The Vision and Creed of Piers Ploughman, Volume 2

Passus Decimus Sextus, etc. et Primus de Do-bet.

OW faire falle yow," quod I tho,

Forsake alle othere saulees.

Lord!" quod I, "if any wight wite

Whider out it groweth."

"It groweth in a gardyn," quod he,

"That God made hymselve,

Amyddes mannes body,

The more is of that stokke,

Herte highte the herber

That it inne groweth.

And liberum arbitrium

Hath the lond the ferme

Under Piers the Plowman,

To piken it and to weden it."

"Piers the Plowman!" quod I tho,

And al for pure joye

That I herde nempne his name,

Anoon I swowned after,

And lay longe in a lone dreem;

And at the laste, me thoughte

That Piers the Plowman

Al the place me shewed,

And bad me to toten on the tree,

On top and on roote;

With thre piles was it under-pight,

I perceyved it soone.

"Piers," quod I, "I preie thee,

Whi stonde thise piles here?"

"For wyndes, wiltow wite," quod he,

To witen it fro fallyng.

Cum ceciderit justus, non collidetur,

quia Dominus supponit manum

suam.

And in blowyng tyme, abite the flowres,

But if thise piles helpe,

"The world is a wikked wynd

To hem that willen truthe;

Coveitise comth of that wynd,

And crepeth among the leves,

And for-freteth neigh the fruyt

Thorugh manye faire sightes;

Thanne with the firste pil I palle hym down,

That is Potentia Dei.

"The flessh is a fel wynd,

And in flouryng tyme

Thorugh likynge and lustes

So loude he gynneth blowe,

That it norisseth nyce sightes,

And som tyme wordes,

And wikkede werkes therof,

Wormes of synne,

And for-biteth the blosmes

Right to the bare leves.

"Than sette I to the secounde pil

Sapientia Dei patris;

That is the passion and the power

Of oure prince Jhesu.

Thorugh preieres and thorugh penaunces,

And Goddes passion in mynde,

I save it til I se it ripen

And som del y-fruyted.

"And thanne fondeth the fend

My fruyt to destruye,

With alle the wiles that he kan;

And waggeth the roote,

And casteth up to the crop

Unkynde neighebores;

Bakbiteris breke the cheste,

Brawleris and chideris,

And leith a laddre therto,

Of lesynges are the ronges,

And feccheth awey my floures som tyme

Afore bothe myne eighen.

Ac liberum arbitrium

Letteth hym som tyme,

That is lieutenaunt to loken it wel,

Bi leve of myselve.

Videatis qui peccat in spiritum

sanctum nunquam remittetur,

etc. Hoc est idem, qui peccat

per liberum arbitrium non

repurgatur.

"Ac whan the fend and the flessh

Forth with the world

Manacen bihynde me

My fruyt for to fecche,

Thanne liberum arbitrium

Laccheth the firste plante,

And palleth adoun the pouke,

Pureliche thorugh grace

And help of the Holy Goost,

And thus have I the maistrie."

"Now faire falle yow! Piers," quod I,

"So faire ye discryven

The power of thise postes,

And hire propre myghtes.

Ac I have thoughtes a threve

Of thise thre piles,

In what wode thei woxen,

And where that thei growed;

For alle are thei aliche longe,

Noon lasse than oother,

And to my mynde, as me thinketh,

On o more thei growed,

And of o greetnesse,

And grene of greyn thei semen."

"That is sooth," quod Piers,

"So it may bifalle;

I shal telle thee as tid

What this tree highte.

The ground there it groweth,

Goodnesse it hatte;

And I have told thee what highte the tree,

The Trinité it meneth."

And egreliche he loked on me;

And therfore I spared

To asken hym any moore therof,

And bad hym ful faire

To discryve the fruyt

That so faire hangeth.

"Heer no bynethe," quod he tho,

"If I nede hadde,

Matrimoyne I may nyme,

A moiste fruyt withalle;

Thanne continence is neer the crop,

As kaylewey bastard,

Thanne bereth the crop kynde fruyt,

And clennest of alle,

Maidenhode aungeles peeris

And rathest wole be ripe,

And swete withouten swellyng,

Sour worth it nevere."

I preide Piers tho to pulle a-doun

An appul, and he wolde,

And suffre me to assaien

What savour it hadde.

And Piers caste to the crop,

And thanne comsed it to crye,

And waggede widwehode,

And it wepte after;

And whan it meved matrimoyne,

It made a foul noise.

