The Vision and Creed of Piers Ploughman, Volume 1

Passus Sextus de Visione, ut supra.

HIS were a wikkede wey,

"Wyves and widewes,

Wolle and flex spynneth;

Maketh cloth, I counseille yow,

And kenneth so youre doughtres;

The nedy and the naked,

Nymeth hede how thei liggeth,

And casteth hem clothes,

For so comaundeth Truthe.

For I shal leven hem liflode,

But if the lond faille,

Flesshe and breed bothe

To riche and to poore,

As long as I lyve,

For the Lordes love of hevene;

And alle manere of men

That thorugh mete and drynke libbeth,

Helpeth hym to werche wightliche,

That wynneth youre foode."

"By Crist!" quod a knyght thoo,

"He kenneth us the beste;

Ac on the teme, trewely,

Taught was I nevere;

But kenne me," quod the knyght,

"And by Crist I wole assaye!"

"By seint Poul!" quod Perkyn,

"Ye profre yow so faire,

That I shal swynke and swete,

And sowe for us bothe,

And othere labours do for thi love

Al my lif tyme,

In covenaunt that thow kepe

Holy kirke and myselve

Fro wastours and fro wikked men

That this world destruyeth.

And go hunte hardiliche

To hares and to foxes,

To bores and to brokkes

That breken doun myne hegges;

And so affaite thi faucons

Wilde foweles to kille;

For swiche cometh to my croft,

And croppeth my whete."

Curteisly the knyght thanne

Comsed thise wordes;

"By my power, Piers!" quod he,

"I plighte thee my trouthe,

To fulfille this forwarde,

Though I fighte sholde;

Als longe as I lyve

I shal thee mayntene."

"Ye, and yet a point," quod Piers,

"I preye yow of moore,

Loke ye tene no tenaunt,

But Truthe wole assente;

And though ye mowe amercy hem,

Lat mercy be taxour,

And mekenesse thi maister,

Maugree Medes chekes.

And though povere men profre yow

Presentes and giftes,

Nyme it noght, an aventure

Ye mowe it noght deserve;

For thow shalt yelde it ayein

At one yeres tyme,

In a ful perilous place,

Purgatorie it hatte.

"And mys-bede noght thi bonde-men,

The bettre may thow spede;

Though he be thyn underlyng here,

Wel may happe in hevene

That he worth worthier set,

And with moore blisse.

Amice, ascende superius.

For in charnel at chirche

Cherles ben yvel to knowe,

Or a knyght from a knave there,

Knowe this in thyn herte.

And that thow be trewe of thi tonge,

And tales that thow hatie,

But if thei ben of wisdom or of wit

Thi werkmen to chaste.

Hold with none harlotes,

Ne here noght hir tales,

And namely at the mete

Swiche men eschuwe;

For it ben the develes disours,

I do the to understonde."

"I assente, by seint Jame!"

Seide the knyght thanne,

"For to werche by thi wordes

The while my lif dureth."

"And I shal apparaille me," quod Perkyn,

"In pilgrymes wise,

And wende with yow I wile,

Til we fynde Truthe;

And caste on my clothes

Y-clouted and hole,

My cokeres and my coffes,

For cold of my nailes;

And hange myn hoper at myn hals

In stede of a scryppe.

A busshel of bred corn

Brynge me therinne;

For I wol sowe it myself,

And sithenes wol I wende

To pilgrymage, as palmeres doon,

Pardon for to have.

And who so helpeth me to erie

And sowen here er I wende,

Shal have leve, by oure Lorde!

To lese here in hervest,

And make hem murie thermyd,

Maugree who so bi-gruccheth it.

And alle kynne crafty-men,

That konne lyven in truthe,

I shal fynden hem fode,

That feithfulliche libbeth.

"Save Jagge the jogelour,

And Jonette of the stuwes,

And Danyel the dees-pleyere,

And Denote the baude,

And frere the faitour,

And folk of hire ordre,

And Robyn the ribaudour

For hise rusty wordes.

