This begynnyng spede,
For the faders frendshipe
That fourmed heaven,
And through the special spirit
That sprong of hem tweyne,
And al in one God-hed
Endles dwelleth.
A, and all myn a.b.c.
After have I lerned,
And patred in my pater-noster
Iche poynt after other;
And after al, myne Ave-marie
Almost to the end;
But al my care is to comen,
For I can nought my Crede.
Whan I shall shewen my shrift,
Shent mote I worthen;
The preeste wil me punyche,
And penaunce enjoyne;
The lengthe of a lenton
Flesh moot I leve,
After that Estur is y-come,
And that is hard fare;
And Wedenesday iche wyke
Withouten flesh-mete.
And also Jesu hymselfe
To the Jewes he saide,
"He that leeveth nought on me,
He leseth the blisse."
Therfor lerne the byleve
Levest me were,
Gif any worldly wight
Wil me [it] couthe;
Other lewed or lered,
That lyveth thereafter
And fulliche folweth the feith,
And feyneth non other;
That no worldeliche wele
Wilneth no tyme,
But liveth in lovyng of God,
And his lawe holdeth;
And for no gettyng of good
Never his God greveth,
But folweth hym the full way,
As he the folke taughte.
But to many maner of men
This matter is asked,
Both to lered and to lewed,
That seyn that they liveden
Hollich on the grete God,
And holden al his hestes.
But by a fraynyng for than
Faileth ther manye.
For first I frayned the freres,
And they me fulle tolden,
That al the fruyt of the fayth
Was in her foure orders;
And the cofres of Christendom,
And the keie bothen,
And the lock of byleve,
Lieth loken in her hondes,
Then wennede I to wytten,
And with a whight I mette,
A Minoure in a morwe-tide;
And to this man I saide,
"Sire, for greate Godes love!
The graith thou me tell,
Of what myddel-erde man
Myght I best lerne
My Crede? For I can it nought,
My kare is the more.
And therfore, for Christes love!
Thy counseyl I preie.
A Carm me hath y-covenant,
The nede me to teche;
But for thou knowest Carmes wel,
Thy counsail I aske."
This Minour loked on me,
And laughyng he sayde,
"Leve christen man,
I leve that thou [art] madde:
Whough shulde thei techen the god,
That con non hemselve?
They ben but jugulers,
And japers of kynde;
Lorels and lechures,
And lemans holden,
Neyther in order ne out,
But unneth lybbeth,
And by-japeth the folk
With gestes of Rome.
It is but a faynt folke,
Y-founded upon japes.
They maketh hem Maries men,
And so thei men tellen;
And leieth on oure Lady
Many a long tale.
And that wicked folk
Wymmen betraieth,
And begileth hem her good
With glaverynge wordes,
And therwith holden her hous
In harlotes warkes.
And, so save me God!
I hold it greate synne
To gyven hem any good,
Swiche glotones to fynde,
To mayntaynen swiche maner men
That michel good destruieth.
Yet seyn they in her sutiltie
To sottes in townes,
Thei comen out of Carmeli
Christ for to folwen,
And feyneth hem with holynesse,
That yvele hem bisemeth.
Thei lyven more in lecherie,
And lyeth in her tales,
Than suen any good liif;
But lurken in her selles,
And wynnen werdliche good,
And wasten it in synne.
And ghif thei couthen her Crede,
Other on Christ leveden,
Thei weren nought so hardy
Swyche harlotri usen.
Sikerli I can nought fynden
Who hem first founded;
But the foles foundeden hemselfe
And maken hem mendynans,
And marre the puple.
But what glut of tho gomes
May any good kachen,
He wyl kepen it hemself,
And cofrene it faste;
And thoigh his felawes fayle good,
For hym he may sterven.
Her monei mai byquest,
And testament maken,
And none obedience bere,
But don as hym luste.
And ryght as Robartes men
Raken aboute
At feyres and at full ales,
And fyllen the cuppe;
And precheth al of pardon,
To plesen the puple.
Her pacience is al pased,
And put out to ferme;
And pride is in her povertie,
That litel is to preisen.
And at the lullyng of oure lady
The wymmen to lyken,
And maken wymmen to wenen
That the lace of oure Lady smok
Lighteth hem of children.
Thei ne prechen nought of Powel,
Ne penaunce for synne;
But al of merci and mensk,
That Marie may helpen.
With sterne staves and stronge
Thei over lond straketh,
Thider as here lemmans liggeth,
And lurketh in townes,
Grey grete-heded quenes
With gold by the eighen,
And seyne that her sustern thei ben,
That sojurneth aboute.
And thus abouten the gon,
And Godes folke betrayeth.
It is the puple that Powel
Preched of in his tyme;
He seyde of swich folke
That so aboute wente,
Wepyng, I warne you
Of walkers aboute,
It beth enemyes of the cros
That Christ upon tholede.
Swiche slomrers in slepe,
Slaughte in her ende,
And glotonye is her God,
With gloppynge of drynk,
And gladnesse in glees,
And grete joye y-maked.
In the shendyng of swiche
Shal mychel folk lawghe;
Therfore, frend, for thy feith
Fond to don beter;
Leve nought on tho losels,
Put let hem forth pasen,
For thei ben fals in her faith,
And feele mo other."
"Alas! frere," quath I tho,
"My purpos is y-failed;
Now is my comfort a-cast.
Canstou no bote,
Wher I myght meten with a man
That myghte me wyssen
For to conne my Crede,
Christ for to folwen?"
"Certeyn, felawe," quath the frere,
"Withouten any fayle,
Of al men upon mold,
We Minorities most sheweth
The pure aposteles liif,
With penance on erthe,
And suen hem in sanctité,
And sufferen wel harde.