And I hadde ruthe whan Piers rogged,

It gradde so rufulliche;

For evere as thei dropped a-doun,

The devel was redy

And gadrede hem alle togideres,

Bothe grete and smale,

Adam and Abraham,

And Ysaye the prophete,

Sampson and Samuel,

And seint Johan the Baptist,

Bar hem forth bodily,

No body hym letted,

And made of holy men his hoord

In limbo inferni,

There is derknesse and drede,

And the devel maister.

And Piers, for pure tene,

Of that a pil he raughte;

He hitte after hym,

Hitte how it myghte,

Filius by the fader wille,

And frenesse of Spiritus sancti,

To go robbe that rageman,

And reve the fruyt fro hym.

And thanne spak Spiritus sanctus

In Gabrielis mouthe,

To a maide that highte Marie,

A meke thyng withalle,

That oon Jhesus a justices sone

Moste jouke in hir chambre,

Til plenitudo temporis

Fully comen were,

That Piers fruyt floured,

And felle to be rype,

And thanne sholde Jhesus juste therfore,

By juggement of armes,

Wheither sholde fonge the fruyt,

The fend or hymselve.

The maide myldeliche tho

The messager graunted,

And seide hendeliche to hym,

"Lo me his hand-maiden

For to werchen his wille,

Withouten any synne."

Ecce ancilla Domini, fiat mihi, etc.

And in the wombe of that wenche

Was he fourty woukes,

Til he weex a faunt thorugh hir flessh,

And of fightyng kouthe,

To have y-foughte with the fend

Er ful tyme come.

And Piers the Plowman

Perceyved plener tyme,

And lered hym lechecraft

His lif for to save,

That though he were wounded with his enemy,

To warisshen hymselve,

And dide hym assaie his surgenrie

On hem that sike were,

Til he was perfit praktisour,

If any peril fille;

And soughte out the sike

And synfulle bothe,

And salvede sike and synfulle,

Bothe blynde and crokede,

And commune wommen convertede,

And to goode turnede.

Non est sanis opus medicinæ, sed in, etc.

Bothe meseles and mute,

And in the menyson blody,

Ofte heeled swiche,

He ne held it for no maistrie,

Save tho he leched Lazar

That hadde y-leye in grave,

Quatriduanus quelt,

Quyk dide hym walke.

Ac as he made the maistrie,

Mœstus cœpit esse,

And wepte water with hise eighen,

Ther seighen it manye.

Some that the sighte seighen,

Seiden that tyme

That he was leche of lif,

And lord of heigh hevene.

Jewes jangled ther ayein,

And juggede lawes

And seide he wroghte thorugh wichecraft,

And with the develes myghte.

Dæmonium habet, etc.

Thanne, "are ye cherles," quod ich,

"And youre children bothe,

And Sathan youre saveour,

Ye self now ye witnessen."

"For I have saved yow self," seith Crist,

"And youre sones after,

Youre bodies, youre beestes,

And blynde men holpen

And fed yow with two fisshes

And with fyve loves,

And lefte baskettesful of broke mete,

Bere awey who so wolde."

And mys-seide the Jewes manliche

And manaced hem to bete,

And knokked on hem with a corde,

And caste a-doun hir stalles

That in chirche chaffareden,

Or chaungeden any moneie,

And seide it in sighte of hem alle,

So that alle herden:—

"I shal overturne this temple,

And a-doun throwe it,

And in thre daies after

Edifie it new,

And maken it as muche outher moore

In alle manere poyntes

As evere it was, and as wid;

Wherfore I hote yow,

Of preieres and of perfitnesse

This place that ye callen."

Domus mea domus orationis vocabitur.

Envye and yvel wil

Was in the Jewes;

Thei casten and contreveden

To kulle hym whan thei myghte,

Eche day after oother

Hir tyme thei awaiteden;

Til it bifel on a Friday

A litel bifore Pasqe,

The Thursday bifore

There he made his maundee,

Sittynge at the soper

He seide thise wordes,

"I am sold thorugh oon of yow,

He shal the tyme rewe,

That evere he his Saveour solde,

For silver or ellis."

Judas jangled ther ayein;

Ac Jhesus hym tolde,

It was hymself soothly,

And seide tu dicis.

Thanne wente forth that wikked man,

And with the Jewes mette,

And tolde hem a tokne

How to knowe with Jhesus,

And which tokne to this day

To muche is y-used,

That is kissynge and fair countenaunce,

And unkynde wille.

And so was with Judas tho,

That Jhesus bitrayed:

"Ave, raby," quod that ribaud,

And right to hym he yede,

And kiste hym, to be caught therby,

And kulled of the Jewes.

