Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Charles Brockden Brown (1771–1810). Edgar Huntley; or, Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker. 1857.

The Romaunt of the Rose

Fragment C

WHAN Love had told hem his entente,The baronage to councel wente;In many sentences they fille,And dyversly they seide hir wille:But aftir discord they accorded,And hir accord to Love recorded.‘Sir,’ seiden they, ‘we been at oon,By even accord of everichoon,Out-take Richesse al-only,That sworen hath ful hauteynly,That she the castel nil assaile,Ne smyte a stroke in this bataile,With dart, ne mace, spere, ne knyf,For man that speketh or bereth the lyf,And blameth your empryse, y-wis,And from our hoost departed is,(At leeste wey, as in this plyte,)So hath she this man in dispyte;For she seith he ne loved hir never,And therfor she wol hate him ever.For he wol gadre no tresore,He hath hir wrath for evermore.He agilte hir never in other caas,Lo, here al hoolly his trespas!She seith wel, that this other dayHe asked hir leve to goon the wayThat is clepid To-moche-Yeving,And spak ful faire in his praying;But whan he prayde hir, pore was he,Therfore she warned him the entree.Ne yit is he not thriven soThat he hath geten a peny or two,That quitly is his owne in hold.Thus hath Richesse us alle told;And whan Richesse us this recorded,Withouten hir we been accorded.‘And we finde in our accordaunce,That False-Semblant and Abstinaunce,With alle the folk of hir bataile,Shulle at the hinder gate assayle,That Wikkid-Tunge hath in keping,With his Normans, fulle of Iangling.And with hem Curtesie and Largesse,That shulle shewe hir hardinesseTo the olde wyf that [kepeth] so hardeFair-Welcoming within her warde.Than shal Delyte and Wel-HelingeFonde Shame adoun to bringe;With al hir hoost, erly and late,They shulle assailen [thilke] gate.Agaynes Drede shal HardinesseAssayle, and also Sikernesse,With al the folk of hir leding,That never wist what was fleing.‘Fraunchyse shal fighte, and eek Pitee,With Daunger ful of crueltee.Thus is your hoost ordeyned wel;Doun shal the castel every del,If everiche do his entente,So that Venus be presente,Your modir, ful of vassalage,That can y-nough of such usage;Withouten hir may no wight spedeThis werk, neither for word ne dede.Therfore is good ye for hir sende,For thurgh hir may this werk amende.’Amour.‘Lordinges, my modir, the goddesse,That is my lady, and my maistresse,Nis not [at] al at my willing,Ne doth not al my desyring.Yit can she som-tyme doon labour,Whan that hir lust, in my socour,[Al my nedis] for to acheve,But now I thenke hir not to greve.My modir is she, and of child-hedeI bothe worshipe hir, and eek drede;For who that dredith sire ne dameShal it abye in body or name.And, natheles, yit cunne weSende aftir hir, if nede be;And were she nigh, she comen wolde,I trowe that no-thing might hir holde.‘My modir is of greet prowesse;She hath tan many a forteresse,That cost hath many a pound er this,Ther I nas not present, y-wis;And yit men seide it was my dede;But I come never in that stede;Ne me ne lykith, so mote I thee,Such toures take withoute me.For-why me thenketh that, in no wyse,It may ben cleped but marchandise.‘Go bye a courser, blak or whyte,And pay therfor; than art thou quyte.The marchaunt oweth thee right nought,Ne thou him, whan thou [hast] it bought.I wol not selling clepe yeving,For selling axeth no guerdoning;Here lyth no thank, ne no meryte,That oon goth from that other al quyte.But this selling is not semblable;For, whan his hors is in the stable,He may it selle ageyn, pardee,And winne on it, such hap may be;Al may the man not lese, y-wis,For at the leest the skin is his.Or elles, if it so bitydeThat he wol kepe his hors to ryde,Yit is he lord ay of his hors.But thilke chaffare is wel wors,There Venus entremeteth