We haunten no tavernes,
Ne hobelen abouten;
At marketes and miracles
We medeleth us never;
We hondlen no moneye,
But monelich faren,
And haven hunger at the mete,
At ich a mel ones.
We haven forsaken the world,
And in wo libbeth,
In penaunce and poverte,
And prechethe the puple
By ensample of oure liif
Soules to helpen;
And in poverte preien
For al oure parteneres,
That gyveth us any good
God to honouren,
Other bel other book,
Or bred to our foode,
Other catel, other cloth
To coveren with oure bones.
For we buldeth a burwgh,
A brod and a large,
A chirch and a chapitle,
With chaumbers a-lofte;
With wide wyndowes y-wrought,
And walles wel heye,
That mote ben portreid and paint,
And pulched ful clene,
With gay glitering glas
Glowyng as the sunne.
And mightestou amenden us
With moneye of thyn owen,
Thou shouldest knely bifore Christ
In compas of gold,
In the wyde window west-ward
Wel neigh in the myddel,
And saint Fraunceis hymselfe
Shal folden the in his cope,
And present the to the Trinité,
And praye for thy synnes.
Thy name shal noblich ben wryten
And wrought for the nones,
And in remembraunce of the
Y-rad there for evere.
And, brother, be thou nought a-ferd;
Bythenk in thyne herte,
Though thou conne nought thy Crede,
Care thou no-more!
I shal asoilen the, syr,
And setten it on my soule;
And thou may maken this good,
Thenk thou non other."
"Sir," I sayde, "in certaine
I shal gon and asaye."
And he set on me his hond,
And asoiled me clene,
And there I parted him fro
Wythouten and peyne;
In covenaunt that I come agayne,
Christ he me be-taught.
Then saide I to myself,
"Here semeth litel treuthe!
First to blame his brother,
And bakbyten hym foule,
There as curteis Christ
Clerliche saide,
Whow myght thou in thy brothers eighe
A bare mote loken,
And in thyn owen eighe
Nought a beme toten?
See fyrst on thyself,
And sithen on another,
And clense clene thy syght,
And kepe wel thyne eighe,
And for another mannes eighe
Ordeyne after.
And also I see coveitise
Catel to fongen,
That Christ hath clerliche forboden,
And clenliche destrueden;
And sayde to his sueres
For sothe on this wyse,
'Nought thy neighbors good
Coveyte in no tyme.'
But charité and chastité
Ben chased out clene.
But Christ seide by her fruit
Men shal hem ful knowen."
Thanne saide I, "certeine, syr,
Thou demest ful trewe."
Than thought I to frayne the first
Of this foure ordres;
And presed to the Prechoures,
To proven hir wille.
Ich highed to her house,
To herken of more;
And when I came to that court,
I gaped aboute,
Swich a bild bold
Y-buld upon erthe heighte
Say I nought in certeyn
Syththe a long tyme.
I semed opon that hous,
And yerne theron loked,
Whow the pileres weren y-paint,
And pulched ful clene,
And queyntly y-corven
With curious knottes;
With wyndowes wel y-wrought,
Wyde up a-lofte,
And thanne I entred in,
And even forth wente;
And al was walled that wone,
Though it wiid were,
To pasen when hem liste;
Orcheyardes and erberes
Evesed wel clene,
And a curious cros
Craftly entayled,
With tabernacles y-tight
To toten al abouten.
The pris of a plough-lond
Of penies so rounde
To aparaile that pyler
Were pure litel.
Than I munte me forth
The mynstre to knowen,
And awaytede a woon
Wonderly wel y-bild,
With arches on everiche half,
And bellyche y-corven,
With crochetes on corneres,
With knottes of gold,
Wyde wyndowes y-wrought,
Y-wryten ful thikke,
Shynen with shapen sheldes,
To shewen aboute,
Y-medeled betwene,
Mo than twentie and two
Twyse y-noumbbred.
Ther is non heraud that hath
Half swich a rolle,
Right as a rageman
Hath rekned hem newe.
Tombes upon tabernacles
Tylde opon lofte,
Housed in hornes,
Harde set abouten,
Of armede alabaustre
Clad for the nones,
Maad opon marbel
In many manner wyse,
Knyghtes in ther conisante
Clad for the nones;
Alle it semed seyntes
Y-sacred opon erthe;
And lovely ladies y-wrought
Leyen by her sydes
In manye gay garnemens,
That weren gold beten.
Though the tax of ten yere
Were trewely y-gadered,
Nolde it nought maken that hous
Half, as I trowe.
Than cam I to that cloystre,
And gaped abouten,
Whough it was pilered and peynt,
And portreyed wel clene,
Al y-hyled with leed
Lowe to the stones,
And y-paved with poynttyl
Ich point after other;
With cundites of clene tyn
Closed al aboute,
With lavoures of latun
Loveliche y-greithed.
I trowe the gaynage of the ground
In a gret shyre
Nold aparaile that place
Oo poynt tyl other ende.
Thanne was that chapitre house
Wrought as a greet chirche,
Corven and covered;
And queyntelyche entayled,
With semliche selure
Y-seet on lofte,
As a parlement-hous
Y-peynted aboute.
Thanne ferd I into fraytoure,
And fond there another,
An halle for an hygh kynge
An houshold to holden,
With brode bordes abouten
Y-benched wel clene,
With wyndowes of glaas
Wrought as a chirche
Than walkede I ferrer,
And went al abouten,
And seigh halles full heygh,
And houses ful noble,
Chambres with chymeneys,
And chapeles gaye,
And kychenes for an high kynge
In casteles to holden;
And her dortoure y-dight
With dores ful stronge;
Fermerye and fraitur,
With fele mo houses,
And al strong ston wal
Sterne upon heithe,
With gaye garites and grete,
And iche hole y-glased,
And other houses y-nowe
To herberwe the queene.
