Thus consaileth Crist

Thus consaileth Crist In comun ous alle, 'Ho so coveyteth to come To my kynriche, He mot forsake hymself, Hus suster, and hus brother, And al that the worlde wolde, And my wil folwen.' Nisi renunciaveritis omnia quæ possidetis, etc. Meny proverbis ich myghte have Of meny holy seyntes, To testifie for treuthe The tale that ich shewe, And poetes to preoven hit, Porfirie and Plato, Aristotle, Ovidius, And ellevene hundred, Tullius, Tholomeus, Ich can nat telle here names, Preoven pacient poverte Pryns of alle vertues. And by greyn that groweth, God ous alle techeth. Nisi granum frumenti cadens in terra, et mortuum fuit, ipsum solum manet. Bot yf that sed that sowen is, In the sloh sterve, Shal nevere spir springen up, Ne spik on strawe curne; Sholde nevere wete wexe, Bote wete fyrste deyde; And other sedes also In the same wyse, That ben leide on louh eerthe, Y-lore as hit were, And thorw the grete grace of God, Of greyn ded in erthe Atte the laste launceth up Werby lyven alle. Ac sedes that ben sowen And mowe suffre wyntres, Aren tydyor and tower To mannes by-hofte, Than seedes that sowen beeth And mowe nouht with forste, With wyndes, ne with wederes, As in wynter tyme, As lynne-seed, and lik-seed, And Lente-seedes alle, Aren nouht so worthy as whete, Ne so wel mowen In the feld with the forst, And hit freese longe. Ryght so, for sothe, That suffre may penaunces Worth alowed of oure Lorde At here laste ende, And for here penaunce be preysed, As for puyre martir, Other for a confessour y-kud, That counteth nat a ruysshe Fere ne famyne, Ne false menne tonges; Bote as an hosebonde hopeth After an hard wynter, Yf God gyveth hym the lif To have a good hervest, So preoveth thees prophetes That pacientliche suffreth Myschiefs and myshappes, And menye tribulacions, Bytokneth ful triweliche In tyme comynge after Murthe for hus mornynge, And that muche plenté. For Crist seide to hus seyntes That for hus sake tholeden Poverte, penaunces, Persecution of body, Angeles in here angre On this wise hem grate, Tristitia vestra vertetur in gaudium. Youre sorwe into solas Shal turne atte laste, And out of wo into wele Youre wyrdes shul chaunge. Ac so redeth of riche, The revers he may fynde, How God, as the Godspel telleth, Geveth hem foul towname, And that hus gost shal go, And hus good byleve, And asketh hym after Ho shal hit have, The catel that he kepeth so In coffres and in hernes, And ert so loth to lene Thet leve shalt needes. O stulte, ista nocte anima tua egrediatur, thesauriza et ignorat. An unredy reve Thi residue shal spene, That menye moththe was ynne In a mynte while; Upholderes on the hul Shullen have hit to selle. Lo! lo! lordes, lo! And ladies taketh hede, Hit lasteth nat longe That is lycour swete, Ac pees-coddes and pere-ronettes, Plomes and chiries, That lyghtliche launceth up, Litel wile dureth, And that that rathest rypeth, Roteth most sannest. On fat londe and ful of donge Foulest wedes groweth, Right so, for sothe, Suche that ben bysshopes, Erles and archdekenes, And other ryche clerkes. That chaffaren as chapmen, And chiden bote thei wynne, And haven the worlde at here wil Other wyse to lyve; Right as weodes wexen In wose and in dunge, So of rychesse upon richesse Arist al vices. Lo! lond overe-layde With marle and with donge, Whete that wexeth theron Worth lygge ar hit repe; Right so, for sothe, For to sigge treuthe, Over plenté pryde norssheth Ther poverte destrueth hit. For how hit evere be y-wonne, Bote hit be wel dispended, Worliche wele is wuked thynge To hym that hit kupeth. For yf he be feer therfro, Ful ofte hath he drede That fals folke fetche away Felonliche hus godes. And yut more hit maketh men Meny time and ofte To synegen, and to souchen Soteltees of gyle, For covetyze of that catel To culle hem that hit kepeth; And so is meny men y-morthred For hus money and goodes; And tho that duden the dede Y-dampned therfore after, And he, for hus harde heldynge, In helle paraunter; So covetise of catel Was combraunce to hem alle. Lo! how pans purchasede Faire places, and drede, That rote is robbers The richesse withynne.

[Passus quartus de Dowel.]