Thanne Jhesus to Judas

And to the Jewes seide,

"Falsnesse I fynde

In thi faire speche,

And gile in thi glad chere,

And galle is in thi laughyng;

Thow shalt be myrour

To many men to deceyve,

Ac the worse and the wikkednesse

Shal worthe upon thiselve.

Necesse est ut veniant scandala:

Væ homini illi per quem scandalum

venit!

"Though I bi treson be take

At youre owene wille,

Suffreth myne apostles in pees

And in pays gange."

On a Thursday in thesternesse

Thus was he taken,

Thorugh Judas and Jewes,

Jhesus was his name,

That on the Friday folwynge

For mankyndes sake

Justed in Jherusalem,

A joye to us alle.

On cros upon Calvarie

Crist took the bataille

Ayeins deeth and the devel,

Destruyed hir botheres myghtes,

Deide and deed for-dide,

And day of nyght made.

And I awaked therwith,

And wiped myne eighen,

And after Piers the Plowman

Pried and stared

Est-ward and west-ward,

I waited after faste,

And yede forth as an ydiot

In contree to aspie,

After Piers the Plowman

Many a place I soughte.

And thanne mette I with a man,

A myd-lenten Sonday,

As hoor as an hawethorn,

And Abraham he highte.

I frayned hym first

Fram whennes he come,

And of whennes he were,

And whider that he soughte.

AM Feith," quod that freke,

A-londe and a-watre,

Confortour of creatures,

Of hym cometh alle blisse.

"So thre bilongeth for a lord

That lordshipe cleymeth,

Might and mene

To knowe his owene myghte,

Of hym and of his servaunt,

And what thei suffre bothe.

"So God that gynnyng hadde nevere,

But tho hym good thoughte,

Sente forth his sone,

As for servaunt that tyme,

To ocupie hym here,

Til issue were spronge,

That is, children of charité,

And holi chirche the moder;

Patriarkes and prophetes

And apostles were the children,

And Crist and cristendom,

And cristene holy chirche,

In menynge that man moste

On o God bileve.

And there hym likede and lovede,

In thre persones hym shewede,

And that it may be so and sooth,

Manhode it sheweth,

Wedlok and widwehode,

With virginité y-nempned,

In tokenynge of the Trinité

Was out of man taken.

"Adam was oure aller fader,

And Eve was of hymselve,

And the issue that thei hadde

It was of hem bothe,

And either is otheres joie

In thre sondry persones,

And in hevene and here

Oon singuler name;

And thus is mankynde and manhede

Of matrimoyne y-spronge,

And bitokneth the Trinité

And trewe bileve.

"Mighty is matrimoyne,

That multiplieth the erthe,

And bitokneth trewely,

Telle if I dorste,

Hym that first formed al,

The fader of hevene.

"The sone, if I it dorste seye,

Resembleth wel the widewe.

Deus meus, Deus meus, ut quid dereliquisti me!

"That is, creatour weex creature

To knowe what was bothe.

As widewe withouten wedlok

Was nevere yit y-seighe;

Na-moore myghte God be man,

But if he moder hadde.

So widewe withouten wedlok

May noght wel stande,

Ne matrimoyne withouten muliere

Is noght muche to preise.

Maledictus homo qui non reliquit

semen in Israel! etc.

"Thus in thre persones

Is perfitliche manhede;

That is man and his make

And mulliere children.

And is noght but gendre of a generacion

Bifore Jhesu Crist in hevene;

So is the fader forth with the sone,

And fre wille of bothe.

Spiritus procedens a patre et filio, etc.

Which is the Holy Goost of alle,

And alle is but o God.

"Thus in a somer I hym seigh

As I sat in my porche.

I roos up and reverenced hym,

And right faire hym grette,

Thre men to my sighte

I made wel at ese,

Wessh her feet and wiped hem,

And afterward thei eten

Calves flessh and cake-breed,

And knewe what I thoughte!

Ful trewe toknes bitwene us is,

To telle whan me liketh.

"First he fonded me

If I lovede bettre

Hym or Ysaak myn heir,

The which he highte me kulle.

He wiste my wille bi hym,

He wol me it allowe;

I am ful siker in soule therof,

And my sone bothe.

I circumscised my sone

Sithen for his sake,

Myself and my meynee,

And alle that male weere,

Bledden blood for that Lordes love,

And hope to blisse the tyme.