And yet thise bilderes wiln beggen
A bagge ful of whete
Of a pure pore man,
That may onethe paye
Half his rent in a yere,
And half ben byhynde.
Than turned I ayen,
Whan I hadde all y-toted,
And fond in a freitoure
A frere on a benche,
A greet chorl and a grym,
Growen as a tonne,
With a face so fat
As a ful bleddere
Blowen bretful of breth,
And as a bagge honged
On bothen his chekes, and his chyn
With a chol lollede
So greet as a gos ey,
Growen al of grece;
That al wagged his fleish
As a quick myre.
His cope, that bi-clypped hym,
Wel clene was it folden,
Of double worstede y-dyght
Doun to the hele.
His kyrtel of clene whiit,
Clenlyche y-sewed,
Hit was good y-now of ground
Greyn for to beren.
I haylsede that hirdman,
And hendlich I sayde,
"Gode sire, for Godes love!
Canstou me graith tellen
To any worthely wiight
That wissen me couthe,
Whow I shulde conne my Crede,
Christ for to folwe,
That levede lelliche hymselfe
And lyvede therafter,
That feynede no falshede,
But fully Chrise suwede?
For sich a certeyn man
Syker wold I trosten,
That he wolde telle me the trewthe,
And turne to non other.
And an Austyn this ender day
Egged me faste,
That he wolde techen me wel,
He plyght me his treuthe,
And seyde me "certeyn,
Syghthen Christ deyed
Oure ordre was euelles
And erst y-founde."
"First, felawe," quath he,
"Fy on his pilche!
He is but abortiif,
Eked with cloutes,
He holdeth his ordynaunce
With hores and theves,
And purchaseth hem pryvyleges
With penyes so rounde.
It is a pur pardoners craft,
Prove and asay;
For have they thy money,
A moneth therafter
Certes, theigh thou come agen,
He wil the nought knowen.
But, felawe, oure foundement
Was first of the othere,
And we ben founded fulliche
Withouten fayntise,
And we ben clerkes y-cnowen,
Cunnyng in schole,
Proved in processyon
By processe of lawe.
Of oure order ther beth
Bichopes wel manye,
Seyntes on sundri stedes
That suffreden harde;
And we ben proved the priis
Of popes at Rome,
And of grettest degré,
As godspelles telleth."
"A! syre," quath I thanne,
"Thou seyst a grete wonder;
Sithen Christ sayd hymselfe
To alle his diciples,
'Which of you that is most,
Most shal he werche;
And who is goere byforne,
First shal he serven.'
And seyde he saugh Satan
Sytten ful heyghe,
And ful low ben y-leid.
In lyknesse he tolde,
That in povernesse of spyrit
Is spedfullest hele;
And hertes of heyne
Harmeth the soule.
And therefore, frere, farewel;
Here fynd I but pride.
I preise nought thy prechyns,
But as a pur myte."
And angerich I wandrede
The Austyns to prove,
And mette with a maistre of tho men,
And meklich I seyde,
"Maistre, for the moder love
That Marie men calleth!
Knowest thou ought there thou comest
A creature on erthe
That coude me my Crede teche,
And trewelich enfourme,
Withouten flateryng fare,
And nothing feyne,
That folweth fulliche the feith,
And non other fables,
Withouten gabinge of glose,
As the godspelles telleth?
A Minoure hath me holly behyght
To helen my soule,
For he seith that her secte
Is sykerest on erthe,
And ben kepers of the keye
That Chrystendom helpeth,
And puriche in poverte
The apostles they suweth."
"Allaas!" quath the frere,
"Almost I madde in mynde,
To sen hough this Minoures
Many men bygyleth.
Sothly somme of tho gomes
Hath more good hymselve
Than ten knyghtes that I knowe,
Of catel in cofres.
In fraytoure they faren best
Of al the foure ordres,
And usun ypocricie
In al that thei werchen,
And prechen al of perfitnesse;
But loke now, I the prey,
Nought but profre hem in privité
A peny for a masse,
And, but his name be prest,
Put out myn eighe,
Though he had more money hid
Than marchauntes of wolle.
Loke hough this loresmen
Lordes betrayen,
Seyn that they folwen
Fully Fraunceyses rewle,
That in cotinge of his cope
Is more cloth y-folden
Than was in Fraunceis froc
Whan he hem first made.
And yet under that cope
A cote hathe he furred
With foyns, or with fichewes,
Other fyn bevere,
And that is cutted to the kne,
And queyntly y-botend,
Lest any spiritual man
Aspie that gyle.
Fraunceys bad his brethern
Bar-fot to wenden;
Now han they buclede shone,
For blenyng of her heles,
And hosen in harde weder
Y-hamled by the ancle,
And spicerie sprad in her purs
To parten where hem luste.
Lordes loveth hem wel,
For they so lowe crouchen;
But knowen men her cautel
And her queynte wordes,
Thei wolde worshypen hem
Nought but a litle,
The ymage of ypocricie
Ymped upon fendes.
But, sone, gif thou wilt ben seker,
Seche thou no ferther,
We freres beth the firste,
And founded upon treuthe;
Paule primus heremita
Put us hymselve
Away into wildernesse,
The world to despisen,
And there we lengeden ful long,
And leveden ful harde;
For to alle this freren folke
Weren founden in tounes,
And taughten untrewely,
And that we wel aspiede.
And for chef charyté,
We chargeden us selven
In amendyng of this men,
We maden oure celles
To ben in cytés y-set,
To styghtle the puple,
Prechyng and prayeng
As profetes shoulden.
And so we holden us the hetheved
Of al holy chirche.
