The Vision and Creed of Piers Ploughman, Volume 1

Passus Quartus de Visione, ut supra.

ESSETH," seith the kyng,

"I suffre yow no lenger;

Ye shul saughtne for sothe,

And serve me bothe.

Kis hire," quod the kyng,

"Conscience, I hote."

"Nay, by Crist!"quod Conscience,

"Congeye me er for evere,

But Reson rede me therto,

Rather wol I deye."

"And I comaunde thee," quod the kyng,

To Conscience thanne,

"Rape thee to ryde,

And Reson thow fecche;

Comaunde hym that he come

My counseil to here,

For he shal rule my reaume

And rede me the beste,

And acounte with thee, Conscience,

So me Crist helpe!

How thow lernest the peple,

The lered and the lewed."

"I am fayn of that foreward,"

Seide the freke thanne,

And ryt right to Reson,

And rouneth in his ere,

And seide as the kyng bad,

And sithen took his leve.

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

"Reste thee a while."

And called Caton his knave,

Curteis of speche,

And also Tomme Trewe-tonge,—

"Tel me no tales,

Ne lesynge to laughen of,

For I loved hem nevere;

And set my sadel upon Suffre,

Til I se my tyme,

And lat warroke hym wel

With witty-wordes gerthes,

And hange on hym the hevy brydel

To holde his heed lowe,

For he wol make 'wehee!'

Twies er he be there."

Thanne Conscience upon his capul

Carieth forth faste,

And Reson with hym ryt,

Rownynge togideres,

Whiche maistries Mede

Maketh on this erthe.

Oon Waryn Wisdom,

And Witty his feere,

Folwed hym faste,

For thei hadde to doone

In th'escheker and in the chauncerye,

To ben descharged of thynges;

And riden faste, for Reson sholde

Rede hem the beste,

For to save hem for silver

From shame and from harmes.

And Conscience knew hem wel,

Thei loved coveitise;

And bad Reson ryde faste,

And recche of hir neither.

"Ther are wiles in hire wordes,

And with Mede thei dwelleth;

Ther as wrathe and wranglynge is,

Ther wynne thei silver;

Ac where is love and leautee,

Thei wol noght come there.

Contritio et infelicitas in viis eorum,

etc.

"Thei ne yeveth noght of God

One goose wynge.

Non est timor Dei ante oculos eorum, etc.

"For woot God thei wolde do moore

For a dozeyne chicknes,

Or as manye capons,

Or for a seem of otes,

Than for the love of oure Lord,

Or alle hise leeve seintes.

For-thi Reson lat hem ride,

Tho riche by hemselve,

For Conscience knoweth hem noght,

Ne Crist, as I trowe."

And thanne Reson rood faste

The righte heighe gate,

As Conscience hym kenned,

Til thei come to the kynge.

Curteisly the kyng thanne

Com ayeins Reson,

And bitwene hymself and his sone

Sette hym on benche;

And wordeden wel wisely

A gret while togideres.

And thanne com Pees into parlement,

And putte forth a bille,

How Wrong ayeins his wille

Hadde his wif taken,

And how he ravysshede Rose

Reginaldes loove,

And Margrete of hir maydenhede

Maugree hire chekes.

"Bothe my gees and my grys

Hise gadelynges feccheth,

I dar noght for fere of hem

Fighte ne chide.

He borwed of me Bayard,

He broughte hym hom nevere,

Ne no ferthyng therfore,

For ought I koude plede.

He maynteneth hise men

To murthere myne hewen,

Forstalleth my feires,

And fighteth in my chepyng,

And breketh up my bernes dore,

And bereth awey my whete,

And taketh me but a taillé

For ten quarters of otes;

And yet he beteth me therto,

And lyth by my mayde.

I am noght hardy for hym

Unnethe to loke."

The kyng knew he seide sooth,

For Conscience hym tolde

That Wrong was a wikked luft,

And wroghte muche sorwe.

Wrong was afered thanne,

And Wisdom he soughte,

To maken pees with hise pens;

And profred hym manye,

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

Litel wolde I recche,

Theigh Pees and his power

Pleyned hym evere."

Tho wente Wisdom

And sire Waryn the Witty,

For that Wrong hadde y-wroght

So wikked a dede,

And warnede Wrong tho

With swich a wis tale,

"Who so wercheth by wille,

Wrathe maketh ofte;

I sey it by myself,

Thow shalt it wel fynde;

But if Mede it make,

Thi meschief is uppe,

For bothe thi lif and thi lond

Lyth in his grace."

Thanne wowede Wrong

Wisdom ful yerne,

To maken pees with his pens,

Handy dandy payed.

Wisdom and Wit thanne

Wenten togidres,

And token Mede myd hem

Mercy to wynne.

Pees putte forth his heed,

And his panne blody,

"Withouten gilt, God it woot,

Gat I this scathe;

Conscience and the commune

Knowen the sothe."

Ac Wisdom and Wit

Were aboute faste,

To overcomen the kyng

With catel, if thei myghte.

The kyng swor by Crist,

And by his crowne bothe,

That Wrong for hise werkes

Sholde wo tholie;

And comaundede a constable

To casten hym in irens,

And lete hym noght thise seven yer

Seen his feet ones.

"God woot," quod Wisdom,

"That were noght the beste;

And he amendes nowe make,

Lat maynprise hym have,

And be borgh for his bale,

And buggen hym boote,

And so amenden that is mys-do

And evere moore the bettre."

Wit acorded therwith,

And seide the same,

"Bettre is that boote

Bale a-doun brynge,

Than bale be y-bet,

And boote never the bettre."

And thanne gan Mede to mengen hire,

And mercy she bi-soughte,

And profrede Pees a present

Al of pure golde:

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

"To amenden thi scathe,

For I wol wage for Wrong

He wol do so na-moore."

Pitously Pees thanne

Preyde to the kynge,

To have mercy on that man

That mys-dide hym so ofte;

"For he hath waged me wel,

As Wisdom hym taughte,

And I forgyve hym that gilt

With a good wille,

So that the kyng assente,

I kan seye no bettre;

For Mede hath me amendes maad,

I may na-moore axe."

"Nay," quod the kyng tho,

"So me Crist helpe!

Wrong wendeth noght so a-wey,

Erst wole I wite moore.

For lope he so lightly,

Laughen he wolde;

And eft the boldere be

To bete myne hewen;

But Reson have ruthe on hym,

He shal reste in my stokkes;

And that as longe as he lyveth,

But lownesse hym borwe."

Som men radde Reson tho

To have ruthe on that shrewe,

And for to counseille the kyng,

And Conscience after;

That Mede moste be maynpernour

Reson thei bi-soughte.

"Reed me noght," quod Reson,

"No ruthe to have,

Til lordes and ladies

Loven alle truthe,

And haten alle harlotrie,

To heren or to mouthen it.

"Til Parnelles purfille

Be put in hire hucche,

And childrene cherissynge

Be chastynge with yerdes,

And harlottes holynesse

Be holden for an hyne.

"Til clerkene coveitise be

To clothe the povere and fede,

And religiouse romeris

Recordare in hir cloistres,

As seynt Beneyt hem bad,

Bernard and Fraunceis,

And til prechours prechynge

Be preved on hemselve.

"Til the kynges counseil

Be the commune profit,

Til bisshopes bayardes

Ben beggeris chaumbres,

Hire haukes and hire houndes

Help to povere religious.

"And til seint James be sought

There I shal assigne,

That no man go to Galis

But if he go for evere;—

And alle Rome renneres,

For robberes biyonde,

Bere no silver over see

That signe of kyng sheweth,

Neither grave ne ungrave,

Gold neither silver,

Upon forfeture of that fee,

Who so fynt it at Dovere,

But if he be marchaunt or his man,

Or messager with lettres,

Provysour or preest,

Or penaunt for hise synnes.

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

I shal no ruthe have,

While Mede hath the maistrie

In this moot-halle.

Ac I may shewe ensamples,

As I se outher while,

I seye it by myself," quod he,

"And it so were

That I were kyng with coroune

To kepen a reaume,

Sholde nevere Wrong in this world,

That I wite myghte,

Ben unpunysshed in my power,

For peril of my soule,

Ne gete my grace for giftes,

So me God save!

Ne for no mede have mercy,

But mekenesse it make;

For nullum malum the man

Mette with inpunitum,

And bad nullum bonum

Be irremuneratum

"Lat youre confessour, sire kyng,

Construe this unglosed;

And if ye werchen it in werk,

I wedde myne eris,

That lawe shal ben a laborer

And lede a-feld donge,

And love shal lede thi lond,

As the leef liketh."

Clerkes that were confessours

Coupled hem togideres,

Al to construe this clause,

And for the kynges profit,

Ac noght for confort of the commune,

Ne for the kynges soule;

For I seigh Mede in the moot-halle

On men of lawe wynke,

And thei laughynge lope to hire,

And left Reson manye.

Waryn Wisdom

Wynked upon Mede,

And seide, "Madame, I am youre man,

What so my mouth jangle;

I falle in floryns," quod that freke,

"And faile speche ofte."

Alle rightfulle recordede

That Reson truthe tolde;

And Wit acorded therwith,

And comendede hise wordes,

And the mooste peple in the halle,

And manye of the grete,

And leten Mekenesse a maister,

And Mede a mansed sherewe.

Love leet of hire light,

And leauté yet lasse,

And seiden it so heighe

That al the halle it herde,

"Who so wilneth hire to wif,

For welthe of hire goodes,

But he be knowe for a cokewold,

Kut of my nose."

Mede mornede tho,

And made hevy chere,

For the mooste commune of that court

Called hire an hore.

Ac a sisour and a somonour

Sued hire faste,

And a sherreves clerk

Bisherewed at the route;

"For ofte have I," quod he,

"Holpen yow at the barre,

And yet yeve ye me nevere

The worth of a risshe."

The kyng callede Conscience,

And afterward Reson,

And recordede that Reson

Hadde rightfully shewed;

And modiliche upon Mede

With myght the kyng loked;

And gan wexe wroth with lawe,

For Mede almoost hadde shent it;

And seide, "thorugh lawe, as I leve!

I lese manye eschetes;

Mede overmaistreth lawe,

And muche Truthe letteth.

Ac Reson shal rekene with yow,

If I regne any while,

And deme yow bi this day,

As ye han deserved.