Ac wel worth Poverte, For he may walke unrobbede, Among pilours in pees, Yf pacience hym folwe, Oure prynce Jhesu poverte chees, And hus aposteles alle, And ay the lenger thei lyveden The lasse good thei hadde. Tanquam nihil habentes, et omnia possidentes. Yut men that of Abraam And Job were wonder ryche, And out of numbre tho men Menye meobles hadden. Abraam, for al hus good, Hadde muche teene, In gret poverte was y-put, A pryns as hit were Bynom hym ys housewif And heeld here hymself, And Abraam nat hardy Ones to letten hym, Ne for brightnesse of here beauté Here spouse to be byknowe. And for he suffrede and seide nouht, Oure Lord sente tokne, That the kynge cride To Abraam mercy, And deliverede hym hus wif, With muche welthe after. And also Job the gentel What joye hadde he on erthe, How bittere he hit bouhte! As the book telleth. And for he songe in hus sorwe, Si bona accipimus a Domino, Dereworthe dere God, Do we so mala; Al hus sorwe to solas Thorgh that songe turnede, And Job bycam a jolif man, And al hus joye newe. Lo how patience in here poverte Thees patriarkes relevede, And brouhte hem al above That in bale rotede, As greyn that lyth in the greot And thorgh grace atte laste Spryngeth up and spredeth, So spedde the fader Abraam, And also the gentel Job, Here joie hath non ende. Ac leveth nouht, ye lewede men, That ich lacke richesse, Thauh ich preise poverte thus, And preove hit by ensamples, Worthiour as by holy writ, And wise philosophers, Bothe two but goode, Be ye ful certayn, And lyves that our Lorde loveth, And large weyes to hevene. Ac the povre pacient Purgatorye passeth Rathere than the ryche, Thauh thei renne at ones. For yf a marchaunt and a messager Metten to-gederes, For the parcels of hus paper And other pryvey dettes, Wol lette hym as ich leyve The lengthe of a myle; The messager doth namore Bote hus mouth telleth, Hus lettere and hus ernde sheweth, And is anon delyvered; And thauh thei wende by the wey Tho two to-gederes. Thauh the messager made hus wey Amyde the whete, Wole no wys man wroth be, Ne hus wed take, Ys non haiwarde y-hote Hus wed for to take. Necessitas non habet legem. Ac yf the marchaunt make hus way Overe menne cornne, And the haywarde happe With hym for to mete, Other hus hatt, other hus hed, Other elles hus gloves, The merchaunt mot for-go, Other moneys of huse porse, And yut be lett, as ich leyve, For the lawe asketh Marchauns for here merchandise In meny place to tullen. Yut thauh thei wenden on wey As to Wynchestre fayre, The marchaunt with hus marchaundise May nat go so swythe As the messager may, Ne with so mochel ese. For that on bereth bote a boxe, A brevet therynne, Ther the marchaunt ledeth a male With meny kynne thynges; And dredeth to be ded therefore, And he in derke mete With robbours and with revers That riche men despoilen, Ther the messager is ay murye, Hus mouthe ful of songes, And leyveth for hus letters That no wight wol hym greve. Ac yut myghte the marchaunt Thorgh monye and other yeftes Have hors and hardy men, Thauh he mette theoves, Wolde non suche asailen hym For hem that hym folweth, As safliche passe as the messager, And as sone at hus hostel. Ye, wyten wel, ye wyse men, What this is to mene. The marchaunt is no more to mene Bote men that ben ryche Aren acountable to Crist And to the kyng of hevene, That holden mote the heye weye, Evene ten hestes, Bothe lovye and lene, The leele and the unleele, And have reuthe, and releve With hus grete richesse By hus power alle manere men In meschief y-falle, Fynde beggars bred, Backes for the colde, Tythen here goodes tryweliche, A tol as hit semeth That oure Lord loketh after Of eche a lyf that wyneth, Withoute wyles other wrong, Other wommen atte stuwes, And yut more, to make pees, And quyte menne dettes, Bothe spele and spare To spene upon the needful, As Crist self comandeth To alle Cristene puple. Alter alterius onera porta. The messager aren the mendinans That lyveth by menne almesse, Beth nat y-bounde, as beeth the riche, To bothe the two lawes, To lene and to lere, Ne lentenes to faste, And other pryvey penaunces The wiche the preest wol wel, That the law yeveth leve Suche lowe folke to be excused, As none tythes to tythen, Ne clothe the nakede, Ne in enquestes to come, Ne contumax thauh he worthe Halyday other holy eve Hus mete to deserve; For yf he loveth and byleyveth As the lawe techeth, Qui crediderit et baptizatus fuerit, etc. Telleth the lord a tale, As a triwe messager, And sheweth by seel and suthe by lettere With wat lord he dwelleth, Kneweleche hym crystene And of holy churche byleyve, Ther is no lawe, as ich leyve, Wol let hym the gate, Ther God is gatwarde hymself And eche a gome knoweth. The porter of pure reuthe May parforme the lawe In that he wilneth and wolde Ech wight as hemself; For the wil is as muche worth Of a wretche beggere As al that the ryche may reyme And ryght fulliche dele, And as much mede For a myte that he offreth, As the riche man for al is moneye, And more, as by the Godspel: Amen dico vobis quia hæc vidua paupercula, etc. So that povre pacient Is parfitest lif of alle, And alle parfit preestes To poverte sholde drawe.

7128. Matth. xvii, 20.

7131. Psal. xxxiii, 11.

7141. Psal. xlii, 1.

7191. James ii, 10.