We han power of the Pope
Purliche assoylen
Al that helpen oure hous
In helpe of her soules;
To dispensen hem with
In dedes of synne,
Al that amendeth oure hous
In money other elles,
With corne other catel,
Or clothes to beddes,
Other bedys or broche,
Or breed for our fode.
And gif thou hast any good,
And wilt thyself helpen,
Help us hertelich therwith,
And here I undertake
Thou shalt ben brother of oure hous,
And a book habben
At the nexte chapitre
Clerliche enseled.
And than oure provincial
Hath power to assoylen
Alle sustren and bretheren
That beth of oure ordre.
And though thou conne nought the Crede,
Knele down here,
My soule I sette for thyn,
To asoile the clene,
In covenaunt that thou come ageyne,
And katel us brynge."
And thanne loutede I adoun,
Add he me leve grauntede;
And so I parted hym fro,
And the frere lefte.
Than seide I to myself,
"Here is no bote;
Here pride is the pater-noster
In preying of synne;
Her Crede is coveytise:—
Now can I no ferthere.
Yet wil I fonden forth,
And fraynen the Carmes."
Than toted I into a taverne,
And there I aspyede
Two frere Carmes
With a ful coppe.
There I auntrede me in,
And aisliche I seyde,
"Leve sire, for the Lordes love
That thou on levest!
Lere me to som man
My Crede for to lerne,
That lyveth in lel liif,
And loveth no synne,
And gloseth nought the godspel,
But halt Godes hetes,
And neyther money ne mede
Ne may hym nought letten,
But werchen after Godes word,
Withouten any faile.
A Prechoure y-professed
Hath plight me his trewthe
To techen me trewely;
But wouldest thou me tellen,
For they ben certeyne men,
And syker on to trosten,
I would quiten the thy mede
As my myght were."
"A trefle," quath he, "trewely!
His treweth is ful litel;
He dynede nought with Dominic,
Sithe Christ deide.
For with the prynces of pryde
The Prechours dwellen;
They ben so digne as the devel
That droppeth fro heven,
With hartes of heynesse,
Whough halwen the cherches,
And deleth in devynyté
As dogges doth bones.
Thei medeleth with mesages
And mariages of grete;
Thei leeven with lordes
With lesynges y-nowe;
Thei biggeth hem bichopriches
With bagges of gold;
Thei wilneth worchipes:—
But waite on her dedes.
How that they werchen,
And loke when that they lyven
And leeve as thou fyndest.
They ben counseylours of kynges,
Christ wot the sothe,
Whou thei curreth kynges
And her bak claweth.
God leve hem laden wel
In lyvynge of hevene,
And glose hem nought for her good
To greven her soules.
I pray the, where ben they pryvé
With any pore whightes
That may nought amenden her hous,
Ne amenden hemselven?
They prechen in proud herte,
And preyseth her ordre,
And werdlich worchype
Wilneth in erthe.
Leeve it wel, lef man,
And men right lokede,
There is more pryvé pryde
In Prechoures hertes,
Or he were lowe fallen.
They bene dygne as dich-watere,
That dogges in bayteth.
Lok a ribaut of hem
That can nought wel reden
His Rewel ne his Respondes,
But be pure rote;
Als as he were a connyng clerk,
He casteth the lawes
Nought lowly, but lordly,
And lesynges lyeth.
For right as Minoures
Most hypocrice useth,
Ryght so ben Prechoures proude
Purlyche in herte.
"But, chrysten creatoure,
We Carmes firste comen,
Even in Elyes tyme,
First of hem alle;
And lyven by oure Lady,
And lelly her serven,
In clene commun liif
Kepen us out of synne;
Nowt proude as Prechoures beth,
But preyen ful stylle.
We couuen on no quentyse,
Christ wot the southe!
But bisyeth us in oure bedes,
As us best holdeth.
And, therfore, leeve leelman,
Leeve that iche sigge,
A masse of us meene men
Is of more mede,
And passeth alle prayers
Of this proude freres.—
And thou wilt ghyven us any good,
I wolde ye here graunten
To taken al thy penaunce
In peril of my soule;
And tho thou conne nought thy Crede,
Clene the assoyle,
So that thou mowe amenden oure house
With money other elles,
With som catel, other corn,
Or cuppes of sylvere."
"Trewely, frere," quath I tho,
"To tellen the the sothe,
There is no peny in my pakke
To payen for my mete.
I have no good, ne no golde,
But go thus abouten,
And travaile ful trewely
To wynnen with my fode.
But woldest thou for Godes love
Lerne me my Crede,
I shulde don for the wil,
Whan I wele hadde."
"Trewely," quath the frere,
"A fole I the holde:—
Thou woldest nought wetten thy fote,
And woldest fich kachen.
Oure pardon and oure preieres
So beth they nought parten,
Oure power lasteth nought so feer,
But we som peny fongen.
"Fare wel," quath the frere,
"For I mot hethen fonden,
And hyen to an house-wiif
That hath us byquethen
Ten pound in hir testament.
To tellen the sothe,
Ho draweth to the deth-ward;
But yet I am in drede
Leste ho turne hire testament,
And therfore I hyghe
To haven hire to oure hous,
And henten, gif I mighte,
An anuel for myne owen use,
To helpen to clothe."
"Godys forbode!" quath his felawe,
"But ho forth passe
Whil ho is in purpos
With us to departen!
God let hir no lengere lyven!
For letteres ben manye."
Thanne turnede I me forth,
And talked to myselfe
Of the falshede of this folke,
Whow feythles thei weren.
And as I wente by the way
Wepynge for sorowe,
I seigh a sely man me by,
Opon the plough hongen.
His cote was of a cloute
That cary was y-called;
His hod was ful of holes,
And his heare oute;
With his knoppede shon
Clouted ful thykke;
His ton toteden out,
As he the lond tredede;
His hosen over-hongen his hok-shynes
On everich a syde,
Al beslomered in fen,
As he the plow folwede.