Mede shal noght maynprise yow,

By the Marie of hevene!

I wole have leauté in lawe,

And lete be al youre janglyng;

And as moost folk witnesseth wel,

Wrong shal be demed."

Quod Conscience to the kyng,

"But the commune wole assente,

It is ful hard, by myn heed!

Hertoo to brynge it,

Alle youre lige leodes

To lede thus evene."

"By hym that raughte on the rode!"

Quod Reson to the kynge,

"But if I rule thus youre reaume,

Rende out my guttes,

If ye bidden buxomnesse

Be of myn assent."

"And I assente," seith the kyng,

"By seinte Marie my lady!

By my counseil commune,

Of clerkes and of erles;

Ac redily, Reson,

Thow shalt noght ride fro me,

For, as longe as I lyve,

Lete thee I nelle."

"I am al redy," quod Reson,

"To reste with yow evere;

So Conscience be of oure counseil,

I kepe no bettre."

"And I graunte," quod the kyng,

"Goddes forbode ellis!

Als longe as oure lyf lasteth,

Lyve we togideres."

Passus Quintus de Visione, ut supra.

HE kyng and hise knyghtes

To the kirke wente,

To here matyns of the day

And the masse after.

Thanne waked I of my wynkyng,

And wo was withalle,

That I ne hadde slept sadder,

And y-seighen moore.

Ac er I hadde faren a furlong,

Feyntise me hente,

That I ne myghte ferther a foot

For defaute of slepynge,

And sat softely a-doun,

And seide my bileve,

And so I bablede on my bedes,

Thei broughte me a-slepe.

And thanne saugh I muche moore

Than I bifore of tolde,

For I seigh the feld ful of folk,

That I bifore of seide,

And how Reson gan arayen hym

Al the reaume to preche,

And with a cros afore the kyng

Comsede thus to techen.

He preved that thise pestilences

Were for pure synne,

And the south-westrene wynd

On Saterday at even

Was pertliche for pure pride,

And for no point ellis;

Pyries and plum-trees

Were puffed to the erthe,

In ensaumple that the segges

Sholden do the bettre;

Beches and brode okes

Were blowen to the grounde,

Turned upward hire tailes,

In tokenynge of drede

That dedly synne er domes-day

Shal for-doon hem alle.

Of this matere I myghte

Mamelen ful longe;

Ac I shal seye as I saugh,

So me God helpe!

How pertly afore the peple

Reson bigan to preche.

He bad Wastour go werche,

What he best kouthe,

And wynnen his wastyng

With som maner crafte.

He preide Pernele

Hir purfil to lete,

And kepe it in hire cofre

For catel at hire nede.

Tomme Stowne he taughte

To take two staves,

And fecche Felice hom

Fro the wynen pyne.

He warnede Watte

His wif was to blame,

For hire heed was worth half marc,

And his hood noght worth a grote;

And bad Bette kutte

A bough outher tweye,

And bete Beton therwith,

But if she wolde werche.

And thanne he chargede chapmen

To chastizen hir children,

Late no wynnyng hem for-wanye

While thei be yonge,

Ne for no poustee of pestilence

Plese hem noght out of reson.

"My sire seide so to me,

And so dide my dame,

That the levere child

The moore loore bihoveth;

And Salomon seide the same,

That Sapience made,

Qui parcit virgæ, odit filium

The Englissh of this Latyn is,

Who so wole it knowe

Who so spareth the spring,

Spilleth hise children."

And sithen he prechede prelates

And preestes togideres,

"That ye prechen to the peple,

Preve it on yowselve,

And dooth it in dede,

It shal drawe yow to goode;

If ye leven as ye leren us,

We shul leve yow the bettre."

And sithen he radde Religion

Hir rule to holde;

"Lest the kyng and his conseil

Youre comunes apeire,

And be stywardes of youre stedes,

Til ye be ruled bettre."

And sithen he counseiled the kyng

His commune to lovye;

"It is thi trewe tresor,

And tryacle at thy nede."

And sithen he preide the pope

Have pité on holy chirche,

And er he gyve any grace,

Governe first hymselve.

"And ye that han lawes to kepe,

Lat truthe be youre coveitise,

Moore than gold outher giftes,

If ye wol God plese;

For who so contrarieth Truthe,

He telleth in the gospel,

That God knoweth hym noght,

Ne no seynt of hevene.

Amen dico vobis, nescio vos.

"And ye that seke seynt James,

And seyntes of Rome,

Seketh seynt Truthe,

For he may save yow alle;

Qui cum patre et filio,

That faire hem bi-falle

That seweth my sermon."

And thus seyde Reson.

Thanne ran Repentaunce,

And reherced his teme:

And garte Wille to wepe

Water with hise eighen.

Pernele Proud-herte

Platte hire to the erthe,

And lay longe er she loked,

And "Lord, mercy!"cryde,

And bi-highte to hym

That us alle made,

She sholde unsowen hir serk,

And sette there an heyre,

To affaiten hire flesshe

That fiers was to synne.

"Shal nevere heigh herte me hente,

But holde I wole me lowe

And suffre to be mys-seyd,

And so dide I nevere;

And now I wole meke me,

And mercy biseche,

For al this I have

Hated in myn herte."

Thanne Lechour seide, "Allas!"

And on oure Lady he cryde,

To maken mercy for hise mys-dedes

Bitwene God and his soule;

With that he sholde the Saterday,

Seven yer therafter,

Drynke but myd the doke,

And dyne but ones.

Envye with hevy herte

Asked after shrifte,

And carefully mea culpa

He comsed to shewe.

He was as pale as a pelet,

In the palsy he semed;

And clothed in a kaurymaury,

I kouthe it nought discryve,

In kirtel and courtepy,

And a knyf by his syde;

Of a freres frokke

Were the fore-sleves;

And as a leek that hadde y-leye

Longe in the sonne,

So loked he with lene chekes

Lourynge foule.

His body was to-bollen for wrathe,

That he boot hise lippes;

And wryngynge he yede with the fust,

To wreke hymself he thoughte

With werkes or with wordes,

Whan he seyghe his tyme.

Ech a word that he warpe

Was of a neddres tonge;

Of chidynge and of chalangynge

Was his chief liflode,

With bakbitynge and bismere,

And berynge of fals witnesse.

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

"And I for shame dorste;

I wolde be gladder, by God!

That Gybbe hadde meschaunce,

Than though I hadde this wouke y-wonne

A weye of Essex chese.

"I have a neghebore by me,

I have anoyed hym ofte,

And lowen on hym to lordes

To doon hym lese his silver,

And maad his frendes be his foon

Thorugh my false tonge;

His grace and his goode happes

Greven me ful soore.

"Bitwene manye and manye

I make debate ofte,

That bothe lif and lyme

Is lost thorugh my speche.

And whan I mete hym in market

That I moost hate,

I hailse hym hendely,

As I his frend were;

For he is doughtier than I,

I dar do noon oother;

Ac hadde I maistrie and myght,

God woot my wille!

"And whan I come to the kirk,

And sholde knele to the roode,

And preye for the peple

As the preest techeth,

For pilgrymes and for palmeres,

For al the peple after,

Thanne I crye on my knees

That Crist gyve hem sorwe,

That beren awey my bolle

And my broke shete.

"Awey fro the auter thanne

Turne I myne eighen,

And bi-holde Eleyne

Hath a newe cote;

I wisshe thanne it were myn,

And al the web after.

"And of mennes lesynge I laughe,

That liketh myn herte;

And for hir wynnynge I wepe,

And waille the tyme;

And deme that thei doon ille,

There I do wel werse.

Who so under-nymeth me hero

I hate hym dedly after;

I wolde that ech a wight

Were my knave,

For who so hath moore than I,

Than angreth me soore.

And thus I lyve love-lees,

Lik a luther dogge;

That al my body bolneth,

For bitter of my galle.

"I myghte noght ete many yeres

As a man oughte,

For envye and yvel wil

Is yvel to defie.

May no sugre ne swete thyng

Aswage my swellyng?

Ne no diapenidion

Dryve it fro myn herte?

Ne neither shrifte ne shame,

But who so shrape my mawe?"

"Yis redily," quod Repentaunce,

And radde hym to the beste,

"Sorwe of synnes

Is savacion of soules."

"I am sory," quod that segge,

"I am but selde oother,

And that maketh me thus megre,

For I ne may me venge.

"Amonges burgeises have I be

Dwellyng at Londone,

And gart bakbityng be a brocour

To blame mennes ware;

Whan he solde and I nought,

Thanne was I redy

To lye and to loure on my neghebore,

And to lakke his chaffare;

I wole amende this, if I may,

Thorugh myght of God almyghty."

Now awaketh Wrathe,

With two white eighen;

And nevelynge with the nose,

And his nekke hangyng.

"I am Wrathe," quod he,

"I was som tyme a frere,

And the coventes gardyner

For to graffen impes;

On lymitours and listres

Lesynges I ymped,

Til thei beere leves of lowe speche,

Lordes to plese,

And sithen thei blosmede a-brood

In boure to here shriftes;

And now is fallen therof a fruyt,

That folk han wel levere

Shewen hire shriftes to hem,

Than shryve hem to hir persons.

"And now persons han perceyved

That freres parte with hem,

Thise possessioners preche

And deprave freres.

"And freres fyndeth hem in defaute,

As folk bereth witnesse,

That whan thei preche the peple

In many places aboute,

I Wrathe walke with hem,

And wisse hem of my bokes.

Thus thei speken of my spiritualté,

That either despiseth oother,

Til thei be bothe beggers

And by my spiritualté libben,

Or ellis al riche

And ryden aboute.

I Wrathe reste nevere,

That I ne moste folwe

This wikked folk,

For swich is my grace.

"I have an aunte to nonne,

And an abbesse bothe;

Hir hadde levere swowe or swelte,

Than suffre any peyne,

"I have be cook in hir kichene,

And the covent served

Manye monthes with hem,

And with monkes bothe.

I was the prioresse potager,

And othere povere ladies,

And maad hem joutes of janglyng,

That dame Johane was a bastard,

And dame Clarice a knyghtes doughter,

Ac a cokewold was hir sire;

And dame Pernele a preestes fyle,

Prioresse worth she nevere,

For she hadde child in chirie-tyme,

Al our chapitre it wiste.

