The Vision and Creed of Piers Ploughman, Volume 1

Passus Quartus de Visione, ut supra.

ESSETH," seith the kyng,

How thow lernest the peple,

The lered and the lewed."

"I am fayn of that foreward,"

Seide the freke thanne,

And ryt right to Reson,

And rouneth in his ere,

And seide as the kyng bad,

And sithen took his leve.

"I shal arraye me to ryde," quod Reson,

"Reste thee a while."

And called Caton his knave,

Curteis of speche,

And also Tomme Trewe-tonge,—

"Tel me no tales,

Ne lesynge to laughen of,

For I loved hem nevere;

And set my sadel upon Suffre,

Til I se my tyme,

And lat warroke hym wel

With witty-wordes gerthes,

And hange on hym the hevy brydel

To holde his heed lowe,

For he wol make 'wehee!'

Twies er he be there."

Thanne Conscience upon his capul

Carieth forth faste,

And Reson with hym ryt,

Rownynge togideres,

Whiche maistries Mede

Maketh on this erthe.

Oon Waryn Wisdom,

And Witty his feere,

Folwed hym faste,

For thei hadde to doone

In th'escheker and in the chauncerye,

To ben descharged of thynges;

And riden faste, for Reson sholde

Rede hem the beste,

For to save hem for silver

From shame and from harmes.

And Conscience knew hem wel,

Thei loved coveitise;

And bad Reson ryde faste,

And recche of hir neither.

"Ther are wiles in hire wordes,

And with Mede thei dwelleth;

Ther as wrathe and wranglynge is,

Ther wynne thei silver;

Ac where is love and leautee,

Thei wol noght come there.

Contritio et infelicitas in viis eorum,

etc.

"Thei ne yeveth noght of God

One goose wynge.

Non est timor Dei ante oculos eorum, etc.

"For woot God thei wolde do moore

For a dozeyne chicknes,

Or as manye capons,

Or for a seem of otes,

Than for the love of oure Lord,

Or alle hise leeve seintes.

For-thi Reson lat hem ride,

Tho riche by hemselve,

For Conscience knoweth hem noght,

Ne Crist, as I trowe."

And thanne Reson rood faste

The righte heighe gate,

As Conscience hym kenned,

Til thei come to the kynge.

Curteisly the kyng thanne

Com ayeins Reson,

And bitwene hymself and his sone

Sette hym on benche;

And wordeden wel wisely

A gret while togideres.

And thanne com Pees into parlement,

And putte forth a bille,

How Wrong ayeins his wille

Hadde his wif taken,

And how he ravysshede Rose

Reginaldes loove,

And Margrete of hir maydenhede

Maugree hire chekes.

"Bothe my gees and my grys

Hise gadelynges feccheth,

I dar noght for fere of hem

Fighte ne chide.

He borwed of me Bayard,

He broughte hym hom nevere,

Ne no ferthyng therfore,

For ought I koude plede.

He maynteneth hise men

To murthere myne hewen,

Forstalleth my feires,

And fighteth in my chepyng,

And breketh up my bernes dore,

And bereth awey my whete,

And taketh me but a taillé

For ten quarters of otes;

And yet he beteth me therto,

And lyth by my mayde.

I am noght hardy for hym

Unnethe to loke."

The kyng knew he seide sooth,

For Conscience hym tolde

That Wrong was a wikked luft,

And wroghte muche sorwe.

Wrong was afered thanne,

And Wisdom he soughte,

To maken pees with hise pens;

And profred hym manye,

And seide, "Hadde I love of my lord the kyng,

Litel wolde I recche,

Theigh Pees and his power

Pleyned hym evere."

Tho wente Wisdom

And sire Waryn the Witty,

For that Wrong hadde y-wroght

So wikked a dede,

And warnede Wrong tho

With swich a wis tale,

"Who so wercheth by wille,

Wrathe maketh ofte;

I sey it by myself,

Thow shalt it wel fynde;

But if Mede it make,

Thi meschief is uppe,

For bothe thi lif and thi lond

Lyth in his grace."

Thanne wowede Wrong

Wisdom ful yerne,

To maken pees with his pens,

Handy dandy payed.

Wisdom and Wit thanne

Wenten togidres,

And token Mede myd hem

Mercy to wynne.

Pees putte forth his heed,

And his panne blody,

"Withouten gilt, God it woot,

Gat I this scathe;

Conscience and the commune

Knowen the sothe."

Ac Wisdom and Wit

Were aboute faste,

To overcomen the kyng

With catel, if thei myghte.

The kyng swor by Crist,

And by his crowne bothe,

That Wrong for hise werkes

Sholde wo tholie;

And comaundede a constable

To casten hym in irens,

And lete hym noght thise seven yer

Seen his feet ones.

"God woot," quod Wisdom,

"That were noght the beste;

And he amendes nowe make,

Lat maynprise hym have,

And be borgh for his bale,

And buggen hym boote,

And so amenden that is mys-do

And evere moore the bettre."

Wit acorded therwith,

And seide the same,

"Bettre is that boote

Bale a-doun brynge,

Than bale be y-bet,

And boote never the bettre."

And thanne gan Mede to mengen hire,

And mercy she bi-soughte,

And profrede Pees a present

Al of pure golde:

"Have this, man, of me," quod she,

"To amenden thi scathe,

For I wol wage for Wrong

He wol do so na-moore."

Pitously Pees thanne

Preyde to the kynge,

To have mercy on that man

That mys-dide hym so ofte;

"For he hath waged me wel,

As Wisdom hym taughte,

And I forgyve hym that gilt

With a good wille,

So that the kyng assente,

I kan seye no bettre;

For Mede hath me amendes maad,

I may na-moore axe."

"Nay," quod the kyng tho,

"So me Crist helpe!

Wrong wendeth noght so a-wey,

Erst wole I wite moore.

For lope he so lightly,

Laughen he wolde;

And eft the boldere be

To bete myne hewen;

But Reson have ruthe on hym,

He shal reste in my stokkes;

And that as longe as he lyveth,

But lownesse hym borwe."

Som men radde Reson tho

To have ruthe on that shrewe,

And for to counseille the kyng,

And Conscience after;

That Mede moste be maynpernour

Reson thei bi-soughte.