Truthe tolde me ones,

And bad me telle it after,

Deleantur de libro viventium,

I sholde noght dele with hem,

For holy chirche is hote of hem

No tithe to take;

Qui cum justis non scribantur;

They ben ascaped good aventure,

God hem amende!"

Dame Werch-whan-tyme-is

Piers wif highte;

His doughter highte Do-right-so,-

Or-thi-dame-shal-thee-bete;

His sone highte Suffre-thi-sovereyns-

To-haven-hir-wille,-

Deme-hem-noght,-for-if-thow-doost,-

Thow-shalt-it-deere-abugge.

Lat God y-worthe with al,

For so his word techeth;

For now I am old and hoor,

And have of myn owene,

To penaunce and to pilgrimage

I wol passe with thise othere.

"For-thi I wole er I wende

Do write my biqueste,

In Dei nomine, Amen,

I make it myselve;

He shal have my soule,

That best hath deserved it;

And fro the fend it defende,

For so I bileve,

Til I come to hise acountes,

As my Credo me telleth,

To have a relees and a remission,

On that rental I leve.

"The kirke shal have my caroyne,

And kepe my bones;

For of my corn and catel

She craved the tithe;

I paide it ful prestly,

For peril of my soule.

For-thi is he holden I hope

To have me in his masse,

And mengen in his memorie

Amonges alle cristene.

"My wif shal have of that I wan

With truthe, and na-moore,

And dele among my doughtres,

And my deere children;

For though I deye to day,

My dettes are quyte;

I bar hom that I borwed,

Er I to bedde yede.

"And with the residue and the remenaunt,

By the Rode of Lukes!

I wol worshipe therwith

Truthe by my lyve,

And ben his pilgrym atte plow,

For povere mennes sake.

My plow-foot shall be my pikstaf,

And picche a-two the rotes,

And helpe my cultour to kerve

And clense the furwes."

Now is Perkyn and hise pilgrimes

To the plow faren;

To erie his half acre

Holpen hym manye;

Dikeres and delveres

Digged up the balkes.

Therwith was Perkyn a-payed,

And preised hem faste.

Othere werkmen ther were

That wroghten ful yerne;

Ech man in his manere

Made hymself to doone,

And somme to plese Perkyn

Piked up the wedes.

At heigh prime Piers

Leet the plowgh stonde,

To over-sen hem hymself,

And who so best wroghte

He sholde be hired therafter,

Whan hervest tyme come.

And thanne seten somme,

And songen atte nale,

And holpen ere this half acre

With "How, trolly lolly."

"Now, by the peril of my soule!" quod Piers,

All in pure tene,

"But ye arise the rather

And rape yow to werche,

Shal no greyn that groweth

Glade yow at nede,

And though ye deye for doel,

The devel have that reccheth."

Tho were faitours a-fered,

And feyned hem blynde;

Somme leide hir legges a-liry,

As swiche losels konneth,

And made hir mone to Piers,

And preide hym of grace;

"For we have no lymes to laboure with,

Lord, y-graced be the;

Ac we preie for yow, Piers,

And for youre plowgh bothe,

That God of his grace

Youre greyn multiplie,

And yelde yow for youre almesse

That ye gyve us here;

For we may noght swynke ne swete,

Swich siknesse us eyleth."

"If it be sooth," quod Piers, "that ye seyn,

I shal it soone aspie.

Ye ben wastours, I woot wel,

And Truthe woot the sothe;

And I am his olde hyne,

And highte hym to warne,

Whiche thei were in this world

Hise werkmen apeired.

Ye wasten that men wynnen

With travaille and with tene;

Ac Truthe shal teche yow

His teme to dryve,

Or ye shul eten barley breed,

And of the broke drynke.

"But if he be blynd or broke-legged,

Or bolted with irens,

He shall ete whete breed,

And drynke with myselve,

Til God of his goodnesse

Amendement hym sende.