Myn affiaunce and my feith

Is ferme in his bileve;

For himself bihighte to me,

And to myn issue bothe,

Lond and lordshipe,

And lif withouten ende;

To me and to myn issue

Moore yet he grauntede,

Mercy for oure mys-dedes,

As many tyme as we asken.

Quam olim Abrahæ promisisti et

semini ejus.

"And siththe he sente me to seye

I sholde do sacrifise,

And doon hym worship with breed

And with wyn bothe;

And called me the foot of his feith,

His folk for to save,

And defende hem fro the fend,

Folk that on me leveden.

"Thus have I ben his heraud

Here and in helle,

And conforted many a careful

That after his comynge waiteden.

And thus I seke hym," he seide,

"For I herde seyn late

Of a barn that baptysed hym,

Johan Baptist was his name,

That to patriarkes and to prophetes,

And to oother peple in derknesse,

Seide that he seigh here

That sholde save us alle."

Ecce agnus Dei! etc.

I hadde wonder of hise wordes,

And of hise wide clothes;

For in his bosom he bar a thyng

That he blissed evere.

And I loked in his lappe,

A lazar lay therinne

Amonges patriarkes and prophetes

Pleyinge togideres.

"What awaitestow?" quod he,

"And what woldestow have?"

"I wolde wite," quod I tho,

"What is in youre lappe."

"Loo!" quod he; and leet me see.

"Lord, mercy!" I seide;

"This is a present of muche pris,

What prynce shal it have?"

"It is a precious present," quod he;

"Ac the pouke it hath attached,

And me thermyde," quod that man,

"May no wed us quyte,

Ne no buyrn be oure borgh,

Ne brynge us fram his daunger;

Out of the poukes pondfold

No maynprise may us feeche,

Til he come that I carpe of,

Crist is his name.

That shal delivere us som day

Out of the develes power,

And bettre wed for us legge

Than we ben alle worthi,

That is lif for lif,

Or ligge thus evere

Lollynge in my lappe,

Til swich a lord us fecche."

"Allas!" I seide, "that synne

So longe shal lette

The myght of Goddes mercy,

That myghte us alle amende."

I wepte for hise wordes.

With that saugh I another

Rapeliche renne forth,

The righte wey he wente.

I affrayned hym first

Fram whennes he come,

And what he highte, and whider he wolde;

And wightly he tolde.

Passus Decimus Septimus, etc. et Secundus de Do-bet.

AM Spes," quod he, "aspie

I took ful good yeme;

The glose was gloriously writen,

With a gilt penne.

In his duobus mandatis tota lex

pendet et prophetia.

"Ben here alle thi lordes lawes?" quod I.

"Ye, leve me wel," he seide;

And who so wercheth after this writ,

I wol undertaken

Shal nevere devel hym dere,

Ne deeth in soule greve.

For, though I seye it myself,

I have saved with this charme,

Of men and of wommen

Many score thousand.

"Ye seien sooth," seide this heraud;

"I have y-founde it ofte.

Lo! here in my lappe

That leeved on that charme,

Josue and Judith,

And Judas Macabeus,

Ye, and sixti thousand biside forth,

That ben noght seyen here."

"Youre wordes arn wonderfulle," quod I tho,

"Which of yow is trewest,

And lelest to leve so,

For lif, and for soule?

Abraham seith

That he seigh hoolly the Trinité,

Thre persones in parcelles

Departable fro oother,

And alle thre but o god;

Thus Abraham me taughte,

And hath saved that bileved so,

And sory for hir synnes.

He kan noght siggen the somme,

And some arn in his lappe.

What neded it thanne

A newe lawe to bigynne,

Sith the firste suffiseth

To savacion and to blisse?

And now cometh Spes and speketh,

That aspied the lawe;

And telleth noght of the Trinité

That took hym hise lettres,

To bileeve and lovye

In o lord almyghty,

And siththe right as myself

So lovye alle peple.

"The gome that gooth with o staf,

He semeth in gretter heele

Than he that gooth with two staves,

To sighte of us alle.

"And right so, bi the roode!

Reson me sheweth

That it is lighter to lewed men

O lesson to knowe,

Than for to techen hem two,

And to hard to lerne to the leeste

It is ful hard for any man

On Abraham bileve;

And wel awey worse yit

For to love a sherewe.

It is lighter to leeve

In thre lovely persones,

Than for to lovye and leve

As wel lorels as lele."

"Go thi gate!" quod I to Spes,

"So me God helpe!

Tho that lernen thi lawe,

Wol litel while usen it."

