The Vision and Creed of Piers Ploughman, Volume 1

N a somer seson,

As I a sheep weere,

In habite as an heremite

Unholy of werkes,

Wente wide in this world

Wondres to here;

Ac on a May morwenynge

On Malverne hilles

Me bifel a ferly,

Of fairye me thoghte.

I was wery for-wandred,

And wente me to reste

Under a brood bank

By a bournes syde;

And as I lay and lenede,

And loked on the watres,

I slombred into a slepyng,

It sweyed so murye.

Thanne gan I meten

A merveillous swevene,

That I was in a wildernesse,

Wiste I nevere where,

And as I biheeld into the eest

An heigh to the sonne,

I seigh a tour on a toft

Trieliche y-maked,

A deep dale bynethe,

A dongeon therinne,

With depe diches and derke

And dredfulle of sighte.

A fair feeld ful of folk

Fond I ther bitwene,

Of alle manere of men,

The meene and the riche,

Werchynge and wandrynge,

As the world asketh.

Some putten hem to the plough,

Pleiden ful selde,

In settynge and sowynge

Swonken ful harde,

And wonnen that wastours

With glotonye destruyeth.

And somme putten hem to pride,

Apparailed hem therafter,

In contenaunce of clothynge

Comen degised.

In preires and penaunces

Putten hem manye,

Al for the love of oure Lord

Lyveden ful streyte,

In hope to have after

Hevene riche blisse;

As ancres and heremites

That holden hem in hire selles,

And coveiten noght in contree

To carien aboute,

For no likerous liflode

Hire likame to plese.

And somme chosen chaffare;

Thei cheveden the bettre,

As it semeth to our sight

That swiche men thryveth.

And somme murthes to make,

As mynstralles konne,

And geten gold with hire glee,

Giltles, I leeve.

Ac japeres and jangeleres,

Judas children,

Feynen hem fantasies,

And fooles hem maketh,

And han hire wit at wille

To werken, if thei wolde.

That Poul precheth of hem

I wol nat preve it here;

But Qui loquitur turpiloquium

Is Luciferes hyne.

Bidderes and beggeres

Faste aboute yede,

With hire belies and hire bagges

Of breed ful y-crammed;

Faiteden for hire foode,

Foughten at the ale.

In glotonye, God woot,

Go thei to bedde,

And risen with ribaudie,

Tho Roberdes knaves;

Sleep and sory sleuthe

Seweth hem evere.

Pilgrymes and palmeres

Plighten hem togidere,

For to seken seint Jame,

And seintes at Rome.

They wenten forth in hire wey,

With many wise tales,

And hadden leve to lyen

Al hire lif after.

I seigh somme that seiden

Thei hadde y-sought seintes;

To ech a tale that thei tolde

Hire tonge was tempred to lye,

Moore than to seye sooth,

It semed bi hire speche.

Heremytes on an heep

With hoked staves

Wenten to Walsyngham,

And hire wenches after,

Grete lobies and longe

That lothe were to swynke;

Clothed hem in copes,

To ben knowen from othere;

And shopen hem heremytes,

Hire ese to have.

I fond there freres,

Alle the foure ordres,

Prechynge the peple

For profit of hemselve;

Glosed the gospel,

As hem good liked;

For coveitise of copes,

Construwed it as thei wolde.

Many of thise maistre freres

Now clothen hem at likyng,

For hire moneie and hire marchaundize

Marchen togideres.

For sith charité hath ben chapman,

And chief to shryve lordes,

Manye ferlies han fallen

In a fewe yeres;

But holy chirche and hii

Holde bettre togidres,

The mooste meschief on molde

Is mountynge wel faste.

Ther preched a pardoner,

As he a preest were;

Broughte forth a bulle

With many bisshopes seles,

And seide that hymself myghte

Assoillen hem alle,

Of falshede, of fastynge,

Of avowes y-broken.

Lewed men leved it wel,

And liked hise wordes;

Comen up knelynge

To kissen hise bulles.

He bouched hem with his brevet,

And blered hire eighen,

And raughte with his rageman

Rynges and broches.