Ac ye myghte travaille, as Truthe wolde,

And take mete and hyre,

To kepe kyen in the feld,

The corn fro the beestes,

Diken or delven,

Or dyngen upon sheves,

Or helpe make morter,

Or bere muk a-feld.

"In lecherie and in losengerie

Ye lyven, and in sleuthe;

And al is thorugh suffraunce,

That vengeaunce yow ne taketh.

"Ac ancres and heremites

That eten noght but at nones,

And na-moore er the morwe,

Myn almesse shul thei have,

And of catel to kepe hem with,

That han cloistres and chirches.

"Ac Robert Renaboute

Shal noght have of myne,

Ne postles, but thei preche konne

And have power of the bisshope;

Thei shul have payn and potage,

And make hemself at ese,

For it is an unreasonable religion

That hath right noght of certein."

And thanne gan Wastour to wrathen hym,

And wolde have y-foughte;

And to Piers the Plowman

He profrede his glove;

A bretoner, a braggere,

A-bosted Piers als,

And bad hym go pissen with his plowgh,

"For-pynede sherewe!

Wiltow or neltow,

We wol have oure wille

Of thi flour and of thi flesshe,

Fecche whanne us liketh;

And maken us murye thermyde,

Maugree thi chekes."

Thanne Piers the Plowman

Pleyned hym to the knyghte,

To kepen hym as covenaunt was

Fro cursede sherewes,

And fro thise wastours wolves-kynnes

That maketh the world deere;

"For tho wasten and wynnen noght,

And that ilke while

Worth nevere plentee among the peple,

The while my plowgh liggeth."

Curteisly the knyght thanne,

As his kynde wolde,

Warnede Wastour,

And wissed hym bettre,

"Or thow shalt abigge by the lawe,

By the ordre that I bere!"

"I was noght wont to werche," quod Wastour,

"And now wol I noght bigynne;"

And leet light of the lawe,

And lasse of the knyghte;

And sette Piers at a pese,

And his plowgh bothe;

And manaced Piers and his men,

If thei mette eft soone.

"Now, by the peril of my soule!" quod Piers,

"I shal apeire yow alle;"

And houped after Hunger,

That herde hym at the firste,

"A-wreke me of thise wastours," quod he,

"That this world shendeth."

Hunger in haste thoo

Hente Wastour by the wombe,

And wrong him so by the wombe,

That bothe hise eighen watrede.

He buffeted the bretoner

Aboute the chekes,

That he loked lik a lanterne

Al his lif after.

He bette hem so bothe,

He brast ner hire guttes;

Ne hadde Piers with a pese loof

Preyed Hunger to cesse,

They hadde be dolven,

Ne deme thow noon oother.

"Suffre hem lyve," he seide,

"And lat hem ete with hogges,

Or ellis benes or bren

Y-baken togideres,

Or ellis melk and mene ale;"

Thus preied Piers for hem.

Faitours for fere herof

Flowen into bernes,

And flapten on with flailes

Fro morwe til even;

That Hunger was noght so hardy

On hem for to loke,

For a potful of peses

That Piers hadde y-maked.

An heep of heremytes

Henten hem spades,

And kitten hir copes,

And courtepies hem maked,

And wente as werkmen

With spades and with shoveles

And dolven and dikeden,

To dryve awey hunger.

Blynde and bed-reden

Were bootned a thousande,

That seten to begge silver,

Soone were thei heeled;

For that was bake for bayarde,

Was boote for many hungry;

And many a beggere for benes

Buxum was to swynke;

And eche a povere man wel a-paied

To have pesen for his hyre,

And what Piers preide hem to do,

As prest as a sperhauk;

And therof was Piers proud,

And putte hem to werke,

And yaf hem mete as he myghte aforthe,

And mesurable hyre.

Thanne had Piers pité,

And preide Hunger to wende

Hoom unto his owene yerd,

And holden hym there;

"For I am wel a-wroke

Of wastours, thorugh thy myghte.

Ac I preie thee, er thow passe,"

Quod Piers to Hunger,

"Of beggeris and of bidderis

What best be to doone.