And as we wenten thus in the wey

Wordynge togideres,

Thanne seighe we a Samaritan

Sittynge on a mule,

Ridynge ful rapely

The righte wey we yeden,

Comynge from a contree

That men called Jerico,

To a justes in Jerusalem

He chaced awey faste.

Bothe the heraud and Hope

And he mette at ones

Where a man was wounded,

And with theves taken;

He myghte neither steppe ne stande,

Ne stere foot ne handes,

Ne helpe hymself soothly,

For semy-vif he semed,

And as naked as a nedle,

And noon help aboute hym.

Feith hadde first sighte of hym;

Ac he fleigh aside,

And nolde noght neghen hym

By nyne londes lengthe.

Hope cam hippynge after,

That hadde so y-bosted

How he with Moyses maundement

Hadde many men y-holpe;

Ac whan he hadde sighte of that segge

Aside he gan hym drawe

Dredfully bi this day,

As doke dooth fram the faucon.

Ac so soone so the Samaritan

Hadde sighte of this leode,

He lighte a-down of lyard,

And ladde hym in his hande,

And to the wye he wente

Hise woundes to biholde;

And perceyved bi his pous

He was in peril to dye,

And but he hadde recoverer the rapelier,

That rise sholde he nevere.

With wyn and with oille

Hise woundes he wasshed,

Enbawmed hym and bond his heed,

And in his lappe hym leide,

And ladde hym so forth on lyard

Te lex Christi, a graunge

Wel sixe mile or sevene

Biside the newe market;

Herberwed hym at an hostrie,

And to the hostiler called,

And seide, "Have kepe this man

Til I come fro the justes;

And lo! here silver," he seide,

"For salve to hise woundes."

And he took hym two pens,

To liflod, as it weere;

And seide, "What he spendeth moore,

I make thee good herafter;

For I may noght lette," quod that leode;

And lyard he bistrideth,

And raped hym to Jerusalem-ward

The righte wey to ryde.

Feith folwede after faste,

And fondede to mete hym;

And Spes spakliche hym spedde,

Spede if he myghte

To overtaken hym and talke to hym,

Er thei to towne coome.

And whan I seigh this, I sojourned noght,

But shoop me to renne,

And suwed that Samaritan

That was so ful of pité,

And graunted hym to ben his groom.

"Graunt mercy!" he seide;

"Ac thi frend and thi felawe," quod he,

"Thow fyndest me at nede."

And I thanked hym tho,

And siththe I hym tolde

How that Feith fleigh awey,

And Spes his felawe bothe,

For sighte of that sorweful man

That robbed was with theves.

"Have hem excused," quod he,

"Hir help may litel availle;

May no medicyne on molde

The man to heele brynge,

Neither feith ne fyn hope,

So festred be hise woundes,

Withouten the blood of a barn

Born of a mayde.

And he be bathed in that blood,

Baptised as it were,

And thanne plastred with penaunce

And passion of that baby,

He sholde stonde and steppe.

Ac stalworthe worth he nevere.

Til he have eten al the barn,

And his blood y-dronke.

For wente nevere wye in this world

Thorugh that wildernesse,

That he ne was robbed or rifled,

Rood he there or yede,

Save Feith and his felawe,

Spes, and myselve,

And thiself now,

And swiche as suwen oure werkes.

"For outlawes in the wode

And under bank lotieth,

And mowen ech man see,

And good mark take

Who is bihynde and who bifore,

And who ben on horse

For he halt hym hardier on horse

Than he that is foote.

For he seigh me that am Samaritan

Suwen Feith and his felawe

On my capul that highte caro,

Of mankynde I took it;

He was unhardy that harlot,

And hidde hym in Inferno.

Ac er this day thre daies,

I dar undertaken,

That he worth fettred, that feloun,

Faste with cheynes,

And nevere eft greve gome

That gooth this ilke gate.

"And thanne shal Feith be forster here,

And in this fryth walke,

And kennen out comune men

That knowen noght the contree

Which is the wey that I wente,

And wher forth to Jerusalem.

And Hope the hostilers man shal be,

Ther the man lith an helyng;

And alle that feble and feynte be,

That Feith may noght teche,

Hope shal lede hem forth with love,

As his lettre telleth,

And hostele hem and heele

Thorugh holy chirche bileve,

Til I have salve for alle sike;

And thanne shal I turne,

And come ayein bi this contree,

And conforten alle sike

That craveth it and coveiteth it,

Or crieth therafter.

For the barn was born in Bethleem,

That with his blood shal save

Alle that lyven in feith

And folwen his felawes techynge."