Thus thei gyven hire gold

Glotons to kepe,

And leveth in swiche losels

As leccherie haunten.

Were the bisshope y-blessed,

And worth bothe hise eris,

His seel sholde noght be sent

To deceyve the peple.

Ac it is noght by the bisshope

That the boy precheth;

For the parisshe preest and the pardoner

Parten the silver,

That the poraille of the parisshe

Sholde have, if thei ne were.

Parsons and parisshe preestes

Pleyned hem to the bisshope,

That hire parisshes weren povere

Sith the pestilence tyme,

To have a licence and leve

At London to dwelle,

And syngen ther for symonie;

For silver is swete.

Bisshopes and bachelers,

Bothe maistres and doctours,

That han cure under Crist,

And crownynge in tokene

And signe that thei sholden

Shryven hire parisshens,

Prechen and praye for hem,

And the povere fede,

Liggen at Londone

In Lenten and ellis.

Somme serven the kyng,

And his silver tellen

In cheker and in chauncelrie,

Chalangen hise dettes

Of wardes and of wardemotes,

Weyves and streyves.

And somme serven as servauntz

Lordes and ladies,

And in stede of stywardes

Sitten and demen;

Hire messe and hire matyns

And many of hire houres

Arn doon un-devoutliche;

Drede is at the laste,

Lest Crist in consistorie

A-corse ful manye.

I perceyved of the power

That Peter hadde to kepe,

To bynden and unbynden,

As the book telleth;

How he it lefte with love,

As oure Lord highte,

Amonges foure vertues,

The beste of alle vertues,

That cardinals ben called,

And closynge yates.

There is Crist in his kingdom

To close and to shette,

And to opene it to hem,

And hevene blisse shewe.

Ac of the cardinals at court

That kaughte of that name,

And power presumed in hem

A pope to make,

To han that power that Peter hadde,

Impugnen I nelle;

For in love and in lettrure

The election bilongeth,

For-thi I kan and kan naught

Of court speke moore.

Thanne kam ther a kyng,

Knyghthod hym ladde,

Might of the communes

Made hym to regne.

And thanne cam kynde wit,

And clerkes he made,

For to counseillen the kyng,

And the commune save.

The kyng and knyghthod,

And clergie bothe,

Casten that the commune

Sholde hemself fynde.

The commune contreved

Of kynde wit craftes,

And for profit of al the peple

Plowmen ordeyned,

To tilie and to travaille,

As trewe lif asketh.

The kyng and the commune,

And kynde wit the thridde,

Shopen lawe and leauté,

Ech man to knowe his owene.

Thanne loked up a lunatik,

A leene thyng with-alle,

And, knelynge to the kyng,

Clergially he seide:

"Crist kepe thee, sire kyng!

And thi kyng-ryche,

And lene thee lede thi lond,

So leauté thee lovye,

And for thi rightful rulyng

Be rewarded in hevene."

And sithen in the eyr an heigh

An aungel of hevene

Lowed to speke in Latyn,

For lewed men ne koude

Jangle ne jugge,

That justifie hem sholde,

But suffren and serven;

For-thi seide the aungel:

Sum rex, sum princeps,

Neutrum fortasse deinceps;

O qui jura regis

Christi specialia regis,

Hoc quod agas melius,

Justus es, esto pius.

Nudum jus a te

Vestiri vult pietate;

Qualia vis metere,

Talia grana sere.

Si jus nudatur,

Nudo de jure metatur;

Si seritur pietas,

De pietate metas.

Thanne greved hym a goliardeis,

A gloton of wordes,

And to the aungel an heigh

Answerde after:

Dum rex a regere

Dicatur nomen habere;

Nomen habet sine re,

Nisi studet jura tenere.

Thanne gan al the commune

Crye in vers of Latyn,

To the kynges counseil;

Construe who so wolde:

Præcepta regis

Sunt nobis vincula legis.

With that ran ther a route

Of ratons at ones,

And smale mees myd hem

Mo than a thousand,

And comen to a counseil

For the commune profit;

For a cat of a contree

Cam whan hym liked,

And overleep hem lightliche,

And laughte hem at his wille,

And pleide with hem perillousli,

And possed aboute.