nought;For who-so such chaffare hath bought,He shal not worchen so wysly,That he ne shal lese al outerlyBothe his money and his chaffare;But the seller of the wareThe prys and profit have shal.Certeyn, the byer shal lese al;For he ne can so dere it byeTo have lordship and ful maistrye,Ne have power to make lettingNeither for yift ne for preching,That of his chaffare, maugre his,Another shal have as moche, y-wis,If he wol yeve as moche as he,Of what contrey so that he be;Or for right nought, so happe may,If he can flater hir to hir pay.Ben than suche marchaunts wyse?No, but fooles in every wyse,Whan they bye such thing wilfully,Ther-as they lese her good [fully].But natheles, this dar I saye,My modir is not wont to paye,For she is neither so fool ne nyce,To entremete hir of sich vyce.But truste wel, he shal paye al,That repente of his bargeyn shal,Whan Poverte put him in distresse,Al were he scoler to Richesse,That is for me in gret yerning,Whan she assenteth to my willing.‘But, [by] my modir seint Venus,And by hir fader Saturnus,That hir engendrid by his lyf,But not upon his weddid wyf!Yit wol I more unto you swere,To make this thing the seurere;Now by that feith, and that leauteeI owe to alle my brethren free,Of which ther nis wight under hevenThat can her fadris names neven,So dyvers and so many ther beThat with my modir have be privee!Yit wolde I swere, for sikirnesse,The pole of helle to my witnesse,Now drinke I not this yeer clarree,If that I lye, or forsworn be!(For of the goddes the usage is,That who-so him forswereth amis,Shal that yeer drinke no clarree).Now have I sworn y-nough, pardee;If I forswere me, than am I lorn,But I wol never be forsworn.Sith Richesse hath me failed here,She shal abye that trespas dere,At leeste wey, but [she] hir armeWith swerd, or sparth, or gisarme.For certes, sith she loveth not me,Fro thilke tyme that she may seeThe castel and the tour to-shake,In sory tyme she shal awake.If I may grype a riche man,I shal so pulle him, if I can,That he shal, in a fewe stoundes,Lese alle his markes and his poundes.I shal him make his pens outslinge,But-[if] they in his gerner springe;Our maydens shal eek plukke him so,That him shal neden fetheres mo,And make him selle his lond to spende,But he the bet cunne him defende.‘Pore men han maad hir lord of me;Although they not so mighty be,That they may fede me in delyt,I wol not have hem in despyt.No good man hateth hem, as I gesse,For chinche and feloun is Richesse,That so can chase hem and dispyse,And hem defoule in sondry wyse.They loven ful bet, so god me spede,Than doth the riche, chinchy grede,And been, in good feith, more stableAnd trewer, and more serviable;And therfore it suffysith meHir goode herte, and hir leautee.They han on me set al hir thought,And therfore I forgete hem nought.I wolde hem bringe in greet noblesse,If that I were god of Richesse,As I am god of Love, sothly,Such routhe upon hir pleynt have I.Therfore I must his socour be,That peyneth him to serven me;For if he deyde for love of this,Than semeth in me no love ther is.’‘Sir,’ seide they, ‘sooth is, every del,That ye reherce, and we wot welThilk oth to holde is resonable;For it is good and covenable,That ye on riche men han sworn.For, sir, this wot we wel biforn;If riche men doon you homage,That is as fooles doon outrage;But ye shul not forsworen be,Ne let therfore to drinke clarree,Or piment maked fresh and newe.Ladyes shulle hem such pepir brewe,If that they falle into hir laas,That they for wo mowe seyn “Allas!”Ladyes shuln ever so curteis be,That they shal quyte your oth al free.Ne seketh never other vicaire,For they shal speke with hem so faireThat ye shal holde you payed ful wel,Though ye you medle never a del.Lat ladies worche with hir thinges,They shal hem telle so fele tydinges,And moeve hem eke so many requestisBy flatery, that not honest is,And therto yeve hem such thankinges,What with kissing, and with talkinges,That certes, if they trowed be,Shal never leve hem lond ne feeThat it nil as the moeble fare,Of which they first delivered are.Now may ye telle us al your wille,And we your hestes shal fulfille.