"Of wikkede wordes

I Wrathe hire wortes made,

Til 'thow lixt' and 'thow lixt'

Lopen out at ones,

And either hite oother

Under the cheke;

Hadde thei had knyves, by Crist

Hir either hadde kild oother.

"Seint Gregory was a good pope,

And hadde a good forwit,

That no prioresse were preest,

For that he ordeyned;

They hadde thanne ben infames the firste day,

Thei kan so yvele hele conseil.

"Among monkes I myghte be,

Ac many tyme I shonye it;

For there ben manye felle frekes

My feeris to aspie,

Bothe priour and suppriour

And oure pater abbas;

And if I telle any tales,

Thei taken hem togideres,

And doon me faste frydayes

To breed and to watre,

And am chalanged in the chapitre hous

As I a child were,

And baleised on the bare ers,

And no brech bitwene.

For-thi have I no likyng

With tho leodes to wonye.

I ete there unthende fisshe,

And feble ale drynke;

Ac outher while whan wyn cometh,

Thanne I drynke wyn at eve,

And have a flux of a foul mouth

Wel fyve dayes after.

Al the wikkednesse that I woot

By any of oure bretheren,

I couthe it in oure cloistre,

That al oure covent woot it."

"Now repente thee," quod Repentaunce,

"And reherce thow nevere

Counseil that thow knowest

By contenaunce ne by right;

And drynk nat over delicatly,

Ne to depe neither,

That thi wille by cause therof

To wrathe myghte turne.

Esto sobrius," he seide,

And assoiled me after,

And bad me wilne to wepe

My wikkednesse to amende.

And thanne cam Coveitise,

Kan I hym naght discryve,

So hungrily and holwe

Sire Hervy hym loked.

He was bitel-browed,

And baber-lipped also,

With two blered eighen

As a blynd hagge;

And as a letheren purs

Lolled hise chekes,

Wel sidder than his chyn

Thei chyveled for elde;

And as a bonde-man of his bacon

His berd was bi-draveled,

With an hood on his heed,

A lousy hat above,

And in a tawny tabard

Of twelf wynter age,

Al so torn and baudy,

And ful of lys crepyng,

But if that a lous couthe

Han lopen the bettre,

She sholde noght han walked on that welthe,

So was it thred-bare.

"I have ben coveitous," quod this caytif,

"I bi-knowe it here,

For som tyme I served

Symme-atte-Style,

And was his prentice y-plight

His profit to wayte.

"First I lerned to lye,

A leef outher tweyne;

Wikkedly to weye

Was my firste lesson;

To Wy and to Wynchestre

I wente to the feyre,

With many manere marchaundise,

As my maister me highte.

Ne hadde the grace of gyle y-go

Amonges my chaffare,

It hadde ben unsold this seven yer,

So me God helpe!

"Thanne drough I me among drapiers,

My donet to lerne,

To drawe the liser along,

The lenger it semed;

Among the riche rayes

I rendred a lesson,

To broche hem with a pak-nedle,

And playte hem togideres,

And putte hem in a presse,

And pyne hem therinne,

Til ten yerdes or twelve

Hadde tolled out thrittene.

"My wif was a webbe,

And wollen cloth made;

She spak to spynnesteres

To spynnen it oute,

Ac the pound that she paied by

Peised a quatron moore

Than myn owene auncer,

Who so weyed truthe.

"I boughte hire barly-malt,

She brew it to selle,

Peny ale and puddyng ale

She poured togideres,

For laborers and for lowe folk

That lay by hymselve.

"The beste ale lay in my bour,

Or in my bed-chambre;

And who so bummed therof,

Boughte it therafter,

A galon for a grote,

God woot, no lesse!

And yet it cam in cuppe-mele,

This craft my wif used.

Rose the Regrater

Was hire righte name;

She hath holden hukkerye

Al hire lif tyme.

Ac I swere now, so thee ik!

That synne wol I lete,

And nevere wikkedly weye,

Ne wikke chaffare use;

But wenden to Walsyngham,

And my wif als,

And bidde the Roode of Bromholm

Brynge me out of dette."

"Repentedestow evere?"quod Repentaunce,

"Or restitucion madest."

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

"With an heep of chapmen,

I roos whan thei were a-reste

And riflede hire males."

"That was no restitucion," quod Repentaunce,

"But a robberis thefte;

Thow haddest be the bettre worthi

Ben hanged therfore,

Than for al that

That thow hast here shewed."

"I wende riflynge were restitucion," quod he,

"For I lerned nevere rede on boke;

And I kan no Frensshe, in feith,

But of the fertheste ende of Northfolk."

"Usedestow evere usurie?"quod Repentaunce,

"In al thi lif tyme."

"Nay sothly," he seide,

"Save in my youthe

I lerned among Lumbardes

And Jewes a lesson,

To weye pens with a peis,

And pare the hevyeste,

And lene it for love of the cros,

To legge a wed and lese it.

Swiche dedes I dide write,

If he his day breke,

I have mo manoirs thorugh rerages,

Than thorugh miseretur et commodat

"I have lent lordes

And ladies my chaffare,

And ben hire brocour after,

And bought it myselve;

Eschaunges and chevysaunces

With swich chaffare I dele,

And lene folk that lese wole

A lippe at every noble,

And with Lumbardes lettres

I ladde gold to Rome,

And took it by tale here,

And tolde hem there lasse."

"Lentestow evere lordes,

For love of hire mayntenaunce?"

"Ye, I have lent to lordes,

Loved me nevere after,

And have y-maad many a knyght

Bothe mercer and draper,

That payed nevere for his prentishode

Noght a peire gloves."

"Hastow pité on povere men,

That mote nedes borwe?"

"I have as muche pité of povere men,

As pedlere hath of cattes,

That wolde kille hem, if he cacche hem myghte,

For coveitise of hir skynnes."

"Artow manlich among thi neghebores

Of thi mete and drynke?"

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

As hound is in kichene,

Amonges my neghebores, namely,

Swiche a name ich have."

"Now God lene thee nevere," quod Repentaunce,

"But thow repente the rather,

The grace on this grounde

Thi good wel to bi-sette,

Ne thyne heires after thee

Have joie of that thow wynnest,

Ne thyne executours wel bi-sette

The silver that thow hem levest;

And that was wonne with wrong

With wikked men be despended.

For were I frere of that hous

Ther good feith and charité is,

I nolde cope us with thi catel,

Ne oure kirk amende,

Ne have a peny to my pitaunce,

So God my soule save!

For the beste book in oure hous,

Theigh brent gold were the leves,

And I wiste witterly

Thow were swich as thow tellest.

Servus es alterius,

Dum fercula pinguia quæris;

Pane tuo potius

Vescere, liber eris.

"Thow art an unkynde creature,

I kan thee noght assoille,

Til thow make restitucion

And rekene with hem alle;

And sithen that Reson rolle it

In the registre of hevene,

That thow hast maad ech man good,

I may thee noght assoile.

Non dimittitur peccatum, donec restituatur

oblatum.

"For alle that han of thi good,

Have God my trouthe!

Ben holden at the heighe doom

To helpe thee to restitue;

And who so leveth noght this be sooth,

Loke in the Sauter glose,

In Miserere mei, Deus,

Wher I mene truthe;

Ecce enim veritatem dilexisti, etc.

Shal nevere werkman in this world

Thryve with that thow wynnest.

Cum sancto sanctus eris;

Construwe me this on Englisshe."

Thanne weex that sherewe in wanhope,

And wolde han hanged hym;

Ne hadde Repentaunce the rather

Reconforted hym in this manere.

"Have mercy in thi mynde,

And with thi mouth biseche it;

For Goddes mercy is moore

Than alle hise othere werkes.

And al the wikkednesse in this world

That man myghte werche or thynke,

Nis na-moore to the mercy of God,

Than in the see a gleede.

Omnis iniquitas quantum ad misericordiam

Dei, est quasi scintilla

in medio maris.

"For-thi have mercy in thy mynde,

And marchaundise leve it;

For thow hast no good ground

To gete thee with a wastel,

But if it were with thi tonge,

Or ellis with thi two hondes.

For the good that thow hast geten

Bigan al with falshede,

And as longe as thow lyvest therwith,

Thow yeldest noght, but borwest.

"And if thow wite nevere to whiche,

Ne whom to restitue,

Ber it to the bisshope,

And bid hym of his grace

Bi-sette it hymself,

As best is for thi soule;

For he shal answere for thee

At the heighe dome,

For thee and for many mo

That man shal yeve a rekenyng,

What he lerned yow in Lente,

Leve thow noon oother,

And what he lente yow of oure Lordes good

To lette yow fro synne."

Now bi-gynneth Gloton

For to go to shrifte,

And karieth hym to kirke-warde

His coupe to shewe;

And Beton the brewestere

Bad hym good morwe,

And asked at hym with that,

Whider-ward he wolde.

"To holy chirche," quod he,

"For to here masse,

And sithen I wole be shryven,

And synne na-moore."

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

"Gloton, woltow assaye?"

"Hastow ought in thi purs?"quod he,

"Any hote spices?"

"I have pepir and piones," quod she,

"And a pound of garleek,

And a ferthyng-worth of fenel-seed

For fastynge dayes."

Thanne goth Glotin in,

And grete othes after.

Cesse the souteresse

Sat on the benche;

Watte the warner,

And his wif bothe;

Tymme the tynkere,

And tweyne of his prentices;

Hikke the hakeney-man,

And Hughe the nedlere;

Clarice of Cokkeslane,

And the clerk of the chirche;

Dawe the dykere,

And a dozeyne othere.

Sire Piers of Pridie,

And Pernele of Flaundres;

A ribibour, a ratoner,

A rakiere of Chepe,

A ropere, a redyng-kyng,

And Rose the dyssheres;

Godefray of Garlekhithe,

And Griffyn the Walshe;

And upholderes an heep,

Erly by the morwe,

Geve Gloton with glad chere

Good ale to hanselle.

Clement the Cobelere

Caste of his cloke,

And at the newe feire

He nempned it to selle,

Hikke the hakeney-man

Hitte his hood after,

And bad Bette the bocher

Ben on his syde.

Ther were chapmen y-chose

This chaffare to preise,

That who so hadde the hood

Sholde han amendes of the cloke.