"Reed me noght," quod Reson,

"No ruthe to have,

Til lordes and ladies

Loven alle truthe,

And haten alle harlotrie,

To heren or to mouthen it.

"Til Parnelles purfille

Be put in hire hucche,

And childrene cherissynge

Be chastynge with yerdes,

And harlottes holynesse

Be holden for an hyne.

"Til clerkene coveitise be

To clothe the povere and fede,

And religiouse romeris

Recordare in hir cloistres,

As seynt Beneyt hem bad,

Bernard and Fraunceis,

And til prechours prechynge

Be preved on hemselve.

"Til the kynges counseil

Be the commune profit,

Til bisshopes bayardes

Ben beggeris chaumbres,

Hire haukes and hire houndes

Help to povere religious.

"And til seint James be sought

There I shal assigne,

That no man go to Galis

But if he go for evere;—

And alle Rome renneres,

For robberes biyonde,

Bere no silver over see

That signe of kyng sheweth,

Neither grave ne ungrave,

Gold neither silver,

Upon forfeture of that fee,

Who so fynt it at Dovere,

But if he be marchaunt or his man,

Or messager with lettres,

Provysour or preest,

Or penaunt for hise synnes.

"And yet," quod Reson, "by the Rode!

I shal no ruthe have,

While Mede hath the maistrie

In this moot-halle.

Ac I may shewe ensamples,

As I se outher while,

I seye it by myself," quod he,

"And it so were

That I were kyng with coroune

To kepen a reaume,

Sholde nevere Wrong in this world,

That I wite myghte,

Ben unpunysshed in my power,

For peril of my soule,

Ne gete my grace for giftes,

So me God save!

Ne for no mede have mercy,

But mekenesse it make;

For nullum malum the man

Mette with inpunitum,

And bad nullum bonum

Be irremuneratum.

"Lat youre confessour, sire kyng,

Construe this unglosed;

And if ye werchen it in werk,

I wedde myne eris,

That lawe shal ben a laborer

And lede a-feld donge,

And love shal lede thi lond,

As the leef liketh."

Clerkes that were confessours

Coupled hem togideres,

Al to construe this clause,

And for the kynges profit,

Ac noght for confort of the commune,

Ne for the kynges soule;

For I seigh Mede in the moot-halle

On men of lawe wynke,

And thei laughynge lope to hire,

And left Reson manye.

Waryn Wisdom

Wynked upon Mede,

And seide, "Madame, I am youre man,

What so my mouth jangle;

I falle in floryns," quod that freke,

"And faile speche ofte."

Alle rightfulle recordede

That Reson truthe tolde;

And Wit acorded therwith,

And comendede hise wordes,

And the mooste peple in the halle,

And manye of the grete,

And leten Mekenesse a maister,

And Mede a mansed sherewe.

Love leet of hire light,

And leauté yet lasse,

And seiden it so heighe

That al the halle it herde,

"Who so wilneth hire to wif,

For welthe of hire goodes,

But he be knowe for a cokewold,

Kut of my nose."

Mede mornede tho,

And made hevy chere,

For the mooste commune of that court

Called hire an hore.

Ac a sisour and a somonour

Sued hire faste,

And a sherreves clerk

Bisherewed at the route;

"For ofte have I," quod he,

"Holpen yow at the barre,

And yet yeve ye me nevere

The worth of a risshe."

The kyng callede Conscience,

And afterward Reson,

And recordede that Reson

Hadde rightfully shewed;

And modiliche upon Mede

With myght the kyng loked;

And gan wexe wroth with lawe,

For Mede almoost hadde shent it;

And seide, "thorugh lawe, as I leve!

I lese manye eschetes;

Mede overmaistreth lawe,

And muche Truthe letteth.

Ac Reson shal rekene with yow,

If I regne any while,

And deme yow bi this day,

As ye han deserved.

Mede shal noght maynprise yow,

By the Marie of hevene!

I wole have leauté in lawe,

And lete be al youre janglyng;

And as moost folk witnesseth wel,

Wrong shal be demed."

Quod Conscience to the kyng,

"But the commune wole assente,

It is ful hard, by myn heed!

Hertoo to brynge it,

Alle youre lige leodes

To lede thus evene."

"By hym that raughte on the rode!"

Quod Reson to the kynge,

"But if I rule thus youre reaume,

Rende out my guttes,

If ye bidden buxomnesse

Be of myn assent."

"And I assente," seith the kyng,

"By seinte Marie my lady!

By my counseil commune,

Of clerkes and of erles;

Ac redily, Reson,

Thow shalt noght ride fro me,

For, as longe as I lyve,

Lete thee I nelle."

"I am al redy," quod Reson,

"To reste with yow evere;

So Conscience be of oure counseil,

I kepe no bettre."

"And I graunte," quod the kyng,

"Goddes forbode ellis!

Als longe as oure lyf lasteth,

Lyve we togideres."

Passus Quintus de Visione, ut supra.

HE kyng and hise knyghtes

He preved that thise pestilences

Were for pure synne,

And the south-westrene wynd

On Saterday at even

Was pertliche for pure pride,

And for no point ellis;

Pyries and plum-trees

Were puffed to the erthe,

In ensaumple that the segges

Sholden do the bettre;

Beches and brode okes

Were blowen to the grounde,

Turned upward hire tailes,

In tokenynge of drede

That dedly synne er domes-day

Shal for-doon hem alle.

Of this matere I myghte

Mamelen ful longe;

Ac I shal seye as I saugh,

So me God helpe!

How pertly afore the peple

Reson bigan to preche.

He bad Wastour go werche,

What he best kouthe,

And wynnen his wastyng

With som maner crafte.

He preide Pernele

Hir purfil to lete,

And kepe it in hire cofre

For catel at hire nede.

Tomme Stowne he taughte

To take two staves,

And fecche Felice hom

Fro the wynen pyne.

He warnede Watte

His wif was to blame,

For hire heed was worth half marc,

And his hood noght worth a grote;

And bad Bette kutte

A bough outher tweye,

And bete Beton therwith,

But if she wolde werche.

And thanne he chargede chapmen

To chastizen hir children,

Late no wynnyng hem for-wanye

While thei be yonge,

Ne for no poustee of pestilence

Plese hem noght out of reson.