Tweye myteynes as meter
Maad al of cloutes,
The fyngres weren for-werd,
And ful of fen honged.
This whit waselede in the feen
Almost to the ancle;
Foure rotheren hym byforne,
That feble were worthi;
Men myghte reknen ich a ryb,
So rentful they weren.
His wiif walked hym with,
With a long gode,
In a cuttede cote,
Cutted ful heyghe,
Wrapped in a wynwe shete
To weren hire fro wederes,
Bar-fot on the bare iis,
That the blod folwede.
And at the londes ende lath
A little crom-bolle,
And theron lay a lytel chylde
Lapped in cloutes,
And tweyne of tweie yeres olde
Opon another syde.
And al they songen o songe,
That sorwe was to heren;
They crieden alle o cry,
A kareful note.
The sely man sighed sore,
And seyde, "Children, beth stille!"
This man lokede opon me,
And leet the plough stonden;
And seyde, "Sely man,
Whi syghest thou so harde?
Gif the lakke liiflode,
Lene the ich wille
Swich good as God hath sent;
Go we, leeve brother."
I sayde thanne, "Nay, syre,
My sorowe is wel more.
For I can nought my Crede,
I care wel harde;
For I can fynden no man
That fulli byleveth,
To techen me the heyghe weie,
And therfore I wepe.
For I have fonded the freres
Of the foure ordres;
For there I wende have wist,
But now my wit lakketh;
And al myn hope was on hem,
And myn herte also,
But thei ben fulli faithles,
And the fend sueth."
"A! brother," quath he tho,
"Be ware of tho foles;
For Christ seyde hymself,
'Of swiche I you warne,'
And false profetes in the feith
He fulliche hem calde,
But only withinne
They ben wilde werwolves
That wiln the folke robben.
The fen[d] founded hem first,
The feyth to distrie;
And by his craft thei comen in,
To combren the chirche,
By the covetise of his craft
The curates to helpen.
But nowe they haven an hold,
They harmen ful manye;
They don nought after Dominik,
But dreccheth the puple.
He folwen nought Fraunceis,
But falsliche lybben;
And Austynes rewle
They rekeneth but a fable;
And purchaseth hem privilege
Of popes at Rome.
They coveten confessiones,
To kachen some hyre;
And sepulturus also,
Somme wayten to lacchen;
But other cures of Christen
They coveten nought to have,
But there as wynnynge liith,
He loketh non other."
"Whough shal I nemne thy name,
That neyghbores the calleth?"
"Peres," quath he, "the pore man,
The Ploughman I hatte."
"A! Peres!" quath I tho,
"I pray the thou me telle
More of thise tryflers,
Hou trechurly they libbeth;
For ichon of hem hath tolde me
A tale of that other,
Of her wikked liif,
In werld that he libbeth.
I trowe that some wicked wight
Wroughte this ordres.
Trow ye that gleym of that gest
That Golias is y-cald,
Other els Satan hymself,
Sente hem fro helle,
To combren men with her crafte,
Christendome to shenden."
"Dere brother," quath Peres,
"The devel is ful queynte,
To encombren holy chirche
He casteth ful harde,
And fluricheth his falsnesse
Opon fele wise,
And fer he casteth to-forn
The folk to dystroye.
He cast the freres,
And founded hem on Sarysenes,
Feyned for God.
But they with her falshe faith
Mychel folk shendeth.
Christ calde hem hymself
Kynd ipocrites;
How often he cursed hem,
Wel can I tellen.
He seide ons hymself
To that sory puple:
'Who worthe you, wyghtes,
Wel lerned of the lawe!'
Eft he seyde to hem selfe,
'Wo mote you worthen
That the toumbes of profetes
Bildeth up heighe!
Your faderes for-deden hem,
And to the deth hem broughte.'
Here I touche this two,
Twynnen hem I thenke.
Who wilneth be wiser of lawe
Than lewede freres,
And in multitude of men
But maistres y-called,
And wilneth worship of the werld,
And sytten with heye,
And leveth lovyng of God
And lownesse byhynde,
And in beldyng of toumbes
Thei traveileth grete,
To chargen her chirche flore,
And chaungen it ofte.
And the fader of the freres
Defouled her soules,
That was the dyggyng devel,
That dreccheth men ofte.
The devel by his dotage
Dissaveth the chirche,
And put in the Prechours,
Y-paynted withouten,
And by his queyntise they comen in
The curates to helpen;
But that harmed hem harde,
And halp hem ful littel.
But Austynes ordinaunce
Was on a good treuthe;
And also Dominikes dedes
Weren dernelich y-used;
And Fraunceis founded his folke
Fulliche on treuthe,
Pure parfit prestes
In penaunce to libben,
In love and in lownesse
And lettynge of pryde,
Grounded on the Godspel,
As God baad hymselve.
But now the glose is so greet
In gladdyng tales,
That turneth up two-fold
Un-teyned upon treuthe,
That they ben cursed of Christ,
I can hem wel prove
Withouten his blissyng,
Bare beth thei in her werkes.
For Christ seyde hymselfe
To swiche as him folwede:
'Y-blissed mot they ben
That mene ben in soule;'
And alle power in gost
God hymself blisseth.
Whou fele freres fareth so,
Fayne wolde I knowe,
Prove hem in proces,
And pynch at her ordre,
And deme hem after that the don,
And dredles, Y leve,
Thei wiln wexon pure wroth
Wonderliche sone,
And shewen the a sharp wil
In a short tyme
To wiln wilfully wrathe,
And werche therafter.
That warned hem with trewthe.
For he in goodnesse of gost
Graythliche hem warned
To wayven her wikednesse
And werkes of synne.