Two risen up in rape,

And rouned togideres,

And preised thise peny-worthes

A-part by hemselve;

Thei kouthe noght by hir conscience

Acorden in truthe,

Til Robyn the ropere

Aroos by the southe,

And nempned hym for a nounpere,

That no debat nere.

Hikke the hostiler

Hadde the cloke,

In covenaunt that Clement

Sholde the cuppe fille,

And have Hikkes hood hostiler,

And holden hym y-served.

And who so repented rathest

Sholde aryse after,

And greten sire Gloton

With a galon ale.

There was laughynge and lourynge,

And "lat go the cuppe;"

And seten so till even-song,

And songen umwhile,

Til Gloton hadde y-glubbed

A galon and a gille.

Hise guttes bigonne to gothelen

As two gredy sowes;

He pissed a potel

In a pater-noster while,

And blew his rounde ruwet

At his rugge-bones ende,

That alle that herde that horn

Held hir noses after,

And wisshed it hadde been wexed

With a wispe of firses.

He myghte neither steppe ne stonde,

Er he his staf hadde;

And thanne gan he to go

Like a gle-mannes bicche,

Som tyme aside,

And som tyme arere,

As who so leith lynes

For to lacche foweles.

And whan he drough to the dore,

Thanne dymmed his eighen;

He stumbled on the thresshfold,

And threw to the erthe.

Clement the cobelere

Kaughte hym by the myddel,

For to liften hym o-lofte;

And leyde hym on his knowes.

Ac Gloton was a gret cherl,

And a grym in the liftyng,

And koughed up a cawdel

In Clementes lappe;

Is noon so hungry hound

In Hertford shire

Dorste lape of that levynges,

So un-lovely thei smaughte.

With al the wo of this world,

His wif and his wenche

Baren hym hom to his bed,

And broughte hym therinne;

And after al this excesse

He hadde an accidie,

That he sleep Saterday and Sonday,

Til sonne yede to reste.

Thanne waked he of his wynkyng,

And wiped hise eighen;

The firste word that he warpe

Was "where is the bolle?"

His wif gan edwyte hym tho,

How wikkedly he lyvede;

And Repentaunce right so

Rebuked hym that tyme,

"As thow with wordes and werkes

Has wroght yvele in thi lyve,

Shryve thee, and be shamed therof,

And shewe it with thi mouthe."

"I Gloton," quod the grom,

"Gilty me yelde,

That I have trespased with my tonge,

I kan noght telle how ofte;

Sworen Goddes soule,

And so me God helpe!

There no nede was,

Nyne hundred tymes.

"And over-seyen me at my soper,

And som tyme at nones,

That I Gloton girte it up

Er I hadde gon a myle,

An y-spilt that myghte be spared

And spended on som hungry;

Over delicatly on fastyng-dayes

Dronken and eten bothe,

And sat som tyme so longe there,

That I sleep and eet at ones.

For love of tales in tavernes

And for drynke, the moore I dyned;

And hyed to the mete er noon,

Whan fastyng-days were."

"This shewynge shrift," quod Repentaunce,

"Shal be meryt to the."

And thanne gan Gloton greete,

And gret doel to make,

For his luther lif

That he lyved hadde;

And avowed to faste,

"For hunger or for thurste,

Shal nevere fyssh on Fryday

Defyen in my wombe,

Til abstinence myn aunte

Have gyve me leeve;

And yet have I hated hire

Al my lif tyme."

Thanne cam Sleuthe al bi-slabered,

With two slymy eighen;

"I moste sitte," seide the segge,

"Or ellis sholde I nappe.

I may noght stonde ne stoupe,

Ne withoute a stool knele;

Were I brought a-bedde,

But if my tail-ende it made,

Sholde no ryngynge do me ryse

Er I were ripe to dyne."

He bigan Benedicite with a bolk,

And his brest knokked,

And raxed and rored,

And rutte at the laste.

"What, awake, renk!"quod Repentaunce,

"And rape thee to shryfte."

"If I sholde deye bi this day,

Me list nought to loke;

I kan noght parfitly my pater-noster,

As the preest it syngeth;

But I kan rymes of Robyn Hood,

And Randolf erl of Chestre;

Ac neither of oure Lord ne of oure Lady

The leeste that evere was maked.

"I have maad avowes fourty,

And foryete hem on the morwe;

I perfournede nevere penaunce

As the preest me highte;

Ne right sory for my synnes

Yet was I nevere.

And if I bidde any bedes,

But if it be in wrathe,

That I telle with my tonge

Is two myle fro myn herte.

I am ocupied eche day,

Haly-day and oother,

With ydel tales at the ale,

And outher while at chirche;

Goddes peyne and his passion

Ful selde thenke I on it.

"I visited nevere feble men,

Ne fettred folk in puttes;

I have levere here an harlotrye,

Or a somer game of souters,

Or lesynge to laughen at

And bi-lye my neghebores,

Than al that evere Marc made,

Mathew, Johan, and Lucas.

And vigilies and fastyng-dayes,

Alle thise late I passe;

And ligge a-bedde in Lenten,

And my lemman in myne armes,

Til matyns and masse be do,

And thanne go to the freres.

Come I to Ite, missa est,

I holde me y-served;

I nam noght shryven som tyme,

But if siknesse it make,

Nought twyes in two yer,

And thanne up gesse I shryve me.

"I have be preest and parson

Passynge thritty wynter,

And yet can I neyther solne ne synge,

Ne seintes lyves rede;

But I kan fynden in a feld,

Or in a furlang, an hare,

Bettre than in Beatus vir,

Or in Beati omnes,

Construe oon clause wel

And kenne it to my parisshens.

I kan holde love-dayes,

And here a reves rekenyng;

Ac in canon nor in decretals

I kan noght rede a lyne.

"If I bigge and borwe aught,

But if it be y-tailed,

I foryete it as yerne;

And if men me it axe

Sixe sithes or sevene,

I forsake it with othes;

And thus tene I trewe men

Ten hundred tymes.

"And my servauntz som tyme

Hir salarie is bi-hynde;

Ruthe it is to here the rekenyng,

Whan we shul rede acountes.

So with wikked wil and wrathe,

My werkmen I paye.

"If any man dooth me a bienfait,

Or helpeth me at nede,

I am unkynde ayeins curteisie,

And kan nought understounden it;

For I have and have had

Som del haukes maneres,

I am noght lured with love,

But ther ligge aught under the thombe.

"The kyndenesse that myn even cristene

Kidde me fernyere,

Sixty sithes I Sleuthe

Have foryete it siththe.

In speche and in sparynge of speche

Y-spilt many a tyme

Bothe flessh and fissh,

And manye othere vitailles,

Both bred and ale,

Buttre, melk, and chese,

For-sleuthed in my service

Til it myghte serve no man.

"I ran aboute in youthe,

And yaf me naught to lerne,

And evere siththe have I be beggere

For my foule sleuthe.

Heu michi!quia sterilem vitam duxi

juvenilem."

"Repentedestow noght?"quod Repentaunce;

And right with that he swowned,

Til Vigilate the veille

Fette water at hise eighen,

And flatte it on his face,

And faste on hym cryde,

And seide, "Ware thee, for Wanhope

Wolde thee bi-traye,

'I am sory for my synnes'

Seye to thiselve,

And beet thiself on the brest,

And bidde hym of grace;

For is ne gilt here so gret

That his goodnesse nys moore."

Thanne sat Sleuthe up,

And seyned hym swithe,

And made a vow to-fore God

For his foule sleuthe.

"Shal no Sonday be this seven yer,

But siknesse it lette,

That I ne shal do me er day

To the deere chirche;

And here matyns and masse,

As I a monk were,

Shal noon ale after mete

Holde me thennes,

Til I have even-song herd,

I bi-hote to the roode!

And yet wole I yelde ayein,

If I so much have,

Al that I wikkedly wan

Sithen I wit hadde.

"And though my liflode lakke,

Leten I nelle,

That ech man ne shal have his,

Er I hennes wende;

And with the residue and the remenaunt,

Bi the Rode of Chestre!

I shal seken Truthe erst

Er I se Rome."

Roberd the robbere

On Reddite loked,

And for ther was noght wherof,

He wepte swithe soore;

Ac yet the synfulle sherewe

Seide to hymselve,

"Crist, that on Calvarie

Upon the cros deidest,

Tho Dysmas my brother

Bi-soughte yow of grace,

And haddest mercy on that man

For memento sake,

So rewe on this robbere

That reddere ne have,

Ne nevere wene to wynne

With craft that I owe;

But for thi muchel mercy

Mitigacion I bi-seche,

Ne dampne me noght at domes-day

For that I dide so ille."

What bi-fel of this feloun

I kan noght faire shewe;

Wel I woot he wepte faste

Water with bothe hise eighen,

And knoweliched his gilt

To Crist yet eft soones,

That Pœnetentia his pik

He sholde polshe newe,

And lepe with hym over lond

Al his lif tyme,

For he hadde leyen by Latro

Luciferis aunte.

And thanne hadde Repentaunce ruthe,

And redde hem alle to knele;

"For I shal bi-seche for alle synfulle

Our Saveour of grace,

To amenden us of oure mysdedes,

And do mercy to us alle."

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

Bi-gonne the world to make,

And of naught madest aught, and man

Moost lik to thiselve,

And sithen suffredest for to synne,

A siknesse to us alle,

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

What evere the book telleth.

O felix culpa!O necessarium peccatum Adæ!etc.

"For thorugh that synne thi sone

Sent was to this erthe,

And bicam man of a maide,

Mankynde to save:

And madest thiself with thi sone

And us synfulle y-liche

Faciamus hominem ad imaginem

nostram.Et alibi. Qui manet

in caritate, in Deo manet, et

Deus in eo.

"And siththe with thi selve sone

In oure secte deidest,

On Good-Fryday, for mannes sake,

At ful tyme of the daye,

Ther thiself ne thi sone

No sorwe in deeth feledest,

But in oure secte was the sorwe,

And thi sone it ladde.

Captivam duxit captivitatem.

"The sonne for sorwe therof

Lees light of a tyme,

Aboute mydday whan moost light is,

And meel-tyme of seintes,

Feddest with thi fresshe blood

Oure fore-fadres in derknesse.

Populus qui ambulabat in tenebris,

vidit lucem magnam.

"And thorugh the light that lepe out of thee

Lucifer was blent.

And blewe alle thi blessed

Into the blisse of paradys.

