Thus ich awaked, God wot

Thus ich awaked, God wot! Wanne ich wonede on Cornhulle, Kytte and ich in a cote, Clothede as a lollere: And a lytel ich let by, Leyve me, for sothe, Among lolleres of London, And lewede heremytes. For ich made of tho men, As Reson me tauhte. For as ich cam by Conscience, Wit Reson ich mette, In an hote hervest, Wenne ich hadde myn hele, And lymes to labore with, And lovede wel fare, And no dede to do Bote drynke and to slepe, In hele and in unité, On me aposede, Romynge in remembraunce. Thus Reson me arated: 'Canstow serven,' he seide, 'Other syngen in a churche? Other loke for my cokers? Other to the carte picche? Mowe, other mowen, Other make bond to sheves? Repe, other be a repe-reyve And arise erliche? Other have an horne and be hay-warde, And liggen out a nyghtes, And kepe my corn in my croft From pykers and theeves? Other shap shoon other clothes? Other shep other kyne kepe? Eggen, other harwen, Other swyne other gees dryve? Other eny kyne craft That to the comune nudeth, Hem that bed-reden be Bylyve to fynde?' 'Certes,' ich seyde, 'And so me God helpe! Ich am to waik to worche With sykel other with sythe; And to long, leyf me, Lowe for to stoupe, To worchen as workeman Eny wyle to dure.' 'Then havest thow londes to lyve by,' Quath Reson, 'other lynage ryche That fynden the thy fode? For an hydel man thow semest, A spendour that spende mot, Other a spille-tyme; Other beggest thy lyve Aboute ate menne hatches; Other faitest upon Fridays Other feste dayes in churches; The wiche is lollerene lyf, That lytel is preysed Ther ryghtfulnesse rewardeth Ryght as men deserveth. Reddit unicuique juxta opera sua. Ether thow ert broke, so may be, In body other in membre, Other y-maymed thorow som myshap. Werby thow myght be excusede.' 'Wanne ich yong was,' quath ich, 'Many yer hennes, My fader and my frendes Founden me to scole, Tyl ich wiste wyterliche Wat holy wryt menede, And wat is best for the body, As the bok telleth, And sykerest for the soule, By so ich wolle continue. And yut fond ich never in faith, Sytthen my frendes deyden, Lyf that me lyked, Bote in thes long clothes. Hyf ich by laboure sholde lyf, And lyflode deserven, That labour that ich lerned best Therwhit lyve ich sholde. In eadem vocatione qua vocati estis. And ich lyve in Londene And on Londen bothe. The lomes that ich laboure with And lyflode deserve, Ys paternoster and my prymer, Placebo et dirige, And my sauter some tyme, And my sevene psalmes. Thus ich synge for hure soules Of suche as me helpen. And tho that fynden me my fode Vochen saf, ich trowe, To be wolcome wan ich come Other wyle in a monthe, Now with hym, and now with hure, And thus gate ich begge Withoute bagge other botel, Bote my wombe one. And also, moreover, Me thynketh, syre Reson, Men sholde constreyne No clerke to knavene werkes. For by law of Livitici, That oure Lord ordeynede, Clerkes that aren crowned Of kynde understondyng, Sholde nother swynke ne swete, Ne swere at enquestes, Ne fyghte in no vauntwarde, Ne hus fo greve. Nou reddas malum pro malo. For it ben aires of hevene, And alle that ben crounede And in queer in churches, Cristes owene mynestres. Dominus pars hæreditatis meæ Et alibi, Clementia non constringit. Hit bycometh for clerkus Crist for to serven; And knaves uncrounede To cart and to worche. For shold no clerk be crouned, Bote yf he y-come were Of franklens and freemen And of folke y-weddede. Bondmen and bastardes, And beggers children, Thuse bylongeth to labour. And lordes children sholde serven, Bothe God and good men, As here degree asketh; Some to synge masses, Others sitten and wryte, Rede and receyve That Reson oughte spende. And sith bondemenne barnes Han be made bisshopes, And barnes bastardes Han ben archidekenes; And sopers and here sones For selver han be knyghtes, And lordene sones here laboreres, And leid here rentes to wedden For the ryght of the reame, Ryden ayens oure enemys, In consort of the comune And the kynges worshep. And monkes and moniales. That mendinauns sholden fynde, Han mad here kyn knyghtes, And knyght fees purchase. Popes and patrones Povre gentil blod refuseth, And taken Symondes sonne Seyntewarie to kepe. Lyf-holynesse and love Han ben longe hennes, And wole, til hit be wered out, Or otherwise y-chaunged. For-thy rebuke me ryht nouht, Reson, ich yow praye; For in my conscience ich knowe What Crist wolde that ich wroughte. Preyers of perfyt man, And penaunce discret, Is the levest labour That oure Lord pleseth. Non de solo, ich seyde, For sothe vivit homo, Nec in pane et pabulo, The paternoster witnesseth. Fiat voluntas tua Fynt ous alle thynges.' Quath Conscience, 'By Crist! Ich can nat see this lyeth. Ac it semeth nouht perfitnesse In cyties for to begge, Bote he be obediencer To pryour other to mynstre.' 'That ys soth,' ich seide, 'And so ich by-knowe That ich have tynt tyme, And tyme mys-spended. And yut ich hope, as he That ofte haveth chaffarede, That ay hath lost and lost, And at the latest hym happeth He bouhte suche a bargayn He was the bet evere, And sette hus lost at a lef At the laste ende; Suche a wynnynge hym warth Thorw wyrdes of his grace. Simile est regnum coelorum thesauro abscondito in agro, etc. Mulier quæ inveniet dragmam, etc. So hope ich to have of hym That his almyghty A gobet of hus grace, And bygynne a tyme That alle tymes of my tyme To profit shal turne.' 'Ich rede the,' quath Reson tho, 'Rathe the to bygynne The lyf that ys lowable And leel to the soule.' 'Ye, and continue,' quath Conscience. And to the church ich wente. And to the church gan ich go, God to honourie, Byfor the crois on my knees Knocked ich my brest, Sykinge for my sennes, Segginge my paternoster, Wepyng and wailinge, Tyl ich was a-slepe Thenne mete me moche more Than ich byfor tolde, Of the mater that ich mete fyrst On Malverne hulles. Ich sawe the feld ful of folk Fram ende to the other; And Reson revested Ryght as a pope, And Conscience his crocer Byfore the kynge stande. Reson reverentliche Byfor all the reame Prechede and provede That thuse pestilences Was for pure synne, etc. See l. 2497, of the present edition.