‘But Fals-Semblant dar not, for dredeOf you, sir, medle him of this dede,For he seith that ye been his fo;He not, if ye wol worche him wo.Wherfore we pray you alle, beausire,That ye forgive him now your ire,And that he may dwelle, as your man,With Abstinence, his dere lemman:This our accord and our wil now.’‘Parfay,’ seide Love, ‘I graunte it yow;I wol wel holde him for my man;Now lat him come:’ and he forth ran.‘Fals-Semblant,’ quod Love, ‘in this wyseI take thee here to my servyse,That thou our freendis helpe alway,And hindre hem neithir night ne day,But do thy might hem to releve,And eek our enemies that thou greve.Thyn be this might, I graunt it thee,My king of harlotes shalt thou be;We wol that thou have such honour.Certeyn, thou art a fals traitour,And eek a theef; sith thou were born,A thousand tyme thou art forsworn.But, natheles, in our hering,To putte our folk out of douting,I bid thee teche hem, wostow how?By somme general signe now,In what place thou shalt founden be,If that men had mister of thee;And how men shal thee best espye,For thee to knowe is greet maistrye;Tel in what place is thyn haunting.’F. Sem.‘Sir, I have fele dyvers woning,That I kepe not rehersed be,So that ye wolde respyten me.For if that I telle you the sothe,I may have harm and shame bothe.If that my felowes wisten it,My tales shulden me be quit;For certeyn, they wolde hate me,If ever I knewe hir cruelte;For they wolde over-al holde hem stilleOf trouthe that is ageyn hir wille;Suche tales kepen they not here.I might eftsone bye it ful dere,If I seide of hem any thing,That ought displeseth to hir hering.For what word that hem prikke or byteth,In that word noon of hem delyteth,Al were it gospel, the evangyle,That wolde reprove hem of hir gyle,For they are cruel and hauteyn.And this thing wot I wel, certeyn,If I speke ought to peire hir loos,Your court shal not so wel be cloos,That they ne shal wite it atte last.Of good men am I nought agast,For they wol taken on hem nothing,Whan that they knowe al my mening;But he that wol it on him take,He wol himself suspecious make,That he his lyf let covertly,In Gyle and in Ipocrisy,That me engendred and yaf fostring.’‘They made a ful good engendring,’Quod Love, ‘for who-so soothly telle,They engendred the devel of helle!‘But nedely, how-so-ever it be,’Quod Love, ‘I wol and charge thee,To telle anoon thy woning-places,Hering ech wight that in this place is;And what lyf that thou livest also,Hyde it no lenger now; wherto?Thou most discover al thy wurching,How thou servest, and of what thing,Though that thou shuldest for thy soth-saweBen al to-beten and to-drawe;And yit art thou not wont, pardee.But natheles, though thou beten be,Thou shalt not be the first, that soHath for soth-sawe suffred wo.’F. Sem.‘Sir, sith that it may lyken you,Though that I shulde be slayn right now,I shal don your comaundement,For therto have I gret talent.’Withouten wordes mo, right than,Fals-Semblant his sermon bigan,And seide hem thus in audience:—‘Barouns, tak hede of my sentence!That wight that list to have knowingOf Fals-Semblant, ful of flatering,He must in worldly folk him seke,And, certes, in the cloistres eke;I wone no-where but in hem tweye;But not lyk even, sooth to seye;Shortly, I wol herberwe meThere I hope best to hulstred be;And certeynly, sikerest hydingIs undirneth humblest clothing.