"My sire seide so to me,

And so dide my dame,

That the levere child

The moore loore bihoveth;

And Salomon seide the same,

That Sapience made,

Qui parcit virgæ, odit filium.

The Englissh of this Latyn is,

Who so wole it knowe

Who so spareth the spring,

Spilleth hise children."

And sithen he prechede prelates

And preestes togideres,

"That ye prechen to the peple,

Preve it on yowselve,

And dooth it in dede,

It shal drawe yow to goode;

If ye leven as ye leren us,

We shul leve yow the bettre."

And sithen he radde Religion

Hir rule to holde;

"Lest the kyng and his conseil

Youre comunes apeire,

And be stywardes of youre stedes,

Til ye be ruled bettre."

And sithen he counseiled the kyng

His commune to lovye;

"It is thi trewe tresor,

And tryacle at thy nede."

And sithen he preide the pope

Have pité on holy chirche,

And er he gyve any grace,

Governe first hymselve.

"And ye that han lawes to kepe,

Lat truthe be youre coveitise,

Moore than gold outher giftes,

If ye wol God plese;

For who so contrarieth Truthe,

He telleth in the gospel,

That God knoweth hym noght,

Ne no seynt of hevene.

Amen dico vobis, nescio vos.

"And ye that seke seynt James,

And seyntes of Rome,

Seketh seynt Truthe,

For he may save yow alle;

Qui cum patre et filio,

That faire hem bi-falle

That seweth my sermon."

And thus seyde Reson.

Thanne ran Repentaunce,

And reherced his teme:

And garte Wille to wepe

Water with hise eighen.

Pernele Proud-herte

Platte hire to the erthe,

And lay longe er she loked,

And "Lord, mercy!" cryde,

And bi-highte to hym

That us alle made,

She sholde unsowen hir serk,

And sette there an heyre,

To affaiten hire flesshe

That fiers was to synne.

"Shal nevere heigh herte me hente,

But holde I wole me lowe

And suffre to be mys-seyd,

And so dide I nevere;

And now I wole meke me,

And mercy biseche,

For al this I have

Hated in myn herte."

Thanne Lechour seide, "Allas!"

And on oure Lady he cryde,

To maken mercy for hise mys-dedes

Bitwene God and his soule;

With that he sholde the Saterday,

Seven yer therafter,

Drynke but myd the doke,

And dyne but ones.

Envye with hevy herte

Asked after shrifte,

And carefully mea culpa

He comsed to shewe.

He was as pale as a pelet,

In the palsy he semed;

And clothed in a kaurymaury,

I kouthe it nought discryve,

In kirtel and courtepy,

And a knyf by his syde;

Of a freres frokke

Were the fore-sleves;

And as a leek that hadde y-leye

Longe in the sonne,

So loked he with lene chekes

Lourynge foule.

His body was to-bollen for wrathe,

That he boot hise lippes;

And wryngynge he yede with the fust,

To wreke hymself he thoughte

With werkes or with wordes,

Whan he seyghe his tyme.

Ech a word that he warpe

Was of a neddres tonge;

Of chidynge and of chalangynge

Was his chief liflode,

With bakbitynge and bismere,

And berynge of fals witnesse.

"I wolde ben y-shryve," quod this sherewe,

"And I for shame dorste;

I wolde be gladder, by God!

That Gybbe hadde meschaunce,

Than though I hadde this wouke y-wonne

A weye of Essex chese.

"I have a neghebore by me,

I have anoyed hym ofte,

And lowen on hym to lordes

To doon hym lese his silver,

And maad his frendes be his foon

Thorugh my false tonge;

His grace and his goode happes

Greven me ful soore.

"Bitwene manye and manye

I make debate ofte,

That bothe lif and lyme

Is lost thorugh my speche.

And whan I mete hym in market

That I moost hate,

I hailse hym hendely,

As I his frend were;

For he is doughtier than I,

I dar do noon oother;

Ac hadde I maistrie and myght,

God woot my wille!

"And whan I come to the kirk,

And sholde knele to the roode,

And preye for the peple

As the preest techeth,

For pilgrymes and for palmeres,

For al the peple after,

Thanne I crye on my knees

That Crist gyve hem sorwe,

That beren awey my bolle

And my broke shete.

"Awey fro the auter thanne

Turne I myne eighen,

And bi-holde Eleyne

Hath a newe cote;

I wisshe thanne it were myn,

And al the web after.

"And of mennes lesynge I laughe,

That liketh myn herte;

And for hir wynnynge I wepe,

And waille the tyme;

And deme that thei doon ille,

There I do wel werse.

Who so under-nymeth me hero

I hate hym dedly after;

I wolde that ech a wight

Were my knave,

For who so hath moore than I,

Than angreth me soore.

And thus I lyve love-lees,

Lik a luther dogge;

That al my body bolneth,

For bitter of my galle.

"I myghte noght ete many yeres

As a man oughte,

For envye and yvel wil

Is yvel to defie.

May no sugre ne swete thyng

Aswage my swellyng?

Ne no diapenidion

Dryve it fro myn herte?

Ne neither shrifte ne shame,

But who so shrape my mawe?"

"Yis redily," quod Repentaunce,

And radde hym to the beste,

"Sorwe of synnes

Is savacion of soules."

"I am sory," quod that segge,

"I am but selde oother,

And that maketh me thus megre,

For I ne may me venge.

"Amonges burgeises have I be

Dwellyng at Londone,

And gart bakbityng be a brocour

To blame mennes ware;

Whan he solde and I nought,

Thanne was I redy

To lye and to loure on my neghebore,

And to lakke his chaffare;

I wole amende this, if I may,

Thorugh myght of God almyghty."

Now awaketh Wrathe,

With two white eighen;

And nevelynge with the nose,

And his nekke hangyng.

"I am Wrathe," quod he,

"I was som tyme a frere,

And the coventes gardyner

For to graffen impes;

On lymitours and listres

Lesynges I ymped,

Til thei beere leves of lowe speche,

Lordes to plese,

And sithen thei blosmede a-brood

In boure to here shriftes;

And now is fallen therof a fruyt,

That folk han wel levere

Shewen hire shriftes to hem,

Than shryve hem to hir persons.

"And now persons han perceyved

That freres parte with hem,

Thise possessioners preche

And deprave freres.