Whou sone this sorimen
Seweden hys soule,
And overal lolled hym
With heritikes werkes!
And so of the blissyng of God
Thei bereth little mede.
"Afterward another,
Onliche he blissede
The meke of the myddel-erde
Through myght of his fader.
Fynd foure freres in a flok
That folweth that rewle,
Than have I tynt al my tast,
Touche and assaye.
Lakke hem a littel wight,
And her liif blamen;
But he lepe up on heigh
In hardenesse of herte,
And nemne the anon nought,
And thy name lakke,
With proude wordes apert
That passeth his rewle,
Bothe with 'thou leyst,' and 'thou lext,'
In heynesse of soule,
And turnnen as a tyraunt
That turmenteth hymselve.
A lord were lother
For to leyne a knave,
Thanne swich a begger,
The best in a toun.
Loke now, leve man,
Beth nought thise y-lyke
Fully to the Pharisens,
In fele of these poyntes.
Al her brad beldyng
Ben belded with synne,
And in worshipe of the world
Here wynnyng they holden;
They shapen her chapolories,
And strecchet hem brode,
And launceth heighe her hemmes
With babelyng in stretes.
They ben y-sewed with whight silke,
And semes ful queynte,
Y-stongen with stiches
That stareth as sylver.
And but freres ben fyrst y-set
At sopers and at festes,
They wiln ben wonderly wroth
Y-wis, as I trowe;
But they ben at the lordes borde,
Louren they willeth.
He mot bygynne that bord,
A beggere with sorowe;
And first sitten in se
In her synagoges,
That beth her heigh helle hous,
Of Caymes kynd.
For though a man in her mynstre
A masse wolde heren,
His sight shal so by set
On sondrye werkes,
The penonnes and the pomels
And poyntes of sheldes
Withdrawen his devocion,
And dusken his herte.
I likene it to a lim-yerde
To drawen men to helle,
And to worchipe of the fend,
To wraththen the soules.
And also Christ himself seide
To swich ypocrites,
He loveth in marketes ben met
With gretynges of povere,
And lowynge of lewed men
In Lentenes tyme;
For thei han of bichopes y-bought
With her propre silver
And purchased of penaunce
The puple to asoyle.
But money may maken
Mesure of the peyne;
After that his power is to payen,
His penaunce shal fayle.
God leve it be a good help
For hele of the soules!
And also this myster men
Ben maysters i-called,
That the gentill Jesus
Generalliche blamed,
And that poynt to his apostles
Purly defended.
But freres haven forgeten this,
And the fend suweth,
He that maystri loved,
Lucifer the olde.
Where Fraunceys or Dominik,
Other Austyn ordeynde,
And of this dotardes
Doctur to worthe,
Maysters of divinité
Her matynes to leve,
And cherlich as a cheveteyn
Hys chaumbre to holden,
With chymené, and chaple,
And chosen whan hem lyste,
And served as a sovereyn,
And as a lord sytten.
Swich a gome Godes wordes
Grysliche gloseth;
I trowe he toucheth nought the text,
But taketh it for a tale.
God forbad to his folk,
And fullyche defendede,
They shoulden nought stodyen biforne
Ne sturren her wyttes,
But sodenly the same word
With here mouth shewe,
That weren given hem of God,
Thorugh gost of hemselve.
Now mot a frere studyen
And leven his matynes,
And no masse syngen,
And loken hem lesynges
That liketh the puple,
To purchasen hym his purs ful,
To paye for the drynke.
And, brother, when bernes ben ful,
And holy tyme passed,
Thanne comen cursed freres,
And croucheth ful lowe,
A losel, a lymytoure,
Over al the lond lepeth.
And loke that he leve non hous,
That somwhat he ne laiche;
And there thei gylen hemself,
And Godes word turneth,
Bagges and beggyng
He bad his folke leven,
And only serven hymself,
And his ruwel sechen,
And al that nedly nedeth,
That shulden hem nought lakken.
Wherto beggen thise men,
And ben nought so feble?
Hem fayleth no furryng,
Ne clothes atte fulle,
But for a lustful liif
In lustes to dwellen;
Withouten any travail
Untrulych libbeth;
Thei beth nought maymed men,
Ne no mete lakketh;
Thei [ben] clothed in curious cloth,
And clenliche arayed.
It is a lawles liif,
As lordynges usen,
Nether ordeyned in ordre,
But onethe libbeth.
"Christ bad blissen
Bodies on erthe
That wepen for wikkednesse
That he byforn wroughte.
That ben few of tho freres,
For thei ben nere dede,
And put al in pur clath,
With pottes on her hedes;
Thanne he warieth, and wepeth,
And wicheth after heven,
And fyeth on her falshedes
That thei before deden.
And therfore of that blissyng,
Trewely, as I trowe,
Thei may trussen her part
In a terre powghe.
"Alle tho blissed beth
That bodyliche hongreth;
That ben the pore penyles,
That han over-passed
The poynt of her pris liif,
In penaunce of werkes,
And mown nought swynken ne sweten,
But ben swith feble,
Other mayned at meschef,
Or meseles lyke,
And her god is a-gon,
And greveth hem to beggen.
Ther is no frere, in feith,
That fareth in this wyse,
That he may beggen his bred,
His bed is y-greithed
Under a pot he shall be put
In a pryvye chaumbre,
That he shal lyven ne last
But lytel whyle after.
Almyghti God and man,
The merciable blessed,
That han mercy on men
That mis-don hem here.
But who so for-gabbed a frere
Y-founden at the stues,
And brought blod of his bodi,
On back or on syde,
Hym were as good greven
A grete lord of rentes;
He shoulde sonnere ben shryven,
Shortly to tellen,
Though he kilde a comly knyght,
And compasd his mother,
Then a buffet to beden
A beggere frere.