‘Religious folk ben ful covert;Seculer folk ben more appert.But natheles, I wol not blameReligious folk, ne hem diffame,In what habit that ever they go:Religioun humble, and trewe also,Wol I not blame, ne dispyse,But I nil love it, in no wyse.I mene of fals religious,That stoute ben, and malicious;That wolen in an abit go,And setten not hir herte therto.‘Religious folk ben al pitous;Thou shalt not seen oon dispitous.They loven no pryde, ne no stryf,But humbly they wol lede hir lyf;With swich folk wol I never be.And if I dwelle, I feyne meI may wel in her abit go;But me were lever my nekke atwo,Than lete a purpose that I take,What covenaunt that ever I make.I dwelle with hem that proude be,And fulle of wyles and subtelte;That worship of this world coveyten,And grete nedes cunne espleyten;And goon and gadren greet pitaunces,And purchace hem the acqueyntauncesOf men that mighty lyf may leden;And feyne hem pore, and hem-self fedenWith gode morcels delicious,And drinken good wyn precious,And preche us povert and distresse,And fisshen hem-self greet richesseWith wyly nettis that they caste:It wol come foul out at the laste.They ben fro clene religioun went;They make the world an argumentThat hath a foul conclusioun.“I have a robe of religioun,Than am I al religious:”This argument is al roignous;It is not worth a croked brere;Habit ne maketh monk ne frere,But clene lyf and devociounMaketh gode men of religioun.Nathelesse, ther can noon answere,How high that ever his heed he shereWith rasour whetted never so kene,That Gyle in braunches cut thrittene;Ther can no wight distincte it so,That he dar sey a word therto.‘But what herberwe that ever I take,Or what semblant that ever I make,I mene but gyle, and folowe that;For right no mo than Gibbe our cat[Fro myce and rattes went his wyle],Ne entende I [not] but to begyle;Ne no wight may, by my clothing,Wite with what folk is my dwelling;Ne by my wordis yet, pardee,So softe and so plesaunt they be.Bihold the dedis that I do;But thou be blind, thou oughtest so;For, varie hir wordis fro hir dede,They thenke on gyle, withouten drede,What maner clothing that they were,Or what estat that ever they bere,Lered or lewd, lord or lady,Knight, squier, burgeis, or bayly.’Right thus whyl Fals-Semblant sermoneth,Eftsones Love him aresoneth,And brak his tale in the spekingAs though he had him told lesing;And seide: ‘What, devel, is that I here?What folk hast thou us nempned here?May men finde religiounIn worldly habitacioun?’F. Sem.‘Ye, sir; it foloweth not that theyShulde lede a wikked lyf, parfey,Ne not therfore her soules lese,That hem to worldly clothes chese;For, certis, it were gret pitee.Men may in seculer clothes seeFlorisshen holy religioun.Ful many a seynt in feeld and toun,With many a virgin glorious,Devout, and ful religious,Had deyed, that comun clothe ay beren,Yit seyntes never-the-les they weren.I coude reken you many a ten;Ye, wel nigh alle these holy wimmen,That men in chirchis herie and seke,Bothe maydens, and these wyves eke,That baren many a fair child here,Wered alwey clothis seculere,And in the same dyden they,That seyntes weren, and been alwey.The eleven thousand maydens dere,That beren in heven hir ciergis clere,Of which men rede in chirche, and singe,Were take in seculer clothing,Whan they resseyved martirdom,And wonnen heven unto her hoom.Good herte makith the gode thought;The clothing yeveth ne reveth nought.The gode thought and the worching,That maketh religioun flowring,Ther lyth the good religiounAftir the right entencioun.‘Who-so toke a wethers skin,And wrapped a gredy wolf therin,For he shulde go with lambis whyte,Wenest thou not he wolde hem byte?Yis! never-the-las, as he were wood,He wolde hem wery, and drinke the blood;And wel the rather hem disceyve,For, sith they coude not perceyveHis treget and his crueltee,They wolde him folowe, al wolde he flee.