"The thridde day after

Thow yedest in oure sute,

A synful Marie the seigh,

Er seynte Marie thi dame;

And al to solace synfulle

Thow suffredest it so were.

Non veni vocare justos sed peccatores

ad pœnitentiam.

"And al that Marc hath y-maad,

Mathew, Johan, and Lucas,

Of thyne doughty dedes

Was doon in oure armes.

Verbum caro factum est, et habitavit in nobis.

"And by so muche me semeth

The sikerer we mowe

Bidde and bi-seche,

If it be thi wille,

That art oure fader and oure brother,

Be merciable to us,

And have ruthe on thise ribaudes

That repenten hem here soore,

That evere thei wrathed thee in this world,

In word, thought, or dedes."

Thanne hent Hope an horn

Of Deus, tu conversus vivificabis,

And blew it with Beati quorum

Remissæ sunt iniquitates,

That alle seintes in hevene

Songen at ones.

Homines et jumenta salvabis, quemadmodum

multiplicasti misericordiam tuam.

A thousand of men tho

Thrungen togideres,

Cride upward to Crist,

And to his clene moder,

To have grace to go with hem

Truthe to seke.

Ac there was wight noon so wys

The wey thider kouthe,

But blustreden forth as beestes

Over bankes and hilles;

Til late was and longe

That thei a leode mette,

Apparailled as a paynym

In pilgrymes wise.

He bar a burdoun y-bounde

With a brood liste,

In a withwynde wise

Y-wounden aboute;

A bolle and a bagge

He bar by his syde,

And hundred of ampulles

On his hat seten,

Signes of Synay,

And shelles of Galice,

And many a crouche on his cloke,

And keyes of Rome,

And the vernycle bi-fore,

For men sholde knowe

And se bi hise signes

Whom he sought hadde.

This folk frayned hym first,

Fro whennes he come.

"Fram Syny," he seide,

"And fram oure Lordes sepulcre;

In Bethlem and in Babiloyne,

I have ben in bothe;

In Armonye and Alisaundre,

In manye othere places.

Ye may se by my signes,

That sitten on myn hatte,

That I have walked ful wide

In weet and in drye,

And sought goode seintes

For my soules helthe."

"Knowestow aught a corsaint,

That men calle Truthe?

Koudestow aught wissen us the wey,

Wher that wye dwelleth?"

"Nay, so me God helpe!"

Seide the gome thanne,

"I seigh nevere palmere,

With pyk ne with scrippe,

Asken after hym er

Til now in this place."

"Peter!"quod a plowman,

And putte forth his hed,

"I knowe hym as kyndely

As clerk doth hise bokes;

Conscience and kynde wit

Kenned me to his place,

And diden me suren hym sikerly

To serven hym for evere,

Bothe to sowe and to sette,

The while I swynke myghte.

I have ben his folwere

Al this fifty wynter,

Bothe y-sowen his seed,

And suwed hise beestes,

Withinne and withouten

Waited his profit.

I dyke and I delve,

I do that Truthe hoteth;

Som tyme I sowe,

And som tyme I thresshe;

In taillours craft and tynkeris craft,

What Truthe kan devyse,

I weve and I wynde,

And do what Truthe hoteth,

For though I seye it myselfe,

I serve hym to paye;

I have myn hire wel,

And outher whiles moore.

He is the presteste paiere

That povere men knoweth;

He ne withhalt noon hewe his hire,

That he ne hath it at even;

He is as lowe as a lomb,

And lovelich of speche;

And if ye wilneth to wite

Where that he dwelleth,

I shal wisse you witterly

The wey to his place."

"Ye, leve Piers," quod thise pilgrimes,

And profred hym huyre,

For to wende with hem

To Truthes dwellyng-place.

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

And gan for to swere,

"I nolde fange a ferthyng.

For seint Thomas shryne;

Truthe wolde love me the lasse

A long tyme therafter;

Ac if yow wilneth to wende wel,

This is the wey thider.

"Ye moten go thorugh Mekenesse,

Both men and wyves,

Til ye come into Conscience,

That Crist wite the sothe

That ye loven oure Lord God

Levest of alle thynges,

And thanne youre neghebores next

In none wise apeire,

Other wise than thow woldest

He wroughte to thiselve.

"And so boweth forth by a brook,

Beth-buxom-of-speche,

Til he fynden a ford,

Youre-fadres-honoureth,

Honora patrem et matrem, etc.

Wadeth in that water,

And wasshe yow wel therinne,

And ye shul lepe the lightloker

Al youre lif tyme;

And so shaltow se Swere-noght,-

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

And-nameliche-on-ydel-

The-name-of-God-almyghty.

"Thanne shaltow come by a croft,

But come thow noght therinne;

That croft hatte Coveite-noght-

Mennes-catel-ne-hire-wyves,-

Ne-noon-of-hire-servauntz-

That-noyen-hem-myghte;

Loke ye breke no bowes there,

But if it be youre owene.

"Two stokkes ther stondeth,

Ac stynte ye noght there,

Thei highte Stele-noght and Sle-noght,

Strik forth by bothe,

And leve hem on thi lift half,

And loke noght therafter,

And hold wel thyn hali-day

Heighe til even.

"Thanne shaltow blenche at a bergh,

Bere-no-fals-witnesse,

He is frythed in with floryns

And othere fees manye;

Loke thow plukke no plaunte there,

For peril of thi soule;

Thanne shul ye see Seye-sooth,-

So-it-be-to-doone,-

In-good-manere,-ellis-noght-

For-no-mannes-biddyng.

"Thanne shaltow come to a court

As cler as the sonne;

The moot is of Mercy

The manoir aboute,

And alle the walles ben of Wit,

To holden Wil oute,

And kerneled wit Cristendom,

Mankynde to save,

Botrased with Bileef-so,-

Or-thow-beest-noght-saved.

"And alle the houses ben hiled,

Halles and chambres,

With no leed but with love,

And lowe speche as bretheren;

The brugg is of Bidde-wel,-

The-bet-may-thow-spede;

Ech piler is of penaunce,

Of preieres to seyntes;

Of almes-dedes are the hokes

That the gates hangen on.

"Grace hatte the gatewarde,

A good man for sothe;

His man hatte Amende-yow,

For many men hym knoweth;

Telleth hym this tokene,

That Truthe wite the sothe;

'I perfourned the penaunce

That the preest me enjoyned,

And am ful sory for my synnes,

And so I shal evere,

Whan I thynke theron,

Theigh I were a pope.'

"Biddeth Amende-yow meke hym

Til his maister ones,

To wayven up the wiket

That the womman shette,

Tho Adam and Eve

Eten apples un-rosted.

Per Evam cunctis clausa est, et per

Mariam virginem patefacta est.

"For he hath the keye and the cliket,

Though the kyng slepe.

And if grace graunte thee

To go in this wise,

Thow shalt see in thiselve

Truthe in thyn herte,

In a cheyne of charité

As thow a child were,

To suffren hym and segge noght

Ayein thi sires wille.

"And be war thanne of Wrathe-thee,

That is a wikked sherewe;

He hath envye to hym

That in thyn herte sitteth,

And poketh forth pride

To preise thiselven.

The boldnesse of thi bienfetes

Maketh thee blynd thanne;

And thanne worstow dryven out as dew,

And the dore closed,

Keyed and cliketted,

To kepe thee withouten;

Happily an hundred wynter

Er thow eft entre.

Thus myghtestow lesen his love

To lete wel by thiselve,

And nevere happily eft entre,

But grace thow have.

"And ther are seven sustren

That serven Truthe evere,

And arn porters of the posternes

That to the place longeth.

"That oon hatte Abstinence,

And Humilité another;

Charité and Chastité

Ben hise chief maydenes;

Pacience and Pees

Muche peple thei helpeth;

Largenesse the lady,

She let in ful manye,

Heo hath holpe a thousand out

Of the develes punfolde;

And who is sib to thise sevene,

So me God helpe!

He is wonderly welcome,

And faire underfongen.

And but if ye be sibbe

To some of thise sevene,

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

"For any of yow alle

To geten in-going at any gate there,

But grace be the moore."

"Now by Crist!"quod a kutte-purs

"I have no kyn there."

"Nor I," quod an ape-ward,

"By aught that I kan knowe."

"Wite God!"quod a wafrestere,

"Wiste I this for sothe,

Sholde I nevere ferther a foot,

For no freres prechyng."

"Yis," quod Piers the Plowman,

And poked hem alle to goode,

"Mercy is a maiden there

Hath myght over alle;

And she is sib to alle synfulle,

And hire sone also,

And thorugh the help of hem two

Hope thow noon oother,

Thow myght gete grace there,

So thow go bi-tyme."

"Bi seint Poul!"quod a pardoner,

"Peraventure I be noght knowe there;

I wol go fecche my box with my brevettes,

And a bulle with bisshopes lettres."

"By Crist!"quod a commune womman,

"Thi compaignie wol I folwe;

Thow shalt seye I am thi suster,

I ne woot where thei bicome."

Passus Sextus de Visione, ut supra.

HIS were a wikkede wey,

But who so hadde a gyde,

That wolde folwen us ech a foot;"

Thus this folke hem mened.

Quod Perkyn the Plowman,

"By seint Peter of Rome!

I have an half acre to erie

By the heighe weye;

Hadde I eryed this half acre,

And sowen it after,

I wolde wende with yow,

And the wey teche."

"This were a long lettyng,"

Quod a lady in scleyre,

"What sholde we wommen

Werche the while?"

"Somme shul sowe the sak," quod Piers,

"For shedyng of the whete;

And ye, lovely ladies,

With youre longe fyngres,

That ye have silk and sandel

To sowe, whan tyme is;

Chesibles for chapeleyns,

Chirches to honoure.

"Wyves and widewes,

Wolle and flex spynneth;

Maketh cloth, I counseille yow,

And kenneth so youre doughtres;

The nedy and the naked,

Nymeth hede how thei liggeth,

And casteth hem clothes,

For so comaundeth Truthe.

For I shal leven hem liflode,

But if the lond faille,

Flesshe and breed bothe

To riche and to poore,

As long as I lyve,

For the Lordes love of hevene;

And alle manere of men

That thorugh mete and drynke libbeth,

Helpeth hym to werche wightliche,

That wynneth youre foode."

