, As oure Lord highte, Amonges foure vertues, The beste of alle vertues, That cardinals ben called, And closynge yates. There is Crist in his kingdom To close and to shette, And to opene it to hem, And hevene blisse shewe.

Ac of the cardinals at court That kaughte of that name, And power presumed in hem A pope to make, To han that power that Peter hadde, Impugnen I nelle; For in love and in lettrure The election bilongeth, For-thi I kan and kan naught Of court speke moore.

Thanne kam ther a kyng, Knyghthod hym ladde,

Might of the communes Made hym to regne.

And thanne cam kynde wit, And clerkes he made, For to counseillen the kyng, And the commune save.

The kyng and knyghthod, And clergie bothe, Casten that the commune Sholde hemself fynde.

The commune contreved Of kynde wit craftes, And for profit of al the peple Plowmen ordeyned, To tilie and to travaille, As trewe lif asketh.

The kyng and the commune, And kynde wit the thridde, Shopen lawe and leauté, Ech man to knowe his owene.

Thanne loked up a lunatik, A leene thyng with-alle, And, knelynge to the kyng, Clergially he seide:

"Crist kepe thee, sire kyng! And thi kyng-ryche, And lene thee lede thi lond, So leauté thee lovye, And for thi rightful rulyng Be rewarded in hevene."

And sithen in the eyr an heigh An aungel of hevene Lowed to speke in Latyn, For lewed men ne koude

Jangle ne jugge, That justifie hem sholde, But suffren and serven; For-thi seide the aungel: Sum rex, sum princeps, Neutrum fortasse deinceps; O qui jura regis Christi specialia regis, Hoc quod agas melius, Justus es, esto pius. Nudum jus a te Vestiri vult pietate; Qualia vis metere, Talia grana sere. Si jus nudatur, Nudo de jure metatur; Si seritur pietas, De pietate metas.

Thanne greved hym a goliardeis, A gloton of wordes, And to the aungel an heigh Answerde after: Dum rex a regere Dicatur nomen habere; Nomen habet sine re, Nisi studet jura tenere.

Thanne gan al the commune Crye in vers of Latyn, To the kynges counseil; Construe who so wolde: Præcepta regis Sunt nobis vincula legis.

With that ran ther a route Of ratons at ones,

And smale mees myd hem Mo than a thousand, And comen to a counseil For the commune profit; For a cat of a contree Cam whan hym liked, And overleep hem lightliche, And laughte hem at his wille, And pleide with hem perillousli, And possed aboute. "For doute of diverse dredes, We dar noght wel loke; And if we grucche of his gamen, He wol greven us alle, Cracchen us or clawen us, And in hise clouches holde, That us lotheth the lif Er he late us passe. Mighte we with any wit His wille withstonde, We mighte be lordes o-lofte, And lyven at oure ese."

A raton of renoun, Moost renable of tonge, Seide for a sovereyn Help to hymselve:

"I have y-seyen segges," quod he "In the cité of Londone, Beren beighes ful brighte Abouten hire nekkes, And somme colers of crafty werk; Uncoupled thei wenten Bothe in wareyne and in waast Where hemself liked.

And outher while thei arn ellis-where, As I here telle; Were ther a belle on hire beighe, By Jhesu, as me thynketh, Men myghte witen wher thei wente, And awey renne!"

"And right so," quod that raton, "Reson me sheweth, To bugge a belle of bras, Or of bright silver, And knytten it on a coler For oure commune profit, Wher he ryt or rest, Or renneth to pleye; And if hym list for to laike, Thanne loke we mowen, And peeren in his presence The while him pleye liketh: And, if hym wratheth, be war, And his way shonye."

Al this route of ratons To this reson thei assented. Ac tho the belle was y-brought, And on the beighe hanged, Ther ne was raton in al the route, For al the reaume of Fraunce, That dorste have bounden the belle About the cattes nekke, Ne hangen it aboute the cattes hals, Al Engelond to wynne. Alle helden hem un-hardy, And hir counseil feble; And leten hire labour lost And al hire longe studie.

A mous that muche good Kouthe, as me thoughte, Strook forth sternely, And stood bifore hem alle, And to the route of ratons Reherced thise wordes:

"Though we killen the cat, Yet sholde ther come another To cacchen us and al oure kynde, Though we cropen under benches. For-thi I counseille al the commune To late the cat worthe; And be we nevere bolde The belle hym to shewe; For I herde my sire seyn, Is seven yeer y-passed, Ther the cat is a kitone The court is ful elenge; That witnesseth holy writ, Who so wole it rede: Væ terræ ubi puer rex est! etc. For may no renk ther reste have For ratons by nyghte; The while he caccheth conynges, He coveiteth noght youre caroyne, But fedeth hym al with venyson: Defame we hym nevere. For better is a litel los Than a long sorwe, The maze among us alle, Theigh we mysse a sherewe; For many mennes malt We mees wolde destruye, And also ye route of ratons

Rende mennes clothes, Nere the cat of that court That can yow over-lepe; For hadde ye rattes youre wille, Ye kouthe noght rule yow selve."

"I seye for me," quod the mous, "I se so muchel after, Shal nevere the cat ne the kiton By my counseil be greved, Thorugh carpynge of this coler That costed me nevere And though it hadde costned me catel, Bi-knowen it I nolde, But suffren, as hymself wolde, To doon as hym liketh, Coupled and uncoupled To cacche what thei mowe. For-thi ech a wis wight I warne, Wite wel his owene."

What this metels by-meneth, Ye men that ben murye Devyne ye, for I ne dar, By deere God in hevene.

Yet hoved ther an hundred In howves of selk, Sergeantz it bi-semed That serveden at the barre, Pleteden for penyes And poundes the lawe; And noght for love of our Lord Unclose hire lippes ones. Thow myghtest bettre meete myst On Malverne hilles, Than gete a mom of hire mouth,

Til moneie be shewed.

Barons and burgeises, And bonde-men als, I seigh in this assemblee, As ye shul here after: Baksteres and brewesteres, And bochiers manye; Wollen webbesters, And weveres of lynnen, Taillours and tynkers, And tollers in markettes, Masons and mynours, And many othere craftes. Of alle kynne lybbynge laborers Lopen forth somme, As dikeres and delveres, That doon hire dedes ille, And dryveth forth the longe day With Dieu save dame Emme.

Cokes and hire knaves Cryden, "Hote pies, hote! Goode gees and grys! Gowe, dyne, gowe!"

Taverners until hem Trewely tolden the same, Whit wyn of Oseye, And reed wyn of Gascoigne, Of the Ryn and of the Rochel, The roost to defie. [Al this I saugh slepynge, And seve sithes more.]