‘If ther be wolves of sich heweAmonges these apostlis newe,Thou, holy chirche, thou mayst be wayled!Sith that thy citee is assayledThourgh knightis of thyn owne table,God wot thy lordship is doutable!If they enforce [hem] it to winne,That shulde defende it fro withinne,Who might defence ayens hem make?Withouten stroke it mot be takeOf trepeget or mangonel;Without displaying of pensel.And if god nil don it socour,But lat [hem] renne in this colour,Thou moost thyn heestis laten be.Than is ther nought, but yelde thee,Or yeve hem tribute, doutelees,And holde it of hem to have pees:But gretter harm bityde thee,That they al maister of it be.Wel conne they scorne thee withal;By day stuffen they the wal,And al the night they mynen there.Nay, thou most planten elleswhereThyn impes, if thou wolt fruyt have;Abyd not there thy-self to save.‘But now pees! here I turne ageyn;I wol no more of this thing seyn,If I may passen me herby;I mighte maken you wery.But I wol heten you alwayTo helpe your freendis what I may,So they wollen my company;For they be shent al-outerlyBut-if so falle, that I beOft with hem, and they with me.And eek my lemman mot they serve,Or they shul not my love deserve.Forsothe, I am a fals traitour;God iugged me for a theef trichour;Forsworn I am, but wel nygh nonWot of my gyle, til it be don.‘Thourgh me hath many oon deth resseyved,That my treget never aperceyved;And yit resseyveth,and shal resseyve,That my falsnesse never aperceyve:But who-so doth, if he wys be,Him is right good be war of me.But so sligh is the [deceyvingThat to hard is the] aperceyving.For Protheus, that coude him chaungeIn every shap, hoomly and straunge,Coude never sich gyle ne tresounAs I; for I com never in tounTher-as I mighte knowen be,Though men me bothe might here and see.Ful wel I can my clothis chaunge,Take oon, and make another straunge.Now am I knight, now chasteleyn;Now prelat, and now chapeleyn;Now prest, now clerk, and now forstere;Now am I maister, now scolere;Now monk, now chanoun, now baily;What-ever mister man am I.Now am I prince, now am I page,And can by herte every langage.Som-tyme am I hoor and old;Now am I yong, [and] stout, and bold;Now am I Robert, now Robyn;Now frere Menour,now Iacobyn;And with me folweth my loteby,To don me solas and company,That hight dame Abstinence-Streyned,In many a queynt array [y]-feyned.Right as it cometh to hir lyking,I fulfille al hir desiring.Somtyme a wommans cloth take I;Now am I mayde, now lady.Somtyme I am religious;Now lyk an anker in an hous.Somtyme am I prioresse,And now a nonne, and now abbesse;And go thurgh alle regiouns,Seking alle religiouns.But to what ordre that I am sworn,I take the strawe, and lete the corn;To [blynde] folk [ther] I enhabite,I axe no-more but hir abite.What wol ye more? in every wyse,Right as me list, I me disgyse.Wel can I bere me under weed;Unlyk is my word to my deed.Thus make I in my trappis falle,Thurgh my pryvileges, alleThat ben in Cristendom alyve.I may assoile, and I may shryve,That no prelat may lette me,Al folk, wher-ever they founde be:I noot no prelat may don so,But it the pope be, and no mo,That made thilk establisshing.Now is not this a propre thing?But, were my sleightis aperceyved,[Ne shulde I more been receyved]As I was wont; and wostow why?For I dide hem a tregetry;But therof yeve I litel tale,I have the silver and the male;So have I preched and eek shriven,So have I take, so have [me] yiven,Thurgh hir foly, husbond and wyf,That I lede right a Ioly lyf,Thurgh simplesse of the prelacye;They know not al my tregetrye.