"A! swete sire," I seide tho,

"Wher I shal bileve,

As Feith and his felawe

Enformed me bothe,

In thre persones departable,

That perpetuele were evere,

And alle thre but o God,

Thus Abraham me taughte.

"And Hope afterward

He bad me to lovye

O God with al my good,

And alle gomes after,

Lovye hem lik myselve,

Ac oure Lord aboven alle.

"After Abraham," quod he,

"That heraud of armes,

Sette fully thi feith

And ferme bileve;

And as Hope highte thee,

I hote that thow lovye

Thyn evene cristene evere moore

Evene forth with thiselve.

And if Conscience carpe ther ayein,

Or kynde wit eyther,

Or eretikes with argumentz

Thyn hond thow hem shewe;

For God is after an hand,

Y-heer now and knowe it.

"The fader was first as a fust,

With o fynger foldynge;

Til hym lovede and liste

To unlosen his fynger,

And profre it forth as with a pawme

To what place it sholde,

"The pawme is purely the hand,

And profreth forth the fyngres,

To ministren and to make

That myght of hand knoweth;

And bitokneth trewely,

Telle who so liketh,

The Holy Goost of hevene

He is as the pawme.

"The fyngres that fre ben

To folde and to serve,

Bitoknen soothly the Sone

That sent was til erthe,

That touched and tastede

At techynge of the pawme

Seinte Marie a mayde,

And mankynde laughte.

Qui conceptus est de Spiritu sancto, etc.

"The Fader is pawme as a fust,

With fynger to touche,—

Quia omnia traham ad meipsum, etc.

Al that the pawme perceyveth

Profitable to feele.

"Thus are thei alle but oon,

As it an hand weere,

And thre sondry sightes

In oon shewynge,

The pawme for it putteth forth fyngres,

And the fust bothe;

Right so redily,

Reson it sheweth

How he that is Holy Goost

Sire and Son preveth.

"And as the hand halt harde,

And alle thyng faste,

Thorugh foure fyngres and a thombe

Forth with the pawme;

Right so the Fader and the Sone,

And Seint Spirit the thridde,

Al the wide world

Withinne hem thre holden,

Bothe wolkne and the wynd,

Water and erthe,

Hevene and helle,

And al that is therinne.

"Thus it is, nedeth no man

Trowe noon oother,

That thre thynges bilongeth

In oure Lord of Hevene;

And aren serelopes by hemself,

A-sondry were thei nevere,

Na-moore than myn hand may

Meve withoute my fyngres.

"And as my fust is ful hand

Y-holden togideres;

So is the Fader a ful God,

Formour and shappere.

Tu fabricator omnium, etc.

And al the myght myd hym is

In makynge of thynges.

The fyngres formen a ful hand

To portreye or peynten,

Kervynge and compasynge,

As craft of the fyngres.

"Right so is the Sone

The science of the Fader,

And ful God as is the Fader,

No febler ne no bettre.

"The pawme is pureliche the hand,

And hath power by hymselve,

Other wise than the writhen fust,

Or werkmanshipe of fyngres.

For he hath power

To putte out alle the joyntes,

And to unfolde the folden fust,

At the fyngres wille.

"So is the Holy Goost God,

Neither gretter ne lasse.

Than is the Sire and the Sone,

And in the same myghte.

And alle are thei but o God;

As is myn hand and my fyngres,

Unfolden or folden,

My fust and my pawne,

Al is but an hand;

Evene in the myddes,

He may receyve right noght,

Reson it sheweth,

For the fyngres that folde sholde

And the fust make,

For peyne of the pawme,

Power hem failleth

To clucche or to clawe,

To clippe or to holde.

"Were the myddel of myn hand

Y-maymed or y-perissed,

I sholde receyve right noght

Of that I reche myghte.

"Ac though my thombe and my fyngres

Bothe were to-shullen,

And the myddel of myn hand

Withoute male-ese,

In many kynnes maneres

I myghte myself helpe,

Bothe mene and amende,

Though alle my fyngres oke.

"By this skile, me thynketh,

I se an evidence

That who so synneth in the Seint Spirit,

Assoilled worth he nevere,

Neither here ne ellis where,

As I herde telle.

Qui peccat in Spiritu sancto, etc.

For he priketh God as in the pawme,

That peccat in Spiritu sancto.

For God the fader is as a fust,

The Sone is as a fynger,

The Holy Goost of hevene

Is as it were the pawme;

So who so synneth in the Seint Spirit,

It semeth that he greveth

God, that he grypeth with,

And wolde his grace quenche.