"For doute of diverse dredes,

We dar noght wel loke;

And if we grucche of his gamen,

He wol greven us alle,

Cracchen us or clawen us,

And in hise clouches holde,

That us lotheth the lif

Er he late us passe.

Mighte we with any wit

His wille withstonde,

We mighte be lordes o-lofte,

And lyven at oure ese."

A raton of renoun,

Moost renable of tonge,

Seide for a sovereyn

Help to hymselve:

"I have y-seyen segges," quod he

"In the cité of Londone,

Beren beighes ful brighte

Abouten hire nekkes,

And somme colers of crafty werk;

Uncoupled thei wenten

Bothe in wareyne and in waast

Where hemself liked.

And outher while thei arn ellis-where,

As I here telle;

Were ther a belle on hire beighe,

By Jhesu, as me thynketh,

Men myghte witen wher thei wente,

And awey renne!"

"And right so," quod that raton,

"Reson me sheweth,

To bugge a belle of bras,

Or of bright silver,

And knytten it on a coler

For oure commune profit,

Wher he ryt or rest,

Or renneth to pleye;

And if hym list for to laike,

Thanne loke we mowen,

And peeren in his presence

The while him pleye liketh:

And, if hym wratheth, be war,

And his way shonye."

Al this route of ratons

To this reson thei assented.

Ac tho the belle was y-brought,

And on the beighe hanged,

Ther ne was raton in al the route,

For al the reaume of Fraunce,

That dorste have bounden the belle

About the cattes nekke,

Ne hangen it aboute the cattes hals,

Al Engelond to wynne.

Alle helden hem un-hardy,

And hir counseil feble;

And leten hire labour lost

And al hire longe studie.

A mous that muche good

Kouthe, as me thoughte,

Strook forth sternely,

And stood bifore hem alle,

And to the route of ratons

Reherced thise wordes:

"Though we killen the cat,

Yet sholde ther come another

To cacchen us and al oure kynde,

Though we cropen under benches.

For-thi I counseille al the commune

To late the cat worthe;

And be we nevere bolde

The belle hym to shewe;

For I herde my sire seyn,

Is seven yeer y-passed,

Ther the cat is a kitone

The court is ful elenge;

That witnesseth holy writ,

Who so wole it rede:

Væ terræ ubi puer rex est! etc.

For may no renk ther reste have

For ratons by nyghte;

The while he caccheth conynges,

He coveiteth noght youre caroyne,

But fedeth hym al with venyson:

Defame we hym nevere.

For better is a litel los

Than a long sorwe,

The maze among us alle,

Theigh we mysse a sherewe;

For many mennes malt

We mees wolde destruye,

And also ye route of ratons

Rende mennes clothes,

Nere the cat of that court

That can yow over-lepe;

For hadde ye rattes youre wille,

Ye kouthe noght rule yow selve."

"I seye for me," quod the mous,

"I se so muchel after,

Shal nevere the cat ne the kiton

By my counseil be greved,

Thorugh carpynge of this coler

That costed me nevere

And though it hadde costned me catel,

Bi-knowen it I nolde,

But suffren, as hymself wolde,

To doon as hym liketh,

Coupled and uncoupled

To cacche what thei mowe.

For-thi ech a wis wight I warne,

Wite wel his owene."

What this metels by-meneth,

Ye men that ben murye

Devyne ye, for I ne dar,

By deere God in hevene.

Yet hoved ther an hundred

In howves of selk,

Sergeantz it bi-semed

That serveden at the barre,

Pleteden for penyes

And poundes the lawe;

And noght for love of our Lord

Unclose hire lippes ones.

Thow myghtest bettre meete myst

On Malverne hilles,

Than gete a mom of hire mouth,

Til moneie be shewed.

Barons and burgeises,

And bonde-men als,

I seigh in this assemblee,

As ye shul here after:

Baksteres and brewesteres,

And bochiers manye;

Wollen webbesters,

And weveres of lynnen,

Taillours and tynkers,

And tollers in markettes,

Masons and mynours,

And many othere craftes.