For I woot wel, be thow went,

Thei wol werche ful ille;

For meschief it maketh

Thei be so meke nouthe,

And for defaute of hire foode

This folk is at my wille.

"Thei are my blody bretheren," quod Piers,

"For God boughte us alle.

Truthe taughte me ones

To loven hem echone;

And to helpen hem of alle thyng

Ay as hem nedeth.

And now wolde I wite of thee

What were the beste;

And how I myghte a-maistren hem,

And make hem to werche."

"Here now," quod Hunger,

"And hoold it for a wisdom;

Bolde beggeris and bigge

That mowe hir breed bi-swynke,

With houndes breed and horse breed

Hoold up hir hertes;

A-bate hem with benes,

For bollynge of hir wombes;

And if the gomes grucche,

Bidde hem go swynke,

And he shal soupe swetter

Whan he it hath deserved.

"And if thow fynde any freke

That fortune hath apeired,

Or any manere false men,

Fonde thow swiche to knowe;

Conforte hym with thi catel,

For Cristes love of hevene;

Love hem and leve hem,

So lawe of God techeth,

Alter alterius onera portare.

"And alle manere of men

That thow myght aspie,

That nedy ben and noughty,

Help hem with thi goodes;

Love hem and lakke hem noght,

Lat God take the vengeaunce;

Theigh thei doon yvele,

Lat God y-worthe.

Mihi vindictam, et ego retribuam.

"And if thow wilt be gracious to God,

Do as the gospel techeth,

And bi-love thee amonges lewed men,

So shaltow lacche grace;

Facite vos amicos de Mammone iniquitatis."

"I wolde noght greve God," quod Piers,

"For al the good on grounde.

Mighte I synne-lees do as thow seist?"

Seide Piers thanne.

"Ye, I bi-hote thee," quod Hunger,

"Or ellis the Bible lieth;

Go to Genesis the geaunt,

The engendrour of us alle:

In sudore and swynk

Thow shalt thi mete tilie,

And laboure for thi liflode,

And so oure Lorde highte.

And Sapience seith the same,

I seigh it in the Bible,

Piger præ frigore

No feeld nolde tilie,

And therfore he shal begge and bidde,

And no man bete his hunger.

"Mathew with mannes face

Mouthed thise wordes,

That servus nequam hadde a mnam,

And for he wolde noght chaffare,

He hadde maugree of his maister

Evere moore after,

And by-nam hym his mnam,

For he ne wolde werche,

And yaf that mnam to hym

That ten mnames hadde;

And with that he seide,

That holy chirche it herde,

He that hath shal have

And helpe there it nedeth;

And he that noght hath shal noght have,

And no man hym helpe,

And that he weneth wel to have

I wole it hym bi-reve.

Kynde wit wolde

That ech a wight wroghte,

Or in dikynge or in delvynge,

Or travaillynge in preieres;

Contemplatif lif or actif lif

Crist wolde thei wroghte.

The Sauter seith in the Psalme

Of Beati omnes,

The freke that fedeth hymself

With his feithful labour,

He is blessed by the book

In body and in soule."

Labores manuum tuarum, etc.

"Yet I preie yow," quod Piers,

"Par charité, and ye konne

Any leef of leche-craft,

Lere it me, my deere;

For some of my servauntz,

And myself bothe,

Of al a wike werche noght,

So oure wombe aketh."

"I woot wel," quod Hunger,

"What siknesse yow eyleth;

Ye han manged over muche,

And that maketh yow grone.

Ac I hote thee," quod Hunger,

"As thow thyn hele wilnest,

That thow drynke no day

Er thow dyne som what.

Ete noght, I hote thee,

Er hunger thee take,

And sende thee of his sauce

To savore with thi lippes;

And keep som til soper-tyme,

And sitte noght to longe,

And rys up er appetit

Have eten his fille.

Lat noght sire Surfet

Sitten at thi borde.