"The clene hertes Christ
He curteyliche blissed
That coveten no catel
But Christes fulle blysse,
That leveth fulliche on God,
And lelliche thenketh
On his lore and his lawe,
And lyveth opon trewthe.
Freres han forgetten this,
And folweth another,
That they may henten they holden,
By-hirneth it sone;
Here hertes ben clen y-hid
In her heighe cloystre,
As curres from careyne
That is cast in diches.
"And parfiit Christ
The pesible blissede,
That ben suffrant and sobre,
And susteyne anger.
Asay of her sobernesse,
And thou might y-knowen
Ther ne is no waspe in this world
That wil folloke styngen,
For stappyng on a too
Of a styncand frere.
For neyther soveren ne seget
Thei ne suffereth never.
Al thei blessyng of God
Beouten thei walken,
For of her suffraunce, for sothe,
Men say but lytel.
"Alle that persecution
In pure liif suffren,
They han the beneson of God,
Blissed in erthe.
I pray, parceyve now
The pursut of a frere,
In what mesure of a mekenesse
Thise men deleth.
Byhold upon Water Brut
Whou bisiliche thei pursueden,
For he seid hem the sothe.
And yet, syre, ferther
Hy may no more marren hem,
But men telleth
That he is an heretik,
And yvele beleveth.
And precheth it in pulpit
To blenden the puple.
They wolden awyrien that wight
For his wel dedes,
And so they chewen charité,
As chewen shaf houndes.
And thei pursueth the povere,
And passeth pursutes,
Bothe they wyln and thei wolden
Y-worthen so grete,
To passen any manes myght,
To mortheren the soules;
First to brenne the body
In a bale of fiir,
And sythen the sely soule slen,
And senden hyre to helle.
And Christ clerly forbad
His christene, and defended,
They shoulden nought after the face
Never the folke demen."
"Sire," I seide myself,
"Thou semest to blamen.
Why dispisest thou thus
Thise sely pore freres,
None other men so mychel,
Monkes ne prestes,
Chanons ne charthous
That in chirche serveth?
It semeth that thise sely men
Han somewhat the greved,
Other with word, or with werk,
And therfore thou wilnest
To shenden other shamen hem
With the sharp speche,
And bannen holliche,
And her hous greven."
"I prey the," quath Peres,
"Put that out of thy mynde;
Certeyn for soule hele
I say the this wordes.
I preise nought pocessioneres
But pur lytel;
For falshed of freres
Hath fulliche encombred
Manye of this maner men,
And maad hem to leven
Her charité and chasteté,
And shosen hem to lustes,
And waxen to werly,
And wayven the trewethe,
And leven the love of her God,
And the werld serven.
But for falshed of freres
I fele in my soule,
Seyng the synful liif,
That sorweth myn herte,
Hou they ben clothed in cloth
That clennest sheweth,
For angeles and archangeles
Alle they whiit useth,
And al aldremen
That ben ante thronum.
Thise toknes haven freres taken;
But I trowe that a fewe
Folwen fully that cloth,
But falslyche that useth.
For whiit, in trowthe, bytokeneth
Clennes in soule:—
Gif he have undernethen whiit,
Thanne he above wereth
Black, that betokeneth
Bale for oure synne,
And mournyng for mis-dede
Of hem that this useth,
And sorwe for synful liif,
So that cloth asketh.
I trowe there ben nought ten freres
That for synne wepen.
For that liif is her lust,
And therby thei libben,
In fraytour and in fermori
Her fostryng is synne;
It is her mete at ich a mel,
Her most sustinaunce.
Herkne opon Hildegare
Hou homlich he telleth
How her sustinaunce is synne;
And syker, as I trowe,
Weren her confessiones
Clenly destrued,
Hy shoulde nought beren hem so brag,
Ne belden so heyghe.
For the fallyng of synne
Socoreth the foles,
And begileth the grete
With glaverynge wordes;
With glosyng of godspels
Thei Godes word turneth,
And passen al the pryvylege
That Peter after used.
The power of the apostles
Thie pasen in speche,
For to sellen the synnes
For selver other mede.
And purliche a pœna
The puple asoyleth,
And a culpa also,
That they may kachen
Money other money-worth,
And mede to fonge;
And ben at lone and at bode,
As burgeises useth.
Thus they serven Sathanas,
And soules bygyleth,
Marchaunes of malisones,
Mansede wrecches.
Thei usen russet also
Some of this freres,
That bitokeneth travaile
And treuth upon erthe,
But loke whou this lorels
Laboren the erthe.
But freten the fruyt that the folke
Ful lellich beswynketh;
With travail of trewe men
Thei tymbren her houses,
And of the curiouse cloth
Her copes they beggen;
And als his gettyng is grete
He shal ben good holden.
And right as dranes doth nought
But drynketh up the huny,
Whan been with her busynes
Han brought it to hepe,
Right so fareth freres
With folk opon erthe;
They freten up the firste froyt,
And falsliche lybbeth.
But alle freres eten nought
Y-liche good mete,
But after that his wynnyng is
Is his wel-fare,
And after that he bringeth hom
His bed shal ben graythed,
And after that his richesse is raught
He shal ben redy served.
But se thiself in thi sight
Whou somme of hem walketh
With clouted shon,
And clothes ful feble,
Wel neigh for-werd,
And the wlon offe;
And his felawe in a frok
Worth swhich fiftene,
Arayd in rede stone,
And elles were reuthe:
And sexe copes or seven
In his celle hongeth;
Though for fayling of good
His felawe shulde sterve,
He wolde nought lenen hym a peny
His liif for to holden.
I myght tymen tho troiflardes
To toylen with the erthe,
Tylyen, and trewlich lyven,
And her flesh tempren.
Now mot ich soutere hys sone
Seten to schole,
And ich a beggeres brol
On the book lerne.