‘But for as moche as man and wyfShuld shewe hir paroche-prest hir lyfOnes a yeer, as seith the book,Er any wight his housel took,Than have I pryvilegis large,That may of moche thing discharge;For he may seye right thus, pardee:—“Sir Preest,in shrift I telle it thee,That he, to whom that I am shriven,Hath me assoiled, and me yivenPenaunce soothly, for my sinne,Which that I fond me gilty inne;Ne I ne have never entenciounTo make double confessioun,Ne reherce eft my shrift to thee;O shrift is right y-nough to me.This oughte thee suffyce wel,Ne be not rebel never-a-del;For certis, though thou haddest it sworn,I wot no prest ne prelat bornThat may to shrift eft me constreyne.And if they don, I wol me pleyne;For I wot where to pleyne wel.Thou shalt not streyne me a del,Ne enforce me, ne [yit] me trouble,To make my confessioun double.Ne I have none affecciounTo have double absolucioun.The firste is right y-nough to me;This latter assoiling quyte I thee.I am unbounde; what mayst thou findeMore of my sinnes me to unbinde?For he, that might hath in his hond,Of alle my sinnes me unbond.And if thou wolt me thus constreyne,That me mot nedis on thee pleyne,There shal no Iugge imperial,Ne bisshop, ne official,Don Iugement on me; for IShal gon and pleyne me openlyUnto my shrift-fadir newe,(That hight not Frere Wolf untrewe!)And he shal chevise him for me,For I trowe he can hampre thee.But, lord! he wolde be wrooth withalle,If men him wolde Frere Wolf calle!For he wolde have no pacience,But don al cruel vengeaunce!He wolde his might don at the leest,[Ne] no-thing spare for goddis heest.And, god so wis be my socour,But thou yeve me my SaviourAt Ester, whan it lyketh me,Withoute presing more on thee,I wol forth, and to him goon,And he shal housel me anoon,For I am out of thy grucching;I kepe not dele with thee nothing.”Thus may he shryve him, that forsakethHis paroche-prest, and to me taketh.And if the prest wol him refuse,I am ful redy him to accuse,And him punisshe and hampre so,That he his chirche shal forgo.‘But who-so hath in his felingThe consequence of such shryving,Shal seen that prest may never have mightTo knowe the conscience arightOf him that is under his cure.And this ageyns holy scripture,That biddeth every herde honesteHave verry knowing of his beste.But pore folk that goon by strete,That have no gold, ne sommes grete,Hem wolde I lete to her prelates,Or lete hir prestis knowe hir states,For to me right nought yeve they.’Amour.‘And why is it?’F. Sem.‘For they ne may.They ben so bare, I take no keep;But I wol have the fatte sheep;—Lat parish prestis have the lene,I yeve not of hir harm a bene!And if that prelats grucchen it,That oughten wroth be in hir wit,To lese her fatte bestes so,I shal yeve hem a stroke or two,That they shal lesen with [the] force,Ye, bothe hir mytre and hir croce.Thus Iape I hem, and have do longe,My priveleges been so stronge.’Fals-Semblant wolde have stinted here,But Love ne made him no such chereThat he was wery of his sawe;But for to make him glad and fawe,He seide:—‘Tel on more specialy,How that thou servest untrewly.Tel forth, and shame thee never a del;For as thyn abit shewith wel,Thou [semest] an holy heremyte.’F. Sem.‘Soth is, but I am an ypocryte.’Amour.‘Thou gost and prechest povertee?’F. Sem.‘Ye, sir; but richesse hath poustee.’Amour.‘Thou prechest abstinence also?’F. Sem.‘Sir, I wol fillen, so mote I go,My paunche of gode mete and wyne,As shulde a maister of divyne;For how that I me pover feyne,Yit alle pore folk I disdeyne.‘I love bet the acqueyntaunceTen tymes, of the king of Fraunce,Than of pore man of mylde mode,Though that his soule be also gode.For whan I see beggers quaking,Naked on mixens al stinking,For hungre crye, and eek for care,I entremete not of hir fare.They been so pore, and ful of pyne,They might not ones yeve me dyne,For they have no-thing but hir lyf;What shulde he yeve that likketh his knyf?It is but foly to entremete,To seke in houndes nest fat mete.Let bere hem to the spitel anoon,But, for me, comfort gete they noon.But a riche sike usurereWolde I visyte and drawe nere;Him wol I comforte and rehete,For I hope of his gold to gete.And if that wikked deth him have,I wol go with him to his