"And to a torche or a tapur

The Trinité is likned;

As wex and a weke

Were twyned togideres,

And thanne a fir flawmynge

Forth out of bothe;

And as wex and weke

And hoot fir togideres

Fostren forth a flawmbe

And a fair leye,

So dooth the Sire and the Sone

And also Spiritus sanctus,

That alle kynne cristene

Clenseth of synnes

And as thow seest som tyme

Sodeynliche a torche,

The blase therof y-blowe out,

Yet brenneth the weke

Withouten leye or light

That the macche brenneth;

So is the Holy Goost God,

And grace withoute mercy

To alle unkynde creatures,

That coveite to destruye

Lele love or lif

That oure Lord shapte.

"And as glowynge gledes

Gladeth noght thise werkmen,

That werchen and waken

In wyntres nyghtes,

As dooth a kex or a candle

That caught hath fir and blaseth;

Na-moore dooth Sire ne Sone

Ne Seint Spirit togidres

Graunte no grace

Ne forgifnesse of synnes,

Til the Holy Goost gynne

To glowe and to blase.

So that the Holy Goost

Gloweth but as a glade,

Til that lele love

Ligge on hym and blowe,

And thanne flawmeth he as fir

On Fader and on Filius,

And melteth hire myght into mercy;

As men may se in wyntre

Ysekeles and evesynges

Thorugh hete of the sonne

Melte in a minut while

To myst and to watre.

"So grace of the Holy Goost

The greet myght of the Trinité

Melteth to mercy,

To merciable and to othere;

And as wex withouten moore

On a warm glede

Wol brennen and blasen,

Be thei togideres,

And solacen hem that mowe se,

That sitten in derknesse.

"So wol the Fader forgyve

Folk of mylde hertes,

That rufully repenten,

And restitucion make,

In as muche as thei mowen

Amenden and paien;

And if it suffise noght for assetz,

That in swich a wille deyeth,

Mercy for his mekenesse

Wol maken good the remenaunt.

And as the weke and fir

Wol maken a warm flaumbe,

For to murthen men myd

That in the derke sitten;

So wole Crist of his curteisie,

And men crye hym mercy,

Bothe forgyve and foryete,

And yit bidde for us

To the Fader of hevene

Forgifnesse to have.

"Ac hewe fir at a flynt

Foure hundred wynter,

But thow have tow to take it with,

Tonder or broches,

Al thi labour is lost,

And al thi long travaille;

For may no fir flaumbe make,

Faille it is kynde.

"So is the Holi Goost God,

And grace withouten mercy

To alle unkynde creatures,

Crist hymself witnesseth.

Amen dico vobis, nescio vos, etc.

"Be unkynde to thyn evene cristene,

And al that thow kanst bidde,

Delen and do penaunce

Day and nyght evere,

And purchace al the pardon

Of Pampilon and Rome,

And indulgences y-nowe,

And be ingratus to thi kynde,

The Holy Goost hereth thee noght,

Ne helpe may thee by reson;

For unkyndenesse quencheth hym,

That he kan noght shyne,

Ne brenne ne blase clere

For blowynge of unkyndenesse.

Poul the apostel

Preveth wheither I lye.

Si linguis hominum loquar, etc.

"For-thi beth war, ye wise men,

That with the world deleth,

That riche ben and reson knoweth,

Ruleth wel youre soule,

Beth noght unkynde, I conseille yow,

To youre evene cristene,

For manye of yow riche men,

By my soule! men telleth,

Ye brenne, but ye blase noght,

That is a blynd bekene.

Non omnis qui dicit Domine! Domine!

intrabit, etc.

"Dives deyde dampned,

For his unkyndenesse

Of his mete and of his moneie

To men that it nedede.

Ech a riche I rede

Reward at hym take,

And gyveth youre good to that God

That grace of ariseth;

For thei that ben unkynde to hise,

Hope I noon oother,

But thei dwelle ther Dives is

Dayes withouten ende.

"Thus is unkyndenesse the contrarie,

That quencheth, as it were,

The grace of the Holy Goost,

Goddes owene kynde.

For that kynde dooth, unkynde for-dooth;

As thise corsede theves

Unkynde cristene men,

For coveitise and envye,

Sleeth a man for hise moebles

With mouth or with handes.

For that the Holy Goost hath to kepe,

The harlotes destruyeth,

The which is lif and love,

The leye of mannes body.