Leve hym noght, for he is lecherous,

And likerous of tunge,

And after many maner metes

His mawe is a-fyngred.

"And if thow diete thee thus,

I dar legge myne eris,

That Phisik shal hise furred hodes

For his fode selle,

And his cloke of Calabre,

With alle the knappes of golde,

And be fayn, by my feith!

His phisik to lete,

And lerne to laboure with lond,

For liflode is swete.

For murthereris are manye leches,

Lord hem amende!

They do men deye thorugh hir drynkes,

Er destynee it wolde."

"By seint Poul!" quod Piers,

"Thise arn profitable wordes!

Wend now, Hunger, whan thow wolt,

That wel be thow evere!

For this is a lovely lesson,

Lord it thee for-yelde!"

"Bi-hote God!" quod Hunger,

"Hennes ne wole I wende,

Til I have dyned bi this day,

And y-dronke bothe."

"I have no peny," quod Piers,

"Pulettes to bugge,

Ne neither gees ne grys,

But two grene cheses,

A fewe cruddes and creme,

And an haver cake,

And two loves of benes and bran

Y-bake for my fauntes;

And yet I seye, by my soule!

I have no salt bacon,

Ne no cokeney, by Crist!

Coloppes for to maken.

"Ac I have percile and porettes,

And manye cole plauntes,

And ek a cow and a calf,

And a cart mare

To drawe a-feld my donge,

The while the droghte lasteth;

And by this liflode we mote lyve

Til Lammesse tyme.

And by that, I hope to have

Hervest in my crofte,

And thanne may I dighte thi dyner,

As me deere liketh."

Al the povere peple tho

Pescoddes fetten,

Benes and baken apples

Thei broghte in hir lappes,

Chibolles and chervelles,

And ripe chiries manye,

And profrede Piers this present

To plese with Hunger.

Al Hunger eet in haste,

And axed after moore.

Thanne povere folk, for fere,

Fedden Hunger yerne,

With grene poret and pesen,

To poisone hym thei thoghte.

By that it neghed neer hervest,

And newe corn cam to chepyng;

Thanne was folk fayn,

And fedde Hunger with the beste,

With goode ale, as Gloton taghte,

And garte Hunger go slepe.

And tho wolde Wastour noght werche,

But wandren aboute,

Ne no beggere ete breed

That benes inne were,

But of coket and cler-matyn,

Or ellis of clene whete;

Ne noon halfpeny ale

In none wise drynke,

But of the beste and of the brunneste

That in burghe is to selle.

Laborers that have no land

To lyve on but hire handes,

Deyned noght to dyne a day

Nyght-olde wortes;

May no peny ale hem paye,

Ne no pece of bacone,

But if it be fresshe flessh outher fisshe,

Fryed outher y-bake,

And that chaud and plus chaud,

For chillynge of hir mawe;

And but if he be heighliche hyred;

Ellis wole he chide,

And that he was werkman wroght

Waille the tyme,

Ayeins Catons counseil

Comseth he to jangle.

Paupertatis onus patienter ferre memento.

He greveth hym ageyn God,

And gruccheth ageyn Reson,

And thanne corseth he the kyng,

And al his counseil after,

Swiche lawes to loke

Laborers to greve.

Ac whiles Hunger was hir maister,

Ther wolde noon of hem chide,

Ne stryven ayeins his statut,

So sterneliche he loked.

Ac I warne yow, werkmen,

Wynneth whil ye mowe,

For Hunger hiderward

Hasteth hym faste.

He shal a-wake with water

Wastours to chaste;

Er fyve be fulfilled,

Swich famyn shal a-ryse,

Thorugh flodes and thorugh foule wedres

Fruytes shul faille,

And so seide Saturne,

And sente yow to warne.

Whan ye se the sonne a-mys,

And two monkes heddes,

And a mayde have the maistrie,

And multiplie by eighte,

Thanne shal deeth with-drawe,

And derthe be justice,

And Dawe the dykere

Deye for hunger;

But God of his goodnesse

Graunte us a trewe.