"And freres fyndeth hem in defaute,

As folk bereth witnesse,

That whan thei preche the peple

In many places aboute,

I Wrathe walke with hem,

And wisse hem of my bokes.

Thus thei speken of my spiritualté,

That either despiseth oother,

Til thei be bothe beggers

And by my spiritualté libben,

Or ellis al riche

And ryden aboute.

I Wrathe reste nevere,

That I ne moste folwe

This wikked folk,

For swich is my grace.

"I have an aunte to nonne,

And an abbesse bothe;

Hir hadde levere swowe or swelte,

Than suffre any peyne,

"I have be cook in hir kichene,

And the covent served

Manye monthes with hem,

And with monkes bothe.

I was the prioresse potager,

And othere povere ladies,

And maad hem joutes of janglyng,

That dame Johane was a bastard,

And dame Clarice a knyghtes doughter,

Ac a cokewold was hir sire;

And dame Pernele a preestes fyle,

Prioresse worth she nevere,

For she hadde child in chirie-tyme,

Al our chapitre it wiste.

"Of wikkede wordes

I Wrathe hire wortes made,

Til 'thow lixt' and 'thow lixt'

Lopen out at ones,

And either hite oother

Under the cheke;

Hadde thei had knyves, by Crist

Hir either hadde kild oother.

"Seint Gregory was a good pope,

And hadde a good forwit,

That no prioresse were preest,

For that he ordeyned;

They hadde thanne ben infames the firste day,

Thei kan so yvele hele conseil.

"Among monkes I myghte be,

Ac many tyme I shonye it;

For there ben manye felle frekes

My feeris to aspie,

Bothe priour and suppriour

And oure pater abbas;

And if I telle any tales,

Thei taken hem togideres,

And doon me faste frydayes

To breed and to watre,

And am chalanged in the chapitre hous

As I a child were,

And baleised on the bare ers,

And no brech bitwene.

For-thi have I no likyng

With tho leodes to wonye.

I ete there unthende fisshe,

And feble ale drynke;

Ac outher while whan wyn cometh,

Thanne I drynke wyn at eve,

And have a flux of a foul mouth

Wel fyve dayes after.

Al the wikkednesse that I woot

By any of oure bretheren,

I couthe it in oure cloistre,

That al oure covent woot it."

"Now repente thee," quod Repentaunce,

"And reherce thow nevere

Counseil that thow knowest

By contenaunce ne by right;

And drynk nat over delicatly,

Ne to depe neither,

That thi wille by cause therof

To wrathe myghte turne.

Esto sobrius," he seide,

And assoiled me after,

And bad me wilne to wepe

My wikkednesse to amende.

And thanne cam Coveitise,

Kan I hym naght discryve,

So hungrily and holwe

Sire Hervy hym loked.

He was bitel-browed,

And baber-lipped also,

With two blered eighen

As a blynd hagge;

And as a letheren purs

Lolled hise chekes,

Wel sidder than his chyn

Thei chyveled for elde;

And as a bonde-man of his bacon

His berd was bi-draveled,

With an hood on his heed,

A lousy hat above,

And in a tawny tabard

Of twelf wynter age,

Al so torn and baudy,

And ful of lys crepyng,

But if that a lous couthe

Han lopen the bettre,

She sholde noght han walked on that welthe,

So was it thred-bare.

"I have ben coveitous," quod this caytif,

"I bi-knowe it here,

For som tyme I served

Symme-atte-Style,

And was his prentice y-plight

His profit to wayte.

"First I lerned to lye,

A leef outher tweyne;

Wikkedly to weye

Was my firste lesson;

To Wy and to Wynchestre

I wente to the feyre,

With many manere marchaundise,

As my maister me highte.

Ne hadde the grace of gyle y-go

Amonges my chaffare,

It hadde ben unsold this seven yer,

So me God helpe!

"Thanne drough I me among drapiers,

My donet to lerne,

To drawe the liser along,

The lenger it semed;

Among the riche rayes

I rendred a lesson,

To broche hem with a pak-nedle,

And playte hem togideres,

And putte hem in a presse,

And pyne hem therinne,

Til ten yerdes or twelve

Hadde tolled out thrittene.

"My wif was a webbe,

And wollen cloth made;

She spak to spynnesteres

To spynnen it oute,

Ac the pound that she paied by

Peised a quatron moore

Than myn owene auncer,

Who so weyed truthe.

"I boughte hire barly-malt,

She brew it to selle,

Peny ale and puddyng ale

She poured togideres,

For laborers and for lowe folk

That lay by hymselve.

"The beste ale lay in my bour,

Or in my bed-chambre;

And who so bummed therof,

Boughte it therafter,

A galon for a grote,

God woot, no lesse!

And yet it cam in cuppe-mele,

This craft my wif used.

Rose the Regrater

Was hire righte name;

She hath holden hukkerye

Al hire lif tyme.

Ac I swere now, so thee ik!

That synne wol I lete,

And nevere wikkedly weye,

Ne wikke chaffare use;

But wenden to Walsyngham,

And my wif als,

And bidde the Roode of Bromholm

Brynge me out of dette."

"Repentedestow evere?" quod Repentaunce,

"Or restitucion madest."

"Yis, ones I was y-herberwed," quod he,

"With an heep of chapmen,

I roos whan thei were a-reste

And riflede hire males."

"That was no restitucion," quod Repentaunce,

"But a robberis thefte;

Thow haddest be the bettre worthi

Ben hanged therfore,

Than for al that

That thow hast here shewed."

"I wende riflynge were restitucion," quod he,

"For I lerned nevere rede on boke;

And I kan no Frensshe, in feith,

But of the fertheste ende of Northfolk."

"Usedestow evere usurie?" quod Repentaunce,

"In al thi lif tyme."

"Nay sothly," he seide,

"Save in my youthe

I lerned among Lumbardes

And Jewes a lesson,

To weye pens with a peis,

And pare the hevyeste,

And lene it for love of the cros,

To legge a wed and lese it.

Swiche dedes I dide write,

If he his day breke,

I have mo manoirs thorugh rerages,

Than thorugh miseretur et commodat.

"I have lent lordes

And ladies my chaffare,

And ben hire brocour after,

And bought it myselve;

Eschaunges and chevysaunces

With swich chaffare I dele,

And lene folk that lese wole

A lippe at every noble,

And with Lumbardes lettres

I ladde gold to Rome,

And took it by tale here,

And tolde hem there lasse."