Of alle kynne lybbynge laborers

Lopen forth somme,

As dikeres and delveres,

That doon hire dedes ille,

And dryveth forth the longe day

With Dieu save dame Emme.

Cokes and hire knaves

Cryden, "Hote pies, hote!

Goode gees and grys!

Gowe, dyne, gowe!"

Taverners until hem

Trewely tolden the same,

Whit wyn of Oseye,

And reed wyn of Gascoigne,

Of the Ryn and of the Rochel,

The roost to defie.

[Al this I saugh slepynge,

And seve sithes more.]

Passus Primus de Visione.

HAT this mountaigne by-meneth

And wolde that ye wroughte,

As his word techeth!

For he is fader of feith,

And formed yow alle

Bothe with fel and with face,

And yaf yow fyve wittes,

For to worshipe hym therwith,

While that ye ben here.

And therfore he highte the erthe

To helpe yow echone,

Of wollene, of lynnen,

Of liflode at nede,

In mesurable manere

To make yow at ese;

And comaunded of his curteisie

In commune three thynges,

Are none nedfulle but tho,

And nempne hem I thynke,

And rekene hem by reson;

Reherce thow hem after.

"That oon vesture,

From cold thee to save;

And mete at meel

For mysese of thiselve;

And drynke whan thow driest;

Ac do noght out of reson,

That thow worthe the wers

Whan thow werche sholdest.

"For Lot in hise lif-dayes,

For likynge of drynke,

Dide by hise doughtres

That the devel liked,

Delited hym in drynke

As the devel wolde,

And leccherie hym laughte,

And lay by hem bothe,

And al he witte it the wyn

That wikked dede.

Inebriamus eum vino, dormiamusque

cum eo, ut servare possimus de

patre nostro semen.

Thorugh wyn and thorugh wommen

Ther was Loth acombred,

And there gat in glotonie

Gerles that were cherles.

"For-thi dred delitable drynke,

And thow shalt do the bettre.

Mesure is medicine,

Though thow muchel yerne.

It is nought al good to the goost

That the gut asketh,

Ne liflode to thi likame;

For a liere hym techeth,

That is the wrecched world

Wolde thee bitraye.

For the fend and thi flesshe

Folwen togidere.

This and that seeth thi soule,

And seith it in thin herte;

And for thow sholdest ben y-war,

I wisse thee the beste."

"Madame, mercy!" quod I,

"Me liketh wel youre wordes;

Ac the moneie of this molde

That men so faste holdeth,

Tel me to whom, madame,

That tresour appendeth."

"Go to the gospel," quod she,

"That God seide hymselven;

Tho the poeple hym apposede

With a peny in the temple,

Wheither thei sholde therwith

Worshipe the kyng Cesar.

"And God asked of hym,

Of whom spak the lettre,

And the ymage was lik

That therinne stondeth.

"'Cesares,' thei seiden,

'We seen it wel echone.'

"'Reddite Cæsari,' quod God,

'That Cæsari bifalleth,

Et quæ sunt Dei Deo,'

Or ellis ye don ille;

For rightfully reson

Sholde rule yow alle,

And kynde wit be wardeyn

Youre welthe to kepe,

And tutour of youre tresor,

And take it yow at nede,

For housbondrie and hii

Holden togidres."

Thanne I frayned hire faire,

For hym that me made,

"That dongeon in the dale,

That dredful is of sighte,

What may it be to meene,

Madame, I yow biseche?"

"That is the castel of Care;

Who so comth therinne

May banne that he born was,

To bodi or to soule.

Therinne wonyeth a wight

That Wrong is y-hote,

Fader of falshede,

And founded it hymselve.

Adam and Eve

He egged to ille;

Counseilled Kaym

To killen his brother;

Judas he japed

With Jewen silver,

And sithen on an eller

Hanged hymselve.

He is lettere of love,

And lieth hem alle

That trusten on his tresour;

Bitrayeth he hem sonnest."