"By Crist!"quod a knyght thoo,

"He kenneth us the beste;

Ac on the teme, trewely,

Taught was I nevere;

But kenne me," quod the knyght,

"And by Crist I wole assaye!"

"By seint Poul!"quod Perkyn,

"Ye profre yow so faire,

That I shal swynke and swete,

And sowe for us bothe,

And othere labours do for thi love

Al my lif tyme,

In covenaunt that thow kepe

Holy kirke and myselve

Fro wastours and fro wikked men

That this world destruyeth.

And go hunte hardiliche

To hares and to foxes,

To bores and to brokkes

That breken doun myne hegges;

And so affaite thi faucons

Wilde foweles to kille;

For swiche cometh to my croft,

And croppeth my whete."

Curteisly the knyght thanne

Comsed thise wordes;

"By my power, Piers!"quod he,

"I plighte thee my trouthe,

To fulfille this forwarde,

Though I fighte sholde;

Als longe as I lyve

I shal thee mayntene."

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

"I preye yow of moore,

Loke ye tene no tenaunt,

But Truthe wole assente;

And though ye mowe amercy hem,

Lat mercy be taxour,

And mekenesse thi maister,

Maugree Medes chekes.

And though povere men profre yow

Presentes and giftes,

Nyme it noght, an aventure

Ye mowe it noght deserve;

For thow shalt yelde it ayein

At one yeres tyme,

In a ful perilous place,

Purgatorie it hatte.

"And mys-bede noght thi bonde-men,

The bettre may thow spede;

Though he be thyn underlyng here,

Wel may happe in hevene

That he worth worthier set,

And with moore blisse.

Amice, ascende superius.

For in charnel at chirche

Cherles ben yvel to knowe,

Or a knyght from a knave there,

Knowe this in thyn herte.

And that thow be trewe of thi tonge,

And tales that thow hatie,

But if thei ben of wisdom or of wit

Thi werkmen to chaste.

Hold with none harlotes,

Ne here noght hir tales,

And namely at the mete

Swiche men eschuwe;

For it ben the develes disours,

I do the to understonde."

"I assente, by seint Jame!"

Seide the knyght thanne,

"For to werche by thi wordes

The while my lif dureth."

"And I shal apparaille me," quod Perkyn,

"In pilgrymes wise,

And wende with yow I wile,

Til we fynde Truthe;

And caste on my clothes

Y-clouted and hole,

My cokeres and my coffes,

For cold of my nailes;

And hange myn hoper at myn hals

In stede of a scryppe.

A busshel of bred corn

Brynge me therinne;

For I wol sowe it myself,

And sithenes wol I wende

To pilgrymage, as palmeres doon,

Pardon for to have.

And who so helpeth me to erie

And sowen here er I wende,

Shal have leve, by oure Lorde!

To lese here in hervest,

And make hem murie thermyd,

Maugree who so bi-gruccheth it.

And alle kynne crafty-men,

That konne lyven in truthe,

I shal fynden hem fode,

That feithfulliche libbeth.

"Save Jagge the jogelour,

And Jonette of the stuwes,

And Danyel the dees-pleyere,

And Denote the baude,

And frere the faitour,

And folk of hire ordre,

And Robyn the ribaudour

For hise rusty wordes.

Truthe tolde me ones,

And bad me telle it after,

Deleantur de libro viventium,

I sholde noght dele with hem,

For holy chirche is hote of hem

No tithe to take;

Qui cum justis non scribantur;

They ben ascaped good aventure,

God hem amende!"

Dame Werch-whan-tyme-is

Piers wif highte;

His doughter highte Do-right-so,-

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

His sone highte Suffre-thi-sovereyns-

To-haven-hir-wille,-

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

Thow-shalt-it-deere-abugge.

Lat God y-worthe with al,

For so his word techeth;

For now I am old and hoor,

And have of myn owene,

To penaunce and to pilgrimage

I wol passe with thise othere.

"For-thi I wole er I wende

Do write my biqueste,

In Dei nomine, Amen,

I make it myselve;

He shal have my soule,

That best hath deserved it;

And fro the fend it defende,

For so I bileve,

Til I come to hise acountes,

As my Credo me telleth,

To have a relees and a remission,

On that rental I leve.

"The kirke shal have my caroyne,

And kepe my bones;

For of my corn and catel

She craved the tithe;

I paide it ful prestly,

For peril of my soule.

For-thi is he holden I hope

To have me in his masse,

And mengen in his memorie

Amonges alle cristene.

"My wif shal have of that I wan

With truthe, and na-moore,

And dele among my doughtres,

And my deere children;

For though I deye to day,

My dettes are quyte;

I bar hom that I borwed,

Er I to bedde yede.

"And with the residue and the remenaunt,

By the Rode of Lukes!

I wol worshipe therwith

Truthe by my lyve,

And ben his pilgrym atte plow,

For povere mennes sake.

My plow-foot shall be my pikstaf,

And picche a-two the rotes,

And helpe my cultour to kerve

And clense the furwes."

Now is Perkyn and hise pilgrimes

To the plow faren;

To erie his half acre

Holpen hym manye;

Dikeres and delveres

Digged up the balkes.

Therwith was Perkyn a-payed,

And preised hem faste.

Othere werkmen ther were

That wroghten ful yerne;

Ech man in his manere

Made hymself to doone,

And somme to plese Perkyn

Piked up the wedes.

At heigh prime Piers

Leet the plowgh stonde,

To over-sen hem hymself,

And who so best wroghte

He sholde be hired therafter,

Whan hervest tyme come.

And thanne seten somme,

And songen atte nale,

And holpen ere this half acre

With "How, trolly lolly."

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

All in pure tene,

"But ye arise the rather

And rape yow to werche,

Shal no greyn that groweth

Glade yow at nede,

And though ye deye for doel,

The devel have that reccheth."

Tho were faitours a-fered,

And feyned hem blynde;

Somme leide hir legges a-liry,

As swiche losels konneth,

And made hir mone to Piers,

And preide hym of grace;

"For we have no lymes to laboure with,

Lord, y-graced be the;

Ac we preie for yow, Piers,

And for youre plowgh bothe,

That God of his grace

Youre greyn multiplie,

And yelde yow for youre almesse

That ye gyve us here;

For we may noght swynke ne swete,

Swich siknesse us eyleth."

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

I shal it soone aspie.

Ye ben wastours, I woot wel,

And Truthe woot the sothe;

And I am his olde hyne,

And highte hym to warne,

Whiche thei were in this world

Hise werkmen apeired.

Ye wasten that men wynnen

With travaille and with tene;

Ac Truthe shal teche yow

His teme to dryve,

Or ye shul eten barley breed,

And of the broke drynke.

"But if he be blynd or broke-legged,

Or bolted with irens,

He shall ete whete breed,

And drynke with myselve,

Til God of his goodnesse

Amendement hym sende.

Ac ye myghte travaille, as Truthe wolde,

And take mete and hyre,

To kepe kyen in the feld,

The corn fro the beestes,

Diken or delven,

Or dyngen upon sheves,

Or helpe make morter,

Or bere muk a-feld.

"In lecherie and in losengerie

Ye lyven, and in sleuthe;

And al is thorugh suffraunce,

That vengeaunce yow ne taketh.

"Ac ancres and heremites

That eten noght but at nones,

And na-moore er the morwe,

Myn almesse shul thei have,

And of catel to kepe hem with,

That han cloistres and chirches.

"Ac Robert Renaboute

Shal noght have of myne,

Ne postles, but thei preche konne

And have power of the bisshope;

Thei shul have payn and potage,

And make hemself at ese,

For it is an unreasonable religion

That hath right noght of certein."

And thanne gan Wastour to wrathen hym,

And wolde have y-foughte;

And to Piers the Plowman

He profrede his glove;

A bretoner, a braggere,

A-bosted Piers als,

And bad hym go pissen with his plowgh,

"For-pynede sherewe!

Wiltow or neltow,

We wol have oure wille

Of thi flour and of thi flesshe,

Fecche whanne us liketh;

And maken us murye thermyde,

Maugree thi chekes."

Thanne Piers the Plowman

Pleyned hym to the knyghte,

To kepen hym as covenaunt was

Fro cursede sherewes,

And fro thise wastours wolves-kynnes

That maketh the world deere;

"For tho wasten and wynnen noght,

And that ilke while

Worth nevere plentee among the peple,

The while my plowgh liggeth."

Curteisly the knyght thanne,

As his kynde wolde,

Warnede Wastour,

And wissed hym bettre,

"Or thow shalt abigge by the lawe,

By the ordre that I bere!"

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

"And now wol I noght bigynne;"

And leet light of the lawe,

And lasse of the knyghte;

And sette Piers at a pese,

And his plowgh bothe;

And manaced Piers and his men,

If thei mette eft soone.

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

"I shal apeire yow alle;"

And houped after Hunger,

That herde hym at the firste,

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

"That this world shendeth."

Hunger in haste thoo

Hente Wastour by the wombe,

And wrong him so by the wombe,

That bothe hise eighen watrede.

He buffeted the bretoner

Aboute the chekes,

That he loked lik a lanterne

Al his lif after.

He bette hem so bothe,

He brast ner hire guttes;

Ne hadde Piers with a pese loof

Preyed Hunger to cesse,

They hadde be dolven,

Ne deme thow noon oother.

"Suffre hem lyve," he seide,

"And lat hem ete with hogges,

Or ellis benes or bren

Y-baken togideres,

Or ellis melk and mene ale;"

Thus preied Piers for hem.

Faitours for fere herof

Flowen into bernes,

And flapten on with flailes

Fro morwe til even;

That Hunger was noght so hardy

On hem for to loke,

For a potful of peses

That Piers hadde y-maked.

An heep of heremytes

Henten hem spades,

And kitten hir copes,

And courtepies hem maked,

And wente as werkmen

With spades and with shoveles

And dolven and dikeden,

To dryve awey hunger.

Blynde and bed-reden

Were bootned a thousande,

That seten to begge silver,

Soone were thei heeled;

For that was bake for bayarde,

Was boote for many hungry;

And many a beggere for benes

Buxum was to swynke;

And eche a povere man wel a-paied

To have pesen for his hyre,

And what Piers preide hem to do,

As prest as a sperhauk;

And therof was Piers proud,

And putte hem to werke,

And yaf hem mete as he myghte aforthe,

And mesurable hyre.