"Lentestow evere lordes,

For love of hire mayntenaunce?"

"Ye, I have lent to lordes,

Loved me nevere after,

And have y-maad many a knyght

Bothe mercer and draper,

That payed nevere for his prentishode

Noght a peire gloves."

"Hastow pité on povere men,

That mote nedes borwe?"

"I have as muche pité of povere men,

As pedlere hath of cattes,

That wolde kille hem, if he cacche hem myghte,

For coveitise of hir skynnes."

"Artow manlich among thi neghebores

Of thi mete and drynke?"

"I am holden," quod he, "as hende

As hound is in kichene,

Amonges my neghebores, namely,

Swiche a name ich have."

"Now God lene thee nevere," quod Repentaunce,

"But thow repente the rather,

The grace on this grounde

Thi good wel to bi-sette,

Ne thyne heires after thee

Have joie of that thow wynnest,

Ne thyne executours wel bi-sette

The silver that thow hem levest;

And that was wonne with wrong

With wikked men be despended.

For were I frere of that hous

Ther good feith and charité is,

I nolde cope us with thi catel,

Ne oure kirk amende,

Ne have a peny to my pitaunce,

So God my soule save!

For the beste book in oure hous,

Theigh brent gold were the leves,

And I wiste witterly

Thow were swich as thow tellest.

Servus es alterius,

Dum fercula pinguia quæris;

Pane tuo potius

Vescere, liber eris.

"Thow art an unkynde creature,

I kan thee noght assoille,

Til thow make restitucion

And rekene with hem alle;

And sithen that Reson rolle it

In the registre of hevene,

That thow hast maad ech man good,

I may thee noght assoile.

Non dimittitur peccatum, donec restituatur

oblatum.

"For alle that han of thi good,

Have God my trouthe!

Ben holden at the heighe doom

To helpe thee to restitue;

And who so leveth noght this be sooth,

Loke in the Sauter glose,

In Miserere mei, Deus,

Wher I mene truthe;

Ecce enim veritatem dilexisti, etc.

Shal nevere werkman in this world

Thryve with that thow wynnest.

Cum sancto sanctus eris;

Construwe me this on Englisshe."

Thanne weex that sherewe in wanhope,

And wolde han hanged hym;

Ne hadde Repentaunce the rather

Reconforted hym in this manere.

"Have mercy in thi mynde,

And with thi mouth biseche it;

For Goddes mercy is moore

Than alle hise othere werkes.

And al the wikkednesse in this world

That man myghte werche or thynke,

Nis na-moore to the mercy of God,

Than in the see a gleede.

Omnis iniquitas quantum ad misericordiam

Dei, est quasi scintilla

in medio maris.

"For-thi have mercy in thy mynde,

And marchaundise leve it;

For thow hast no good ground

To gete thee with a wastel,

But if it were with thi tonge,

Or ellis with thi two hondes.

For the good that thow hast geten

Bigan al with falshede,

And as longe as thow lyvest therwith,

Thow yeldest noght, but borwest.

"And if thow wite nevere to whiche,

Ne whom to restitue,

Ber it to the bisshope,

And bid hym of his grace

Bi-sette it hymself,

As best is for thi soule;

For he shal answere for thee

At the heighe dome,

For thee and for many mo

That man shal yeve a rekenyng,

What he lerned yow in Lente,

Leve thow noon oother,

And what he lente yow of oure Lordes good

To lette yow fro synne."

Now bi-gynneth Gloton

For to go to shrifte,

And karieth hym to kirke-warde

His coupe to shewe;

And Beton the brewestere

Bad hym good morwe,

And asked at hym with that,

Whider-ward he wolde.

"To holy chirche," quod he,

"For to here masse,

And sithen I wole be shryven,

And synne na-moore."

"I have good ale, gossib," quod she,

"Gloton, woltow assaye?"

"Hastow ought in thi purs?" quod he,

"Any hote spices?"

"I have pepir and piones," quod she,

"And a pound of garleek,

And a ferthyng-worth of fenel-seed

For fastynge dayes."

Thanne goth Glotin in,

And grete othes after.

Cesse the souteresse

Sat on the benche;

Watte the warner,

And his wif bothe;

Tymme the tynkere,

And tweyne of his prentices;

Hikke the hakeney-man,

And Hughe the nedlere;

Clarice of Cokkeslane,

And the clerk of the chirche;

Dawe the dykere,

And a dozeyne othere.

Sire Piers of Pridie,

And Pernele of Flaundres;

A ribibour, a ratoner,

A rakiere of Chepe,

A ropere, a redyng-kyng,

And Rose the dyssheres;

Godefray of Garlekhithe,

And Griffyn the Walshe;

And upholderes an heep,

Erly by the morwe,

Geve Gloton with glad chere

Good ale to hanselle.

Clement the Cobelere

Caste of his cloke,

And at the newe feire

He nempned it to selle,

Hikke the hakeney-man

Hitte his hood after,

And bad Bette the bocher

Ben on his syde.

Ther were chapmen y-chose

This chaffare to preise,

That who so hadde the hood

Sholde han amendes of the cloke.

Two risen up in rape,

And rouned togideres,

And preised thise peny-worthes

A-part by hemselve;

Thei kouthe noght by hir conscience

Acorden in truthe,

Til Robyn the ropere

Aroos by the southe,

And nempned hym for a nounpere,

That no debat nere.

Hikke the hostiler

Hadde the cloke,

In covenaunt that Clement

Sholde the cuppe fille,

And have Hikkes hood hostiler,

And holden hym y-served.

And who so repented rathest

Sholde aryse after,

And greten sire Gloton

With a galon ale.

There was laughynge and lourynge,

And "lat go the cuppe;"

And seten so till even-song,

And songen umwhile,

Til Gloton hadde y-glubbed

A galon and a gille.

Hise guttes bigonne to gothelen

As two gredy sowes;

He pissed a potel

In a pater-noster while,

And blew his rounde ruwet

At his rugge-bones ende,

That alle that herde that horn

Held hir noses after,

And wisshed it hadde been wexed

With a wispe of firses.