Thanne hadde I wonder in my wit

What womman it weere,

That swiche wise wordes

Of holy writ shewed;

And asked hire on the heighe name,

Er she thennes yede,

What she were witterly

That wissed me so faire.

"Holi chirche I am," quod she,

"Thow oughtest me to knowe;

I underfeng thee first,

And the feith taughte;

And broughtest me borwes

My biddyng to fulfille,

And to loven me leelly

The while thi lif dureth."

Thanne I courbed on my knees,

And cried hire of grace;

And preide hire pitously

Preye for my sinnes,

And also kenne me kyndely

On Crist to bi-leve,

That I myghte werchen his wille

That wroghte me to man.

"Teche me to no tresor,

But tel me this ilke,

How I may save my soule,

That seint art y-holden."

"Whan alle tresors arn tried," quod she,

"Treuthe is the beste;

I do it on Deus caritas,

To deme the sothe,

It is as dereworthe a drury

As deere God hymselven.

"Who is trewe of his tonge,

And telleth noon oother,

And dooth the werkes therwith,

And wilneth no man ille,

He is a God by the gospel

A-grounde and o-lofte,

And y-lik to oure Lord,

By seint Lukes wordes.

The clerkes that knowen this,

Sholde kennen it aboute,

For cristen and un-cristen

Cleymeth it echone.

"Kynges and knyghtes

Sholde kepen it by reson,

Riden and rappen doun

In reaumes aboute,

And taken transgressores,

And tyen hem faste,

Til treuthe hadde y-termyned

Hire trespas to the ende.

And that is profession apertli

That apendeth to knyghtes;

And naught to fasten o friday

In fyve score wynter,

But holden with hym and with here

That wolden alle truthe,

And nevere leve hem for love

Ne for lacchynge of silver.

For David in hise dayes

Dubbed knyghtes,

And dide hem sweren on hir swerdes

To serven truthe evere;

And who so passed that point

Was apostata in the ordre.

"But Crist kyngene kyng

Knyghted ten,

Cherubyn and seraphyn,

Swiche sevene and othere

And yaf hem myght in his majestee,

The murier hem thoughte,

And over his meene meynee

Made hem archangeles;

Taughte hem by the Trinitee

Treuthe to knowe;

To be buxom at his biddyng,

He bad hem nought ellis.

"Lucifer with legions

Lerned it in hevene;

But for he brak buxomnesse

His blisse gan he tyne,

And fel fro that felawshipe

In a fendes liknesse,

Into a deep derk helle,

To dwelle there for evere;

And mo thousandes myd hym

Than man kouthe nombre

Lopen out with Lucifer

In lothliche forme,

For thei leveden upon hym

That lyed in this manere:

Ponam pedem in aquilone, et similis ero altissimo.

"And alle that hoped it myghte be so,

Noon hevene myghte hem holde,

But fellen out in fendes liknesse

Nyne dayes togideres,

Til God of his goodnesse

Gan stablisse and stynte,

And garte the hevene to stekie

And stonden in quiete.

"Whan thise wikkede wenten out,

In wonder wise thei fellen;

Somme in the eyr, somme in erthe,

And somme in helle depe;

Ac Lucifer lowest lith

Yet of hem alle,

For pride that he putte out,

His peyne hath noon ende.

And alle that werchen with wrong,

Wende thei shulle,

After hir deth day

And dwelle with that sherewe.

"And tho that werche wel,

As holy writ telleth,

And enden as I er seide

In truthe, that is the beste,

Mowe be siker that hire soules

Shul wende to hevene,

Ther treuthe is in trinitee,

And troneth hem alle.

For-thi I seye, as I seyde er,

By sighte of thise textes,

Whan alle tresors arn tried,

Truthe is the beste;

Lereth it thise lewed men,

For lettred men it knoweth,

That treuthe is tresor

The trieste on erthe."

"Yet have I no kynde knowyng." quod I,

"Ye mote kenne me bettre,

By what craft in my cors

It comseth, and where."

"Thow doted daffe," quod she,

"Dulle are thi wittes;

To litel Latyn thow lernedest,

Leode, in thi youthe."