Thanne had Piers pité,

And preide Hunger to wende

Hoom unto his owene yerd,

And holden hym there;

"For I am wel a-wroke

Of wastours, thorugh thy myghte.

Ac I preie thee, er thow passe,"

Quod Piers to Hunger,

"Of beggeris and of bidderis

What best be to doone.

For I woot wel, be thow went,

Thei wol werche ful ille;

For meschief it maketh

Thei be so meke nouthe,

And for defaute of hire foode

This folk is at my wille.

"Thei are my blody bretheren," quod Piers,

"For God boughte us alle.

Truthe taughte me ones

To loven hem echone;

And to helpen hem of alle thyng

Ay as hem nedeth.

And now wolde I wite of thee

What were the beste;

And how I myghte a-maistren hem,

And make hem to werche."

"Here now," quod Hunger,

"And hoold it for a wisdom;

Bolde beggeris and bigge

That mowe hir breed bi-swynke,

With houndes breed and horse breed

Hoold up hir hertes;

A-bate hem with benes,

For bollynge of hir wombes;

And if the gomes grucche,

Bidde hem go swynke,

And he shal soupe swetter

Whan he it hath deserved.

"And if thow fynde any freke

That fortune hath apeired,

Or any manere false men,

Fonde thow swiche to knowe;

Conforte hym with thi catel,

For Cristes love of hevene;

Love hem and leve hem,

So lawe of God techeth,

Alter alterius onera portare.

"And alle manere of men

That thow myght aspie,

That nedy ben and noughty,

Help hem with thi goodes;

Love hem and lakke hem noght,

Lat God take the vengeaunce;

Theigh thei doon yvele,

Lat God y-worthe.

Mihi vindictam, et ego retribuam.

"And if thow wilt be gracious to God,

Do as the gospel techeth,

And bi-love thee amonges lewed men,

So shaltow lacche grace;

Facite vos amicos de Mammone iniquitatis."

"I wolde noght greve God," quod Piers,

"For al the good on grounde.

Mighte I synne-lees do as thow seist?"

Seide Piers thanne.

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

"Or ellis the Bible lieth;

Go to Genesis the geaunt,

The engendrour of us alle:

In sudore and swynk

Thow shalt thi mete tilie,

And laboure for thi liflode,

And so oure Lorde highte.

And Sapience seith the same,

I seigh it in the Bible,

Piger præ frigore

No feeld nolde tilie,

And therfore he shal begge and bidde,

And no man bete his hunger.

"Mathew with mannes face

Mouthed thise wordes,

That servus nequam hadde a mnam,

And for he wolde noght chaffare,

He hadde maugree of his maister

Evere moore after,

And by-nam hym his mnam,

For he ne wolde werche,

And yaf that mnam to hym

That ten mnames hadde;

And with that he seide,

That holy chirche it herde,

He that hath shal have

And helpe there it nedeth;

And he that noght hath shal noght have,

And no man hym helpe,

And that he weneth wel to have

I wole it hym bi-reve.

Kynde wit wolde

That ech a wight wroghte,

Or in dikynge or in delvynge,

Or travaillynge in preieres;

Contemplatif lif or actif lif

Crist wolde thei wroghte.

The Sauter seith in the Psalme

Of Beati omnes,

The freke that fedeth hymself

With his feithful labour,

He is blessed by the book

In body and in soule."

Labores manuum tuarum, etc.

"Yet I preie yow," quod Piers,

"Par charité, and ye konne

Any leef of leche-craft,

Lere it me, my deere;

For some of my servauntz,

And myself bothe,

Of al a wike werche noght,

So oure wombe aketh."

"I woot wel," quod Hunger,

"What siknesse yow eyleth;

Ye han manged over muche,

And that maketh yow grone.

Ac I hote thee," quod Hunger,

"As thow thyn hele wilnest,

That thow drynke no day

Er thow dyne som what.

Ete noght, I hote thee,

Er hunger thee take,

And sende thee of his sauce

To savore with thi lippes;

And keep som til soper-tyme,

And sitte noght to longe,

And rys up er appetit

Have eten his fille.

Lat noght sire Surfet

Sitten at thi borde.

Leve hym noght, for he is lecherous,

And likerous of tunge,

And after many maner metes

His mawe is a-fyngred.

"And if thow diete thee thus,

I dar legge myne eris,

That Phisik shal hise furred hodes

For his fode selle,

And his cloke of Calabre,

With alle the knappes of golde,

And be fayn, by my feith!

His phisik to lete,

And lerne to laboure with lond,

For liflode is swete.

For murthereris are manye leches,

Lord hem amende!

They do men deye thorugh hir drynkes,

Er destynee it wolde."

"By seint Poul!"quod Piers,

"Thise arn profitable wordes!

Wend now, Hunger, whan thow wolt,

That wel be thow evere!

For this is a lovely lesson,

Lord it thee for-yelde!"

"Bi-hote God!"quod Hunger,

"Hennes ne wole I wende,

Til I have dyned bi this day,

And y-dronke bothe."

"I have no peny," quod Piers,

"Pulettes to bugge,

Ne neither gees ne grys,

But two grene cheses,

A fewe cruddes and creme,

And an haver cake,

And two loves of benes and bran

Y-bake for my fauntes;

And yet I seye, by my soule!

I have no salt bacon,

Ne no cokeney, by Crist!

Coloppes for to maken.

"Ac I have percile and porettes,

And manye cole plauntes,

And ek a cow and a calf,

And a cart mare

To drawe a-feld my donge,

The while the droghte lasteth;

And by this liflode we mote lyve

Til Lammesse tyme.

And by that, I hope to have

Hervest in my crofte,

And thanne may I dighte thi dyner,

As me deere liketh."

Al the povere peple tho

Pescoddes fetten,

Benes and baken apples

Thei broghte in hir lappes,

Chibolles and chervelles,

And ripe chiries manye,

And profrede Piers this present

To plese with Hunger.

Al Hunger eet in haste,

And axed after moore.

Thanne povere folk, for fere,

Fedden Hunger yerne,

With grene poret and pesen,

To poisone hym thei thoghte.

By that it neghed neer hervest,

And newe corn cam to chepyng;

Thanne was folk fayn,

And fedde Hunger with the beste,

With goode ale, as Gloton taghte,

And garte Hunger go slepe.

And tho wolde Wastour noght werche,

But wandren aboute,

Ne no beggere ete breed

That benes inne were,

But of coket and cler-matyn,

Or ellis of clene whete;

Ne noon halfpeny ale

In none wise drynke,

But of the beste and of the brunneste

That in burghe is to selle.

Laborers that have no land

To lyve on but hire handes,

Deyned noght to dyne a day

Nyght-olde wortes;

May no peny ale hem paye,

Ne no pece of bacone,

But if it be fresshe flessh outher fisshe,

Fryed outher y-bake,

And that chaud and plus chaud,

For chillynge of hir mawe;

And but if he be heighliche hyred;

Ellis wole he chide,

And that he was werkman wroght

Waille the tyme,

Ayeins Catons counseil

Comseth he to jangle.

Paupertatis onus patienter ferre memento.

He greveth hym ageyn God,

And gruccheth ageyn Reson,

And thanne corseth he the kyng,

And al his counseil after,

Swiche lawes to loke

Laborers to greve.

Ac whiles Hunger was hir maister,

Ther wolde noon of hem chide,

Ne stryven ayeins his statut,

So sterneliche he loked.

Ac I warne yow, werkmen,

Wynneth whil ye mowe,

For Hunger hiderward

Hasteth hym faste.

He shal a-wake with water

Wastours to chaste;

Er fyve be fulfilled,

Swich famyn shal a-ryse,

Thorugh flodes and thorugh foule wedres

Fruytes shul faille,

And so seide Saturne,

And sente yow to warne.

Whan ye se the sonne a-mys,

And two monkes heddes,

And a mayde have the maistrie,

And multiplie by eighte,

Thanne shal deeth with-drawe,

And derthe be justice,

And Dawe the dykere

Deye for hunger;

But God of his goodnesse

Graunte us a trewe.

Passus Septimus de Visione, ut supra.

REUTHE herde telle her

And to Piers he sente,

To maken his teme

And tilien the erthe,

And purchaced hym a pardone

A pœna et a culpa,

For hym and for hise heires,

For evere moore after,

And bad hym holde hym at home,

And erien hise leyes.

And alle that holpen hym to erye,

To sette or to sowe,

Or any oother mestier

That myghte Piers availle,

Pardon with Piers Plowman

Truthe hath y-graunted.

Kynges and knyghtes,

That kepen holy chirche,

And rightfully in remes

Rulen the peple,

Han pardon thorugh purgatorie

To passen ful lightly,

With patriarkes and prophetes

In paradis to be felawe.

Bysshopes y-blessed,

If thei ben as thei sholde,

Legistres of bothe lawes,

The lewed therwith to preche,

And in as muche as thei mowe

Amenden alle synfulle,

Arn peres with the Apostles,

This pardon Piers sheweth,

And at the day of dome

At the heighe deys sitte.

Marchauntz in the margyne

Hadde manye yeres,

Ac noon a pœna et a culpa

The pope nolde hem graunte,

For thei holde noght hir hali-dayes

As holy chirche techeth,

And for thei swere by hir soule,

And so God moste hem helpe,

Ayein clene Conscience,

Hir catel to selle.

Ac under his secret seel

Truthe sente hem a lettre,

That thei sholde buggen boldely

That hem best liked,

And sithenes selle it ayein,

And save the wynnyng,

And amende meson-dieux thermyd,

And mys-eise folk helpe,

And wikkede weyes

Wightly amende,

And do boote to brugges

That to-broke were,

Marien maydenes,

Or maken hem nonnes,

Povere peple and prisons

Fynden hem hir foode,

And sette scolers to scole,

Or to som othere craftes,

Releve religion,

And renten hem bettre;

"And I shal sende yow myselve

Seint Michel myn archangel,

That no devel shal yow dere,

Ne fere yow in youre deying,

And witen yow fro wanhope,

If ye wol thus werche,

And sende youre soules in saufté

To my seintes in joye."

Thanne were marchauntz murie,

Manye wepten for joye,

And preiseden Piers the Plowman,

That purchaced this bulle.