He myghte neither steppe ne stonde,

Er he his staf hadde;

And thanne gan he to go

Like a gle-mannes bicche,

Som tyme aside,

And som tyme arere,

As who so leith lynes

For to lacche foweles.

And whan he drough to the dore,

Thanne dymmed his eighen;

He stumbled on the thresshfold,

And threw to the erthe.

Clement the cobelere

Kaughte hym by the myddel,

For to liften hym o-lofte;

And leyde hym on his knowes.

Ac Gloton was a gret cherl,

And a grym in the liftyng,

And koughed up a cawdel

In Clementes lappe;

Is noon so hungry hound

In Hertford shire

Dorste lape of that levynges,

So un-lovely thei smaughte.

With al the wo of this world,

His wif and his wenche

Baren hym hom to his bed,

And broughte hym therinne;

And after al this excesse

He hadde an accidie,

That he sleep Saterday and Sonday,

Til sonne yede to reste.

Thanne waked he of his wynkyng,

And wiped hise eighen;

The firste word that he warpe

Was "where is the bolle?"

His wif gan edwyte hym tho,

How wikkedly he lyvede;

And Repentaunce right so

Rebuked hym that tyme,

"As thow with wordes and werkes

Has wroght yvele in thi lyve,

Shryve thee, and be shamed therof,

And shewe it with thi mouthe."

"I Gloton," quod the grom,

"Gilty me yelde,

That I have trespased with my tonge,

I kan noght telle how ofte;

Sworen Goddes soule,

And so me God helpe!

There no nede was,

Nyne hundred tymes.

"And over-seyen me at my soper,

And som tyme at nones,

That I Gloton girte it up

Er I hadde gon a myle,

An y-spilt that myghte be spared

And spended on som hungry;

Over delicatly on fastyng-dayes

Dronken and eten bothe,

And sat som tyme so longe there,

That I sleep and eet at ones.

For love of tales in tavernes

And for drynke, the moore I dyned;

And hyed to the mete er noon,

Whan fastyng-days were."

"This shewynge shrift," quod Repentaunce,

"Shal be meryt to the."

And thanne gan Gloton greete,

And gret doel to make,

For his luther lif

That he lyved hadde;

And avowed to faste,

"For hunger or for thurste,

Shal nevere fyssh on Fryday

Defyen in my wombe,

Til abstinence myn aunte

Have gyve me leeve;

And yet have I hated hire

Al my lif tyme."

Thanne cam Sleuthe al bi-slabered,

With two slymy eighen;

"I moste sitte," seide the segge,

"Or ellis sholde I nappe.

I may noght stonde ne stoupe,

Ne withoute a stool knele;

Were I brought a-bedde,

But if my tail-ende it made,

Sholde no ryngynge do me ryse

Er I were ripe to dyne."

He bigan Benedicite with a bolk,

And his brest knokked,

And raxed and rored,

And rutte at the laste.

"What, awake, renk!" quod Repentaunce,

"And rape thee to shryfte."

"If I sholde deye bi this day,

Me list nought to loke;

I kan noght parfitly my pater-noster,

As the preest it syngeth;

But I kan rymes of Robyn Hood,

And Randolf erl of Chestre;

Ac neither of oure Lord ne of oure Lady

The leeste that evere was maked.

"I have maad avowes fourty,

And foryete hem on the morwe;

I perfournede nevere penaunce

As the preest me highte;

Ne right sory for my synnes

Yet was I nevere.

And if I bidde any bedes,

But if it be in wrathe,

That I telle with my tonge

Is two myle fro myn herte.

I am ocupied eche day,

Haly-day and oother,

With ydel tales at the ale,

And outher while at chirche;

Goddes peyne and his passion

Ful selde thenke I on it.

"I visited nevere feble men,

Ne fettred folk in puttes;

I have levere here an harlotrye,

Or a somer game of souters,

Or lesynge to laughen at

And bi-lye my neghebores,

Than al that evere Marc made,

Mathew, Johan, and Lucas.

And vigilies and fastyng-dayes,

Alle thise late I passe;

And ligge a-bedde in Lenten,

And my lemman in myne armes,

Til matyns and masse be do,

And thanne go to the freres.

Come I to Ite, missa est,

I holde me y-served;

I nam noght shryven som tyme,

But if siknesse it make,

Nought twyes in two yer,

And thanne up gesse I shryve me.

"I have be preest and parson

Passynge thritty wynter,

And yet can I neyther solne ne synge,

Ne seintes lyves rede;

But I kan fynden in a feld,

Or in a furlang, an hare,

Bettre than in Beatus vir,

Or in Beati omnes,

Construe oon clause wel

And kenne it to my parisshens.

I kan holde love-dayes,

And here a reves rekenyng;

Ac in canon nor in decretals

I kan noght rede a lyne.

"If I bigge and borwe aught,

But if it be y-tailed,

I foryete it as yerne;

And if men me it axe

Sixe sithes or sevene,

I forsake it with othes;

And thus tene I trewe men

Ten hundred tymes.

"And my servauntz som tyme

Hir salarie is bi-hynde;

Ruthe it is to here the rekenyng,

Whan we shul rede acountes.

So with wikked wil and wrathe,

My werkmen I paye.

"If any man dooth me a bienfait,

Or helpeth me at nede,

I am unkynde ayeins curteisie,

And kan nought understounden it;

For I have and have had

Som del haukes maneres,

I am noght lured with love,

But ther ligge aught under the thombe.

"The kyndenesse that myn even cristene

Kidde me fernyere,

Sixty sithes I Sleuthe

Have foryete it siththe.

In speche and in sparynge of speche

Y-spilt many a tyme

Bothe flessh and fissh,

And manye othere vitailles,

Both bred and ale,

Buttre, melk, and chese,

For-sleuthed in my service

Til it myghte serve no man.

"I ran aboute in youthe,

And yaf me naught to lerne,

And evere siththe have I be beggere

For my foule sleuthe.

Heu michi! quia sterilem vitam duxi

juvenilem."

"Repentedestow noght?" quod Repentaunce;

And right with that he swowned,

Til Vigilate the veille

Fette water at hise eighen,

And flatte it on his face,

And faste on hym cryde,

And seide, "Ware thee, for Wanhope

Wolde thee bi-traye,

'I am sory for my synnes'

Seye to thiselve,

And beet thiself on the brest,

And bidde hym of grace;

For is ne gilt here so gret

That his goodnesse nys moore."