For every manere good man

May be likned to a torche,

Or ellis to a tapur,

To reverence the Trinité;

And who morthereth a good man,

Me thynketh by myn inwit,

He for-dooth the levest light

That oure Lord lovyeth.

"And yet in manye mo maneres

Men offenden the Holy Goost.

Ac this is the worste wise

That any wight myghte

Synnen ayein the Seint Spirit,

Assenten to destruye

For coveitise of any kynnes thyng

That Crist deere boughte,

That wikkedliche and wilfulliche

Wolde mercy aniente.

"Innocence is next God,

And nyght and day it crieth,

'Vengeaunce! vengeaunce!

Forgyve be it nevere

That shente us and shedde oure blood,

For-shapte us, as it were!'

Vindica sanguinem justorum.

"Thus 'Vengeaunce! vengeaunce!'

Verrey Charité asketh.

And sith holy chirche and Charité

Chargeth this so soore,

Leve I nevere that oure Lord

Wol love that charité lakketh,

Ne have pité for any preiere

Ther that he pleyneth."

"I pose I hadde synned so,

And sholde now deye;

And now I am sory that I so

The Seint Spirit a-gulte,

Confesse me and crye his grace,

God that al made,

And myldeliche his mercy aske,

Myghte I noght be saved?"

"Yis," seide the Samaritan,

"So wel thow myght repente,

That rightwisnesse thorugh repentaunce,

To ruthe myghte turne.

Ac it is but selden y-seighe

Ther soothnesse bereth witnesse,

Any creature that is coupable

Afore a kynges justice,

Be raunsoned for his repentaunce,

Ther alle reson hym dampneth.

For ther that partie pursueth,

The peple is so huge,

That the kyng may do no mercy

Til bothe men acorde,

And eyther have equité,

As holy writ telleth.

Nunquam dimittitur peccatum, etc.

"Thus it fareth by swich folk

That falsly al hire lyves

Yvele lyven, and leten noght

Til lif hem forsake.

Good hope, that helpe sholde,

To wanhope torneth,

Noght of the noun power of God,

That he ne is myghtful

To amende al that amys is,

And his mercy gretter

Than alle oure wikkede werkes,

As holy writ telleth.

Misericordia ejus super omnia opera ejus.

Ac er his rightwisnesse to ruthe torne,

Som restitucion bihoveth.

His sorwe is satisfaccion,

For hym that may noght paie.

"Thre thynges ther ben

That doon a man by strengthe

For to fleen his owene,

As holy writ sheweth.

"That oon is a wikkede wif,

That wol noght be chastised;

Hir feere fleeth fro hire,

For feere of hir tonge.

"And if his hous be un-hiled,

And reyne on his bedde,

He seketh and seketh

Til he slepe drye.

"And whan smoke and smolder

Smyt in his sighte,

It dooth hym worse than his wif

Or wete to slepe.

For smoke and smolder

Smyteth in hise eighen,

Til he be bler-eighed, or blynd,

And hoors in the throte,

Cogheth, and curseth

That Crist gyve hem sorwe

That sholde brynge in bettre wode,

Or blowe it til it brende.

"Thise thre that I telle of

Ben thus to understonde;

The wif is oure wikked flessh,

That wol noght be chastised;

For kynde clyveth on hym evere

To contrarie the soule.

And though it falle, it fynt skiles

That freleté it made,

And that is lightly forgyven

And forgeten bothe,

To man that mercy asketh,

And amende thenketh.

"The reyn that reyneth

Ther we reste sholde,

Ben siknesse and sorwes

That we suffren ofte;

As Poul the apostle

To the people taughte.

Virtus infirmitate perficitur, etc.

"And though that men make

Muche doel in hir angre,

And ben inpacient in hir penaunce,

Pure reson knoweth

That thei han cause to contrarie

By kynde of hir siknesse;

And lightliche oure Lord

At hir lyves ende

Hath mercy on swiche men,

That so yvele may suffre.

"Ac the smoke and the smolder

That smyt in oure eighen,

That is coveitise and unkyndenesse,

That quencheth Goddes mercy.

For unkyndenesse is the contrarie

Of alle kynnes reson.

For ther nys sik ne sory,

Ne noon so muche wrecche,

That he ne may lovye, and hym like,

And lene of his herte

Good wille and good word,

And wisshen and willen

Alle manere men

Mercy and forgifnesse,

And lovye hem lik hymself,

And his lif amende.

"I may no lenger lette," quod he;

And lyard he prikede,

And went awey as wynd;

And therwith I awakede.