Men of lawe leest pardon hadde,

That pleteden for Mede;

For the Sauter saveth hem noght,

Swiche as take giftes,

And nameliche of innocentz

That noon yvel ne konneth.

Super innocentem munera non accipies.

Pledours sholde peynen hem

To plede for swiche and helpe;

Princes and prelates

Sholde paie for hire travaille.

A regibus et principibus erit merces eorum.

Ac many a justice and jurour

Wolde for Johan do moore

Than pro Dei pietate,

Leve thow noon oother.

Ac he that spendeth his speche,

And speketh for the povere

That is innocent and nedy,

And no man apeireth,

Conforteth hym in that caas

Withouten coveitise of giftes,

And sheweth lawe for oure Lordes love,

As he it hath y-lerned,

Shal no devel at his deeth day

Deren hym a myte,

That he ne worth saaf and his soule,

The Sauter bereth witnesse:

Domine, quis habitabit in tabernaculo tuo?

Ac to bugge water, ne wynd,

Ne wit, ne fir the ferthe,

Thise foure the fader of hevene

Made to this foold in commune.

Thise ben Truthes tresores

Trewe folk to helpe,

That nevere shul wexe ne wanye,

Withouten God hymselve.

Whan thei drawen on to deye,

And indulgences wolde have,

Hir pardon is ful petit

At hir partyng hennes,

That any mede of mene men

For hir motyng taketh.

Ye legistres and lawieres,

Holdeth this for truthe,

That if that I lye,

Mathew is to blame,

For he bad me make yow this,

And this proverbe me tolde,

Quodcunque vultis ut faciant vobis

homines, facite eis.

Alle libbynge laborers

That lyven with hir hondes,

That treweliche taken,

And treweliche wynnen,

And lyven in love and in lawe,

For hir lowe hertes

Haveth the same absolucion

That sent was to Piers.

Beggeres ne bidderes

Ne beth noght in the bulle,

But if the suggestion be sooth

That shapeth hem to begge.

For he that beggeth or bit,

But if he have nede,

He is fals with the feend,

And defraudeth the nedy;

And also he bi-gileth the gyvere,

Ageynes his wille;

For if he wiste he were noght nedy,

He wolde gyve that another

That were moore nedy than he,

So the nedieste sholde be holpe.

Caton kenneth me thus,

And the clerc of stories;

Cui des videto,

Is Catons techyng.

And in the stories he techeth

To bistowe thyn almesse.

Sit elemosina tua in manu tua,

donec studes cui des.

Ac Gregory was a good man,

And bad us gyven alle

That asketh for his love

That us al leneth.

Non eligas cui miserearis, ne forte

prætereas illum qui meretur

accipere.Quia incertum est

pro quo Deo magis placeas.

For wite ye nevere who is worthi,

Ac God woot who hath nede;

In hym that taketh is the trecherie,

If any treson walke.

For he that yeveth, yeldeth,

And yarketh hym to reste;

And he that biddeth, borweth,

And bryngeth hymself in dette.

For beggeres borwen evere mo,

And hir borgh is God almyghty,

To yelden hem that yeveth hem,

And yet usure moore.

Quare non dedisti pecuniam meam

ad mensam, ut ego veniam cum

usuris exigere?

For-thi biddeth noght, ye beggeres,

But if ye have gret nede;

For who so hath to buggen hym breed,

The book bereth witnesse,

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

Though he have noght ellis.

Satis dives est, qui non indiget pane.

Lat usage be youre solas,

Of seintes lyves redyng,

The book banneth beggerie,

And blameth hem in this manere:

Junior fui, et jam senui, et non vidi

justum derelictum, nec semen

ejus, etc.

For ye lyve in no love,

Ne no lawe holde;

Manye of yow ne wedde noght

The womman that ye with deele,

But as wilde bestes with 'wehee!'

Worthen uppe and werchen,

And bryngen forth barnes,

That bastardes men calleth;

Or the bak or som boon

He breketh in his youthe,

And siththe goon faiten with youre fauntes

For evere moore after.

Ther is moore mys-shapen peple

Amonges thise beggeres,

Than of alle manere men

That on this moolde walketh.

And thei that lyve thus hir lif,

Mowe lothe the tyme

That evere thei were men wroght,

Whan thei shal hennes fare.

Ac olde men and hore,

Than help-lees ben of strengthe,

And wommen with childe

That werche ne mowe,

Blynde and bed-reden,

And broken hire membres,

That taken thise myschiefs mekeliche,

As mesels and othere,

Han as pleyn pardon

As the plowman hymselve.

For love of hir lowe hertes,

Oure Lord hath hem graunted

Hir penaunce and hir purgatorie

Here on this erthe.

"Piers," quod a preest thoo,

"Thi pardon moste I rede;

For I wol construe ech clause,

And kenne it thee on Englisshe."

And Piers at his preiere

The pardon unfoldeth;

And I by-hynde hem bothe

Biheld al the bulle,

And in two lynes it lay,

And noght a leef more,

And was writen right thus,

In witnesse of Truthe:

Et qui bona egerunt, ibunt in vitam eternam.

Qui vero mala, in ignem eternum.

"Peter," quod the preest thoo,

"I kan no pardon fynde,

But do wel and have wel,

And God shal have thi soule,

And do yvel and have yvel,

Hope thow noon oother,

But after thi deeth-day

The devel shal have thi soule."

And Piers for pure tene

Pulled it a-tweyne,

And seide Si ambulavero in medio

umbræ mortis, non timebo mala,

quoniam tu mecum es.

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

"And swynke noght so harde,

Ne aboute my bely joye

So bisy be na-moore;

Of preieres and of penaunce

My plough shal ben herafter,

And wepen whan I sholde slepe,

Though whete-breed me faille.

"The prophete his payn eet

In penaunce and in sorwe,

By that the Sauter seith,

So dide othere manye;

That loveth God lelly,

His liflode is ful esy.

Fuerunt mihi lacrimæ meæ panes

die ac nocte.

"And but if Luc lye,

He lereth us by foweles,

We sholde noght be to bisy

Aboute the worldes blisse;

Ne soliciti sitis,

He seith in the Gospel,

And sheweth us by ensamples

Us selve to wisse.

The foweles in the feld,

Who fynt hem mete at wynter?

Have thei no gerner to go to,

But God fynt hem alle."

"What!"quod the preest to Perkyn,

"Peter!as me thynketh,

Thow art lettred a litel:—

Who lerned thee on boke?"

"Abstynence the abbesse," quod Piers,

"Myn a.b.c.me taughte;

And Conscience cam afterward,

And kenned me muche moore."

"Were thow a preest," quod he,

"Thou myghtest preche where thou sholdest,

As divinour in divinité,

With Dixit insipiens to thi teme."

"Lewed lorel!"quod Piers,

"Litel lokestow on the Bible;

On Salomons sawes

Selden thow biholdest:

Ejice derisores et jurgia cum eis, ne

crescant, etc."

The preest and Perkyn

Opposeden either oother.

And I thorugh hir wordes a-wook,

And waited aboute,

And seigh the sonne in the south

Sitte that tyme,

Mete-lees and monei-lees

On Malverne hulles,

Musynge on this metels,

And my wey ich yede.

ANY tyme this metels

Hath maked me to studie

Of that I seigh slepynge,

If it so be myghte,

And also for Piers the Plowman

Ful pencif in herte,

And which a pardon Piers hadde

Al the peple to conforte,

And how the preest impugned it

With two propre wordes.

Ac I have no savour in songewarie,

For I se it ofte faille;

Caton and canonistres

Counseillen us to leve

To sette sadnesse in songewarie,

For sompnia ne cures

Ac for the book Bible

Bereth witnesse

How Daniel divined

The dreem of a kyng,

That was Nabugodonosor

Nempned of clerkes.

Daniel seide, "Sire kyng,

Thi dremels bitokneth

That unkouthe knyghtes shul come

Thi kyngdom to cleyme;

Amonges lower lordes

Thi lond shal be departed."

And as Daniel divined,

In dede it fel after;

The kyng lees his lordshipe,

And lower men it hadde.

And Joseph mette merveillously

How the moone and the sonne

And the ellevene sterres

Hailsed hym alle.

Thanne Jacob jugged

Josephes swevene.

"Beau fitz," quod his fader,

"For defaute we shullen,

I myself and my sones,

Seche thee for nede."

It bifel as his fader seide,

In Pharaoes tyme,

That Joseph was justice

Egipte to loke;

It bifel as his fader tolde,

Hise frendes there hym soughte,

And al this maketh me

On this metels to thynke.

And how the preest preved

No pardon to Do-wel,

And demed that Do-wel

Indulgences passed,

Biennals and triennals,

And bisshopes lettres;

And how Do-wel at the day of dome

Is digneliche underfongen,

And passeth al the pardon

Of seint Petres cherche.

Now hath the pope power

Pardon to graunte the peple,

Withouten any penaunce

To passen into hevene;

This is oure bileve,

As lettred men us techeth:

Quodcumque ligaveris super terram,

erit ligatum et in cœlis, etc.

And so I leve leelly,

Lordes forbode ellis!

That pardon and penaunce

And preieres doon save

Soules that have synned

Seven sithes dedly;

Ac to truste to thise triennals,

Trewely me thynketh,

Is noght so siker for the soule,

Certes, as is Do-wel.

For-thi I rede yow, renkes,

That riche ben on this erthe,

Upon trust of youre tresor

Triennals to have,

Be ye never the bolder

To breake the .x.hestes;

And namely ye maistres,

Meires and jugges,

That have the welthe of this world

And for wise men ben holden,

To purchace yow pardon

And the popes bulles.

At the dredful dome,

Whan dede shulle rise,

And comen alle to-fore Crist

Acountes to yelde,

How thow laddest thi lif here,

And hise lawes keptest,

And how thow didest day by day,

The doom wole reherce.

A poke ful of pardon there,

Ne provincials lettres,

Theigh ye be founde in the fraternité

Of alle the foure ordres,

And have indulgences double-fold,

But if Do-wel yow helpe,

I sette youre patentes and youre pardon

At one pies hele.

For-thi I counseille alle Cristene

To crie God mercy,

And Marie his moder

Be oure meene bitwene,

That God gyve us grace here,

Er we go hennes,

Swiche werkes to werche

While we ben here,

That after oure deeth-day

Do-wel reherce

At the day of dome,

We dide as he highte.