And worth to a writere
And with a lorde dwelle;
Other falsly to a frere
The fend for to serven;
So of that beggares brol
An abbot shal worthen,
Among the peres of the lond
Prese to sytten,
And lordes sones lowly
To tho losels aloute,
Knyghtes crouketh hem to
And cruccheth ful lowe;
And his syre a soutere
Y-suled in grees,
His teeth with toylyng of lether
Tatered as a sawe.
Alaas! that lordes of the londe
Leveth swiche wrechen,
And leveth swych lorels
For her lowe wordes.
They shulden maken abbots
Her owen bretheren childre,
Other of som gentil blod,
And so yt best semed,
And fostre none forytoures,
Ne swich false freres,
To maken fat and fulle
And her flesh combren.
For her kynde were more
To y-clense diches,
Than ben to sopers y-set first,
And served with sylver.
A grete bolle-ful of benen
Were beter in hys wombe,
And with the bandes of bakun
His baly for to fillen,
Then pertryches, or plovers,
Or pecokes y-rosted,
And comeren her stomakes
With curiuse drynkes,
That maketh swyche harlotes
Hordom usen,
And with her wikked word
Wymmen bitrayeth.
God wold her wonyynge
Were in wildernesse,
And fals freres forboden
The fayre ladis chaumbres.
For knewe lordes her craft,
Treuly I trowe,
They shulden nought haunten her house
So holy on nyghtes,
Ne bedden swich brothels
In so brode shetes;
But sheten her heved in the stre,
To sharpen her wittes;
Ne ben kynges confessours of custom,
Ne the counsel of the rewme knowe.
For Fraunceis founded hem nought
To faren on that wise,
Ne Domynyk dued hem nevere
Swyche drynkers to worthe,
Ne Helye ne Austyn
Swyche liif never used,
But in povert of spirit
Spended her tyme.
We have seyn ourself
In a short tyme
Whou freres wolden no flesh
Among the folk usen;
But now the harlotes
Han hyd thilke reule,
And for the love of oure Lord
Han leyd hire in water.
Wenest thou ther wolde so fele
Swich warlawes worthen?
Ne were werliche wele
And her welfare,
Thei shulden delven and dyken,
And dongen the erthe,
And menemong corn breed
To her mete fongen,
And wortes fleshles wrought,
And water to drynken,
And werchen and wolward gon,
As we wrecches usen.
An aunter gif ther wolde on,
Among an hol hundred,
Lyven so for Godes love
In tyme of a wyntere."
"Leve Peres," quath I tho,
"I pray that thou me telle
Whou I may conne my Crede
In Christen byleve."
"Leve brother," quath he,
"Hold that I segge,
I wil techen the the trouthe,
And tellen the the sothe.—
THE CREDE.
"Leve thou in oure Loverd God
That al the werld wrought,
Holy heven eke on hey
Holliche he fourmede,
And is almyghti hymself
Over alle his werkes.
And wrought as his wil was
The werld and the heven;
And on gentil Jesu Christ,
Engendred of hymselven,
His owen onlyche sone,
Lord over all y-knowen,
That was clenlich conceived
Clerli in trewthe
Of the heye Holy Gost,
This is the holy beleve.
And of the maiden Marye
Man was he born,
Withouten synful seed,
This is fully the byleve.
With thorn y-crouned, crucified,
And on the cros dyede,
And sythen his blessed body
Was in a stone byried,
And descended a-doun
To the derk helle,
And fet out our formfaderes,
And hy ful fayn weren.
The thyrd day redeliche
Hymself ros fram deeth,
And, on a ston there he stod,
He steigh up to hevene,
And on his fader ryght hand
Redelich he sitteth,
That almyghti God,
Over alle other whyghtes;
And is herafter to commen,
Christ all himselven,
To demen the quyke and the dede,
Withouten any doute.
And in the heighe Holy Gost
Holly I beleve;
And generall holy chirche also,
Hold this in the minde;
The communion of sayntes,
For soth I to the sayn;
And for our great sinnes
Forgivenes for to getten,
And only by Christ
Clenlich to be clensed;
Our bodies again to risen
Right as we been here;
And the liif everlasting
Leve ich to habben. Amen.
"Although this flatterynge freres
Wyln, for her pryde,
Disputen of Godes deyté,
As dotardes shulden,
The more the matere is moved
The masedere hi worthen.
Lat the loseles alone,
And leve thou the trewthe;
For these maystres of dyvynité
Many, als I trowe,
Folwen nought fully the feith,
As fele of the lewede.
Whough may mannes wiit,
Through werk of himselve,
Knowen Christes privité,
That alle kynde passeth?
It mot ben a man
Of also mek an herte,
That myght with his good liif
The Holy Gost fongen;
And thanne nedeth him nought
Nevere for to studyen;
He myght no maistre ben cald,
For Christ that defended,
Ne puten no pylion
On his pild pate,
But prechen in parfit liif,
And no pryde usen.
But al that ever I have seyd,
Soth it me semeth;
And al that evere I have wryten
Is soth, as I trowe;
And for amendyng of thise men
Is most that I write.
God wolde hy wolden ben war,
And werchen the betere!
But for I am a lewed man,
Paraunter I myghte
Passen par adventure,
And in some poynt erren,
I wil nought this matere
Maistrely avowen.
But gif ich have mys-said,
Mercy ich aske,
And pray al mannere men
This matere amende,
Ich a word by hymself,
And al, gif it nedeth.
God of his grete myght,
And his good grace,
Save alle freres
That feithfulli lybben!
And alle tho that ben fals,
Fayre hem amende,
And gyve hem wiit and good wil
Swiche dedes to werch,
That thei may wynnen the liif
That evere shal lesten."
Amen.