Passus Septimus de Visione, ut supra.

REUTHE herde telle her

Bysshopes y-blessed,

If thei ben as thei sholde,

Legistres of bothe lawes,

The lewed therwith to preche,

And in as muche as thei mowe

Amenden alle synfulle,

Arn peres with the Apostles,

This pardon Piers sheweth,

And at the day of dome

At the heighe deys sitte.

Marchauntz in the margyne

Hadde manye yeres,

Ac noon a pœna et a culpa

The pope nolde hem graunte,

For thei holde noght hir hali-dayes

As holy chirche techeth,

And for thei swere by hir soule,

And so God moste hem helpe,

Ayein clene Conscience,

Hir catel to selle.

Ac under his secret seel

Truthe sente hem a lettre,

That thei sholde buggen boldely

That hem best liked,

And sithenes selle it ayein,

And save the wynnyng,

And amende meson-dieux thermyd,

And mys-eise folk helpe,

And wikkede weyes

Wightly amende,

And do boote to brugges

That to-broke were,

Marien maydenes,

Or maken hem nonnes,

Povere peple and prisons

Fynden hem hir foode,

And sette scolers to scole,

Or to som othere craftes,

Releve religion,

And renten hem bettre;

"And I shal sende yow myselve

Seint Michel myn archangel,

That no devel shal yow dere,

Ne fere yow in youre deying,

And witen yow fro wanhope,

If ye wol thus werche,

And sende youre soules in saufté

To my seintes in joye."

Thanne were marchauntz murie,

Manye wepten for joye,

And preiseden Piers the Plowman,

That purchaced this bulle.

Men of lawe leest pardon hadde,

That pleteden for Mede;

For the Sauter saveth hem noght,

Swiche as take giftes,

And nameliche of innocentz

That noon yvel ne konneth.

Super innocentem munera non accipies.

Pledours sholde peynen hem

To plede for swiche and helpe;

Princes and prelates

Sholde paie for hire travaille.

A regibus et principibus erit merces eorum.

Ac many a justice and jurour

Wolde for Johan do moore

Than pro Dei pietate,

Leve thow noon oother.

Ac he that spendeth his speche,

And speketh for the povere

That is innocent and nedy,

And no man apeireth,

Conforteth hym in that caas

Withouten coveitise of giftes,

And sheweth lawe for oure Lordes love,

As he it hath y-lerned,

Shal no devel at his deeth day

Deren hym a myte,

That he ne worth saaf and his soule,

The Sauter bereth witnesse:

Domine, quis habitabit in tabernaculo tuo?

Ac to bugge water, ne wynd,

Ne wit, ne fir the ferthe,

Thise foure the fader of hevene

Made to this foold in commune.

Thise ben Truthes tresores

Trewe folk to helpe,

That nevere shul wexe ne wanye,

Withouten God hymselve.

Whan thei drawen on to deye,

And indulgences wolde have,

Hir pardon is ful petit

At hir partyng hennes,

That any mede of mene men

For hir motyng taketh.

Ye legistres and lawieres,

Holdeth this for truthe,

That if that I lye,

Mathew is to blame,

For he bad me make yow this,

And this proverbe me tolde,

Quodcunque vultis ut faciant vobis

homines, facite eis.

Alle libbynge laborers

That lyven with hir hondes,

That treweliche taken,

And treweliche wynnen,

And lyven in love and in lawe,

For hir lowe hertes

Haveth the same absolucion

That sent was to Piers.

Beggeres ne bidderes

Ne beth noght in the bulle,

But if the suggestion be sooth

That shapeth hem to begge.

For he that beggeth or bit,

But if he have nede,

He is fals with the feend,

And defraudeth the nedy;

And also he bi-gileth the gyvere,

Ageynes his wille;

For if he wiste he were noght nedy,

He wolde gyve that another

That were moore nedy than he,

So the nedieste sholde be holpe.

Caton kenneth me thus,

And the clerc of stories;

Cui des videto,

Is Catons techyng.

