Wot no man, as ich wene

Wot no man, as ich wene, Who is worthy to have. The most needy aren oure neighebores, And we nyme good hede; As prisoners in puttes, And poore folke in cotes Charged with children And chef lordes rente, That thei spynnynge may spare, Spynen hit in hous hyre, Bothe in mylk and in mele. To maken with papelotes To aglotye with here gurles That greden after fode. Al so hemselve Suffren muche hunger, And wo in winter tyme; With wakyng a-nyghtes To ryse to the ruel, To rocke the cradel, Bothe to karde and to kembe, To clouten and to wasche, To rubbe and to rely, Russhes to pilie, That reuthe is to rede Othere in ryme shewe The wo that theese women That wonyeth in cotes, And of meny other men That muche wo suffren, Bothe a-fyngrede and a-furst, To turne the fayre outwarde; And beth abasshed for to begge, And wolle nat be y-knowe What hem needeth att here neihebores At non and at even. This Wit wot witerly, As the world techeth, What other byhoveth That hath meny children. And hath no catel bote hus crafte To clothy hem and to fede, And fele to fonge therto, And fewe pans taketh. Ther is payn and peny ale, As for a pytaunce y-take; Cold flesch and cold fyssh, For veneson y-bake. Frydays and fastyng-dayes Ferthyng worth of muscles Were a feste for suche a folke, Other so fele cockes. Theese were almes to helpe That han suche charges, And to comforte suche cotyers, And crokede men and blynde. Ac beggers with bagges, the wiche Brewhouses ben here churches, Bote thei be blynde other broke, Other elles syke, Thauh he falle for defaute, That faiteth for hus lyflode, Reicheth nevere, ye ryche, Thauh suche lorelles sterven; For all that han here hele And here eyen syghte, And lymes to laborye with, And lolleres lyf usen, Lyven ayens Godes lawe, And love of holy churche. And yut arn ther other beggers, In hele, as it semeth; Ac hem wanteth here witt, Men and women bothe, The wiche aren lunatik lollers And leperes aboute, And mad, as the mone sitt, More other lasse: Thei caren for no cold, Ne counteth of no hete, And are mevenge after the mone, Moneyles thei walke, With a good wil wit-lees, Meny wyde contreys, Ryght as Peter dude and Paul, Save that thei preche nat, Ne myracles maken; Ac meny tymes hem happeth To prophetien of the puple, Pleyninge, as hit were, And to oure sight, as hit semeth, Suththe God hath the myghte To yeven eche a whit wit, Welthe, and his hele, And suffreth suche so gon, Hit semeth to myn inwitt, Hit arn as hus aposteles suche puple, Other as his prevye disciples; For he sente hem forth selverles, In a somer garnement, Withoute bred and bagge, As the Bok telleth. Quando misi vos sine pane et pera. Bar fot and bred-les, Beggeth thei of no man; And thauh he mete with the meyere In mydest the strete, He reverenceth hym ryght nouht No rather than another. Neminem salutaveris per viam, Suche manere of men, Matheu ous techeth, We sholde have hem to house, And help hem when thei come. Et egenos vagosque induc in domum tuam. For hit aren murye mouthede men, Mynstrales of hevene And Godes boyes bordiours, As the Bok telleth. Si quis videtur sapiens, fiet stultus ut sit sapiens. And alle manere mynstrales, Men wot wel the sothe, To underfonge hem faire Byfalle for the ryche; For the lordes love and ladies That thei with lengen, Men suffren al that suche seyn, And in solas taken; And yut more to suche men Doth, er thei passe, Gyven hem gyftes and gold, For grete lordes sake. Ryght so, ye riche, Rather ye sholde, for sothe, Wolcomen and worsshepen And with youre goode helpen Godes mynstrales, and hus messagers, And hus murye burdiers, The wiche are lunatik lollares And leperes aboute. For under Godes secré seel Here synnes ben y-keverede. For thei bereth no bagges, Ne non botels under clokes, The wiche is lollaren lyf And lewede eremytes, That loken ful louheliche To lacchen mennes almesse, In hope to suten at even By the hote coles, Unlouke hus legges abrod, Other lygge at hus ese, Reste hym and roste hym, And his ryg turne, Drynke drue and deepe, And drawe hym thanne to bedde, And when hym lyketh and lust Hus leve ys is to aryse; When he rysen, rometh out, And ryght wel aspieth War he may rathest have a repast, Other a rounde of bacon, Sulver other fode-mete And some tyme bothe, A loof other alf a loof, Other a lompe of chese, And carieth it hom to hus cote, And cast hym to lyve In ydelnesse and in ese, And by others travayle. And wat frek of thys tolde Fisketh thus aboute With a bagge at hus bak, Abegeneldes wyse, And can som manere craft, In cas he wolde hit use. Thorgh wiche craft he couthe come To bred and to ale, And ovar more to an hater To helye with hus bones, And lyveth like a lollere, Godes lawe him dampneth. Lolleres lyvinge in sleuthe, And overe lond stryken, Beeth nat in thys bulle, quath Peers, Til thei ben amended. Nother beggars that beggen, Bote yf thei have neede. The Bok blameth alle beggerye, And banneth in this manere: etc.

4645. Luke xix, 23.