Thanne sat Sleuthe up,

And seyned hym swithe,

And made a vow to-fore God

For his foule sleuthe.

"Shal no Sonday be this seven yer,

But siknesse it lette,

That I ne shal do me er day

To the deere chirche;

And here matyns and masse,

As I a monk were,

Shal noon ale after mete

Holde me thennes,

Til I have even-song herd,

I bi-hote to the roode!

And yet wole I yelde ayein,

If I so much have,

Al that I wikkedly wan

Sithen I wit hadde.

"And though my liflode lakke,

Leten I nelle,

That ech man ne shal have his,

Er I hennes wende;

And with the residue and the remenaunt,

Bi the Rode of Chestre!

I shal seken Truthe erst

Er I se Rome."

Roberd the robbere

On Reddite loked,

And for ther was noght wherof,

He wepte swithe soore;

Ac yet the synfulle sherewe

Seide to hymselve,

"Crist, that on Calvarie

Upon the cros deidest,

Tho Dysmas my brother

Bi-soughte yow of grace,

And haddest mercy on that man

For memento sake,

So rewe on this robbere

That reddere ne have,

Ne nevere wene to wynne

With craft that I owe;

But for thi muchel mercy

Mitigacion I bi-seche,

Ne dampne me noght at domes-day

For that I dide so ille."

What bi-fel of this feloun

I kan noght faire shewe;

Wel I woot he wepte faste

Water with bothe hise eighen,

And knoweliched his gilt

To Crist yet eft soones,

That Pœnetentia his pik

He sholde polshe newe,

And lepe with hym over lond

Al his lif tyme,

For he hadde leyen by Latro

Luciferis aunte.

And thanne hadde Repentaunce ruthe,

And redde hem alle to knele;

"For I shal bi-seche for alle synfulle

Our Saveour of grace,

To amenden us of oure mysdedes,

And do mercy to us alle."

"Now God," quod he, "that of thi goodnesse

Bi-gonne the world to make,

And of naught madest aught, and man

Moost lik to thiselve,

And sithen suffredest for to synne,

A siknesse to us alle,

And al for the beste, as I bi-leve,

What evere the book telleth.

O felix culpa! O necessarium peccatum Adæ! etc.

"For thorugh that synne thi sone

Sent was to this erthe,

And bicam man of a maide,

Mankynde to save:

And madest thiself with thi sone

And us synfulle y-liche

Faciamus hominem ad imaginem

nostram. Et alibi. Qui manet

in caritate, in Deo manet, et

Deus in eo.

"And siththe with thi selve sone

In oure secte deidest,

On Good-Fryday, for mannes sake,

At ful tyme of the daye,

Ther thiself ne thi sone

No sorwe in deeth feledest,

But in oure secte was the sorwe,

And thi sone it ladde.

Captivam duxit captivitatem.

"The sonne for sorwe therof

Lees light of a tyme,

Aboute mydday whan moost light is,

And meel-tyme of seintes,

Feddest with thi fresshe blood

Oure fore-fadres in derknesse.

Populus qui ambulabat in tenebris,

vidit lucem magnam.

"And thorugh the light that lepe out of thee

Lucifer was blent.

And blewe alle thi blessed

Into the blisse of paradys.

"The thridde day after

Thow yedest in oure sute,

A synful Marie the seigh,

Er seynte Marie thi dame;

And al to solace synfulle

Thow suffredest it so were.

Non veni vocare justos sed peccatores

ad pœnitentiam.

"And al that Marc hath y-maad,

Mathew, Johan, and Lucas,

Of thyne doughty dedes

Was doon in oure armes.

Verbum caro factum est, et habitavit in nobis.

"And by so muche me semeth

The sikerer we mowe

Bidde and bi-seche,

If it be thi wille,

That art oure fader and oure brother,

Be merciable to us,

And have ruthe on thise ribaudes

That repenten hem here soore,

That evere thei wrathed thee in this world,

In word, thought, or dedes."

Thanne hent Hope an horn

Of Deus, tu conversus vivificabis,

And blew it with Beati quorum

Remissæ sunt iniquitates,

That alle seintes in hevene

Songen at ones.

Homines et jumenta salvabis, quemadmodum

multiplicasti misericordiam tuam.

A thousand of men tho

Thrungen togideres,

Cride upward to Crist,

And to his clene moder,

To have grace to go with hem

Truthe to seke.

Ac there was wight noon so wys

The wey thider kouthe,

But blustreden forth as beestes

Over bankes and hilles;

Til late was and longe

That thei a leode mette,

Apparailled as a paynym

In pilgrymes wise.

He bar a burdoun y-bounde

With a brood liste,

In a withwynde wise

Y-wounden aboute;

A bolle and a bagge

He bar by his syde,

And hundred of ampulles

On his hat seten,

Signes of Synay,

And shelles of Galice,

And many a crouche on his cloke,

And keyes of Rome,

And the vernycle bi-fore,

For men sholde knowe

And se bi hise signes

Whom he sought hadde.

This folk frayned hym first,

Fro whennes he come.

"Fram Syny," he seide,

"And fram oure Lordes sepulcre;

In Bethlem and in Babiloyne,

I have ben in bothe;

In Armonye and Alisaundre,

In manye othere places.

Ye may se by my signes,

That sitten on myn hatte,

That I have walked ful wide

In weet and in drye,

And sought goode seintes

For my soules helthe."

"Knowestow aught a corsaint,

That men calle Truthe?

Koudestow aught wissen us the wey,

Wher that wye dwelleth?"

"Nay, so me God helpe!"

Seide the gome thanne,

"I seigh nevere palmere,

With pyk ne with scrippe,

Asken after hym er

Til now in this place."

"Peter!" quod a plowman,

And putte forth his hed,

"I knowe hym as kyndely

As clerk doth hise bokes;

Conscience and kynde wit

Kenned me to his place,

And diden me suren hym sikerly

To serven hym for evere,

Bothe to sowe and to sette,

The while I swynke myghte.

I have ben his folwere

Al this fifty wynter,

Bothe y-sowen his seed,

And suwed hise beestes,

Withinne and withouten

Waited his profit.