Heu michi! quia sterilem duxi vitam juvenilem.

"It is a kynde knowyng," quod she,

"That kenneth in thyn herte,

For to loven thi Lord

Levere than thiselve,

No dedly synne to do,

Deye theigh thow sholdest;

This I trowe be truthe.

Who kan teche thee bettre,

Loke thow suffre hym to seye,

And sithen lere it after;

For truthe telleth that love

Is triacle of hevene.

May no synne be on hym seene,

That useth that spice,

And alle hise werkes be wroughte

With love as hym liste;

And lered it Moyses for the leveste thyng,

And moost lik to hevene,

And al so the plentee of pees

Moost precious of vertues;

For hevene myghte nat holden it,

It was so hevy of hymself,

Til it hadde of the erthe

Eten his fille.

"And whan it hadde of this fold

Flesshe and blood taken,

Was nevere leef upon lynde

Lighter therafter,

And portatif and persaunt

As the point of a nedle,

That myghte noon armure it lette,

Ne none heighe walles.

"For-thi is love ledere

Of the Lordes folk of hevene,

And a meene, as the mair is

Bitwene the kyng and the commune;

Right so is love a ledere,

And the law shapeth,

Upon man for hise mysdedes

The mercyment he taxeth.

And for to knowen it kyndely

It comseth by myght,

And in the herte there is the heed

And the heighe welle;

For in kynde knowynge in herte,

Ther a myght bigynneth;

And that falleth to the fader

That formed us alle,

Loked on us with love,

And leet his sone dye

Mekely for oure mysdedes,

To amenden us alle.

And yet wolde he hem no wo

That wroughte hym that peyne,

But mekely with mouthe

Mercy bisoughte,

To have pité of that peple

That peyned hym to dethe.

"There myghtow sen ensample

In hymself oone,

That he was myghtful and meke,

And mercy gan graunte

To hem that hengen hym on heigh

And his herte thirled.

"For-thi I rede yow, riche,

Haveth ruthe of the povere;

Though ye be myghtful to mote,

Beeth meke in youre werkes,

For the same mesures that ye mete,

Amys outher ellis,

Ye shulle ben weyen therwith

Whan ye wenden hennes.

Eadem mensura qua mensi fueritis, remetietur vobis.

"For though ye be trewe of youre tonge

And treweliche wynne,

And as chaste as a child

That in chirche wepeth,

But if ye loven leelly

And lene the povere,

Swich good as God yow sent

Goodliche parteth,

Ye ne have namoore merite

In masse nor in houres,

Than Malkyn of hire maydenhede

That no man desireth.

"For James the gentile

Jugged in hise bokes,

That feith withouten the feet

Is right no thyng worthi,

And as deed as a dore-tree,

But if the dedes folwe.

Fides sine operibus mortua est, etc.

"For-thi chastité withouten charité

Worth cheyned in helle;

It is as lewed as a lampe

That no light is inne.

Manye chapeleyns arn chaste,

Ac charité is aweye;

Are no men avarouser than hii

Whan thei ben avaunced,

Unkynde to hire kyn,

And to alle cristene

Chewen hire charité,

And chiden after moore;

Swiche chastité withouten charité

Worth cheyned in helle.

"Manye curatours kepen hem

Clene of hire bodies;

Thei ben acombred with coveitise,

Thei konne noght doon it from hem,

So harde hath avarice

Y-hasped hem togideres;

And that is no truthe of the Trinité,

But tricherie of helle,

And lernynge to lewed men

The latter for to deele.

For-thi thise wordes

Ben writen in the gospel,

Date, et dabitur vobis,

For I deele yow alle,

And that is the lok of love,

And leteth out my grace,

To conforten the carefulle

A-combred with synne.

"Love is leche of lif,

And next oure Lord selve,

And also the graithe gate

That goth into hevene;

For-thi I seye, as I seide

Er by the textes,

Whan alle tresors ben tried,

Treuthe is the beste.

"Now have I told thee what truthe is,

That no tresor is bettre;

I may no lenger lenge thee with,

Now loke thee oure Lorde."