And in the stories he techeth

To bistowe thyn almesse.

Sit elemosina tua in manu tua,

donec studes cui des.

Ac Gregory was a good man,

And bad us gyven alle

That asketh for his love

That us al leneth.

Non eligas cui miserearis, ne forte

prætereas illum qui meretur

accipere. Quia incertum est

pro quo Deo magis placeas.

For wite ye nevere who is worthi,

Ac God woot who hath nede;

In hym that taketh is the trecherie,

If any treson walke.

For he that yeveth, yeldeth,

And yarketh hym to reste;

And he that biddeth, borweth,

And bryngeth hymself in dette.

For beggeres borwen evere mo,

And hir borgh is God almyghty,

To yelden hem that yeveth hem,

And yet usure moore.

Quare non dedisti pecuniam meam

ad mensam, ut ego veniam cum

usuris exigere?

For-thi biddeth noght, ye beggeres,

But if ye have gret nede;

For who so hath to buggen hym breed,

The book bereth witnesse,

He hath y-nough that hath breed y-nough,

Though he have noght ellis.

Satis dives est, qui non indiget pane.

Lat usage be youre solas,

Of seintes lyves redyng,

The book banneth beggerie,

And blameth hem in this manere:

Junior fui, et jam senui, et non vidi

justum derelictum, nec semen

ejus, etc.

For ye lyve in no love,

Ne no lawe holde;

Manye of yow ne wedde noght

The womman that ye with deele,

But as wilde bestes with 'wehee!'

Worthen uppe and werchen,

And bryngen forth barnes,

That bastardes men calleth;

Or the bak or som boon

He breketh in his youthe,

And siththe goon faiten with youre fauntes

For evere moore after.

Ther is moore mys-shapen peple

Amonges thise beggeres,

Than of alle manere men

That on this moolde walketh.

And thei that lyve thus hir lif,

Mowe lothe the tyme

That evere thei were men wroght,

Whan thei shal hennes fare.

Ac olde men and hore,

Than help-lees ben of strengthe,

And wommen with childe

That werche ne mowe,

Blynde and bed-reden,

And broken hire membres,

That taken thise myschiefs mekeliche,

As mesels and othere,

Han as pleyn pardon

As the plowman hymselve.

For love of hir lowe hertes,

Oure Lord hath hem graunted

Hir penaunce and hir purgatorie

Here on this erthe.

"Piers," quod a preest thoo,

"Thi pardon moste I rede;

For I wol construe ech clause,

And kenne it thee on Englisshe."

And Piers at his preiere

The pardon unfoldeth;

And I by-hynde hem bothe

Biheld al the bulle,

And in two lynes it lay,

And noght a leef more,

And was writen right thus,

In witnesse of Truthe:

Et qui bona egerunt, ibunt in vitam eternam.

Qui vero mala, in ignem eternum.

"Peter," quod the preest thoo,

"I kan no pardon fynde,

But do wel and have wel,

And God shal have thi soule,

And do yvel and have yvel,

Hope thow noon oother,

But after thi deeth-day

The devel shal have thi soule."

And Piers for pure tene

Pulled it a-tweyne,

And seide Si ambulavero in medio

umbræ mortis, non timebo mala,

quoniam tu mecum es.

"I shal cessen of my sowyng," quod Piers,

"And swynke noght so harde,

Ne aboute my bely joye

So bisy be na-moore;

Of preieres and of penaunce

My plough shal ben herafter,

And wepen whan I sholde slepe,

Though whete-breed me faille.

"The prophete his payn eet

In penaunce and in sorwe,

By that the Sauter seith,

So dide othere manye;

That loveth God lelly,

His liflode is ful esy.

Fuerunt mihi lacrimæ meæ panes

die ac nocte.

"And but if Luc lye,

He lereth us by foweles,

We sholde noght be to bisy

Aboute the worldes blisse;

Ne soliciti sitis,

He seith in the Gospel,

And sheweth us by ensamples

Us selve to wisse.