I dyke and I delve,

I do that Truthe hoteth;

Som tyme I sowe,

And som tyme I thresshe;

In taillours craft and tynkeris craft,

What Truthe kan devyse,

I weve and I wynde,

And do what Truthe hoteth,

For though I seye it myselfe,

I serve hym to paye;

I have myn hire wel,

And outher whiles moore.

He is the presteste paiere

That povere men knoweth;

He ne withhalt noon hewe his hire,

That he ne hath it at even;

He is as lowe as a lomb,

And lovelich of speche;

And if ye wilneth to wite

Where that he dwelleth,

I shal wisse you witterly

The wey to his place."

"Ye, leve Piers," quod thise pilgrimes,

And profred hym huyre,

For to wende with hem

To Truthes dwellyng-place.

"Nay, by my soules helpe!" quod Piers,

And gan for to swere,

"I nolde fange a ferthyng.

For seint Thomas shryne;

Truthe wolde love me the lasse

A long tyme therafter;

Ac if yow wilneth to wende wel,

This is the wey thider.

"Ye moten go thorugh Mekenesse,

Both men and wyves,

Til ye come into Conscience,

That Crist wite the sothe

That ye loven oure Lord God

Levest of alle thynges,

And thanne youre neghebores next

In none wise apeire,

Other wise than thow woldest

He wroughte to thiselve.

"And so boweth forth by a brook,

Beth-buxom-of-speche,

Til he fynden a ford,

Youre-fadres-honoureth,

Honora patrem et matrem, etc.

Wadeth in that water,

And wasshe yow wel therinne,

And ye shul lepe the lightloker

Al youre lif tyme;

And so shaltow se Swere-noght,-

But-if-it-be-for-nede,-

And-nameliche-on-ydel-

The-name-of-God-almyghty.

"Thanne shaltow come by a croft,

But come thow noght therinne;

That croft hatte Coveite-noght-

Mennes-catel-ne-hire-wyves,-

Ne-noon-of-hire-servauntz-

That-noyen-hem-myghte;

Loke ye breke no bowes there,

But if it be youre owene.

"Two stokkes ther stondeth,

Ac stynte ye noght there,

Thei highte Stele-noght and Sle-noght,

Strik forth by bothe,

And leve hem on thi lift half,

And loke noght therafter,

And hold wel thyn hali-day

Heighe til even.

"Thanne shaltow blenche at a bergh,

Bere-no-fals-witnesse,

He is frythed in with floryns

And othere fees manye;

Loke thow plukke no plaunte there,

For peril of thi soule;

Thanne shul ye see Seye-sooth,-

So-it-be-to-doone,-

In-good-manere,-ellis-noght-

For-no-mannes-biddyng.

"Thanne shaltow come to a court

As cler as the sonne;

The moot is of Mercy

The manoir aboute,

And alle the walles ben of Wit,

To holden Wil oute,

And kerneled wit Cristendom,

Mankynde to save,

Botrased with Bileef-so,-

Or-thow-beest-noght-saved.

"And alle the houses ben hiled,

Halles and chambres,

With no leed but with love,

And lowe speche as bretheren;

The brugg is of Bidde-wel,-

The-bet-may-thow-spede;

Ech piler is of penaunce,

Of preieres to seyntes;

Of almes-dedes are the hokes

That the gates hangen on.

"Grace hatte the gatewarde,

A good man for sothe;

His man hatte Amende-yow,

For many men hym knoweth;

Telleth hym this tokene,

That Truthe wite the sothe;

'I perfourned the penaunce

That the preest me enjoyned,

And am ful sory for my synnes,

And so I shal evere,

Whan I thynke theron,

Theigh I were a pope.'

"Biddeth Amende-yow meke hym

Til his maister ones,

To wayven up the wiket

That the womman shette,

Tho Adam and Eve

Eten apples un-rosted.

Per Evam cunctis clausa est, et per

Mariam virginem patefacta est.

"For he hath the keye and the cliket,

Though the kyng slepe.

And if grace graunte thee

To go in this wise,

Thow shalt see in thiselve

Truthe in thyn herte,

In a cheyne of charité

As thow a child were,

To suffren hym and segge noght

Ayein thi sires wille.

"And be war thanne of Wrathe-thee,

That is a wikked sherewe;

He hath envye to hym

That in thyn herte sitteth,

And poketh forth pride

To preise thiselven.

The boldnesse of thi bienfetes

Maketh thee blynd thanne;

And thanne worstow dryven out as dew,

And the dore closed,

Keyed and cliketted,

To kepe thee withouten;

Happily an hundred wynter

Er thow eft entre.

Thus myghtestow lesen his love

To lete wel by thiselve,

And nevere happily eft entre,

But grace thow have.

"And ther are seven sustren

That serven Truthe evere,

And arn porters of the posternes

That to the place longeth.

"That oon hatte Abstinence,

And Humilité another;

Charité and Chastité

Ben hise chief maydenes;

Pacience and Pees

Muche peple thei helpeth;

Largenesse the lady,

She let in ful manye,

Heo hath holpe a thousand out

Of the develes punfolde;

And who is sib to thise sevene,

So me God helpe!

He is wonderly welcome,

And faire underfongen.

And but if ye be sibbe

To some of thise sevene,

It is ful hard, by myn heed!" quod Piers,

"For any of yow alle

To geten in-going at any gate there,

But grace be the moore."

"Now by Crist!" quod a kutte-purs

"I have no kyn there."

"Nor I," quod an ape-ward,

"By aught that I kan knowe."

"Wite God!" quod a wafrestere,

"Wiste I this for sothe,

Sholde I nevere ferther a foot,

For no freres prechyng."

"Yis," quod Piers the Plowman,

And poked hem alle to goode,

"Mercy is a maiden there

Hath myght over alle;

And she is sib to alle synfulle,

And hire sone also,

And thorugh the help of hem two

Hope thow noon oother,

Thow myght gete grace there,

So thow go bi-tyme."

"Bi seint Poul!" quod a pardoner,

"Peraventure I be noght knowe there;

I wol go fecche my box with my brevettes,

And a bulle with bisshopes lettres."

"By Crist!" quod a commune womman,

"Thi compaignie wol I folwe;

Thow shalt seye I am thi suster,

I ne woot where thei bicome."