The foweles in the feld,

Who fynt hem mete at wynter?

Have thei no gerner to go to,

But God fynt hem alle."

"What!" quod the preest to Perkyn,

"Peter! as me thynketh,

Thow art lettred a litel:—

Who lerned thee on boke?"

"Abstynence the abbesse," quod Piers,

"Myn a.b.c. me taughte;

And Conscience cam afterward,

And kenned me muche moore."

"Were thow a preest," quod he,

"Thou myghtest preche where thou sholdest,

As divinour in divinité,

With Dixit insipiens to thi teme."

"Lewed lorel!" quod Piers,

"Litel lokestow on the Bible;

On Salomons sawes

Selden thow biholdest:

Ejice derisores et jurgia cum eis, ne

crescant, etc."

The preest and Perkyn

Opposeden either oother.

And I thorugh hir wordes a-wook,

And waited aboute,

And seigh the sonne in the south

Sitte that tyme,

Mete-lees and monei-lees

On Malverne hulles,

Musynge on this metels,

And my wey ich yede.

ANY tyme this metels

To sette sadnesse in songewarie,

For sompnia ne cures.

Ac for the book Bible

Bereth witnesse

How Daniel divined

The dreem of a kyng,

That was Nabugodonosor

Nempned of clerkes.

Daniel seide, "Sire kyng,

Thi dremels bitokneth

That unkouthe knyghtes shul come

Thi kyngdom to cleyme;

Amonges lower lordes

Thi lond shal be departed."

And as Daniel divined,

In dede it fel after;

The kyng lees his lordshipe,

And lower men it hadde.

And Joseph mette merveillously

How the moone and the sonne

And the ellevene sterres

Hailsed hym alle.

Thanne Jacob jugged

Josephes swevene.

"Beau fitz," quod his fader,

"For defaute we shullen,

I myself and my sones,

Seche thee for nede."

It bifel as his fader seide,

In Pharaoes tyme,

That Joseph was justice

Egipte to loke;

It bifel as his fader tolde,

Hise frendes there hym soughte,

And al this maketh me

On this metels to thynke.

And how the preest preved

No pardon to Do-wel,

And demed that Do-wel

Indulgences passed,

Biennals and triennals,

And bisshopes lettres;

And how Do-wel at the day of dome

Is digneliche underfongen,

And passeth al the pardon

Of seint Petres cherche.

Now hath the pope power

Pardon to graunte the peple,

Withouten any penaunce

To passen into hevene;

This is oure bileve,

As lettred men us techeth:

Quodcumque ligaveris super terram,

erit ligatum et in cœlis, etc.

And so I leve leelly,

Lordes forbode ellis!

That pardon and penaunce

And preieres doon save

Soules that have synned

Seven sithes dedly;

Ac to truste to thise triennals,

Trewely me thynketh,

Is noght so siker for the soule,

Certes, as is Do-wel.

For-thi I rede yow, renkes,

That riche ben on this erthe,

Upon trust of youre tresor

Triennals to have,

Be ye never the bolder

To breake the .x. hestes;

And namely ye maistres,

Meires and jugges,

That have the welthe of this world

And for wise men ben holden,

To purchace yow pardon

And the popes bulles.

At the dredful dome,

Whan dede shulle rise,

And comen alle to-fore Crist

Acountes to yelde,

How thow laddest thi lif here,

And hise lawes keptest,

And how thow didest day by day,

The doom wole reherce.

A poke ful of pardon there,

Ne provincials lettres,

Theigh ye be founde in the fraternité

Of alle the foure ordres,

And have indulgences double-fold,

But if Do-wel yow helpe,

I sette youre patentes and youre pardon

At one pies hele.

For-thi I counseille alle Cristene

To crie God mercy,

And Marie his moder

Be oure meene bitwene,

That God gyve us grace here,

Er we go hennes,

Swiche werkes to werche

While we ben here,

That after oure deeth-day

Do-wel reherce

At the day of dome,

We dide as he highte.