grave.And if ther any reprove me,Why that I lete the pore be,Wostow how I [mot] ascape?I sey, and swerë him ful rape,That riche men han more tecchesOf sinne, than han pore wrecches,And han of counseil more mister;And therfore I wol drawe hem ner.But as gret hurt, it may so be,Hath soule in right gret poverte,As soul in gret richesse, forsothe,Al-be-it that they hurten bothe.For richesse and mendiciteesBen cleped two extremitees;The mene is cleped suffisaunce,Ther lyth of vertu the aboundaunce.For Salamon, ful wel I woot,In his Parables us wroot,As it is knowe of many a wight,In his [thrittethe] chapitre right:“God, thou me kepe, for thy poustee,Fro richesse and mendicitee;For if a riche man him dresseTo thenke to moche on [his] richesse,His herte on that so fer is set,That he his creatour foryet;And him, that [begging] wol ay greve,How shulde I by his word him leve?Unnethe that he nis a micher,Forsworn, or elles [god is] lyer.”Thus seith Salamones sawes;Ne we finde writen in no lawes,And namely in our Cristen lay—(Who seith “ye,” I dar sey “nay”)—That Crist, ne his apostlis dere,Whyl that they walkede in erthe here,Were never seen her bred begging,For they nolde beggen for nothing.And right thus were men wont to teche;And in this wyse wolde it precheThe maistres of diviniteeSomtyme in Paris the citee.‘And if men wolde ther-geyn apposeThe naked text, and lete the glose,It mighte sone assoiled be;For men may wel the sothe see,That, parde, they mighte axe a thingPleynly forth, without begging.For they weren goddis herdis dere,And cure of soules hadden here,They nolde no-thing begge hir fode;For aftir Crist was don on rode,With [hir] propre hondis they wrought,And with travel, and elles nought,They wonnen al hir sustenaunce,And liveden forth in hir penaunce,And the remenaunt [yeve] aweyTo other pore folk alwey.They neither bilden tour ne halle,But [leye] in houses smale withalle.A mighty man, that can and may,Shulde with his honde and body alwayWinne him his food in laboring,If he ne have rent or sich a thing,Although he be religious,And god to serven curious.Thus mote he don, or do trespas,But-if it be in certeyn cas,That I can reherce, if mister be,Right wel, whan the tyme I see.‘Seke the book of Seynt Austin,Be it in paper or perchemin,There-as he writ of these worchinges,Thou shalt seen that non excusingesA parfit man ne shulde sekeBy wordis, ne by dedis eke,Although he be religious,And god to serven curious,That he ne shal, so mote I go,With propre hondis and body also,Gete his food in laboring,If he ne have propretee of thing.Yit shulde he selle al his substaunce,And with his swink have sustenaunce,If he be parfit in bountee.Thus han tho bookes tolde me:For he that wol gon ydilly,And useth it ay besilyTo haunten other mennes table,He is a trechour, ful of fable;Ne he ne may, by gode resoun,Excuse him by his orisoun.For men bihoveth, in som gyse,Som-tyme [leven] goddes servyseTo gon and purchasen her nede.Men mote eten, that is no drede,And slepe, and eek do other thing;So longe may they leve praying.So may they eek hir prayer blinne,While that they werke, hir mete to winne.Seynt Austin wol therto accorde,In thilke book that I recorde.Justinian eek, that made lawes,Hath thus forboden, by olde dawes,“No man, up peyne to be deed,Mighty of body, to begge his breed,If he may swinke, it for to gete;Men shulde him rather mayme or bete,Or doon of him apert Iustice,Than suffren him in such malice.”They don not wel, so mote I go,That taken such almesse so,But if they have som privelege,That of the peyne hem wol allege.But how that is, can I not see,But-if the prince disseyved be;Ne I ne wene not, sikerly,That they may have it rightfully.But I wol not determyneOf princes power, ne defyne,Ne by my word comprende, y-wis,If it so fer may strecche in this.I wol not entremete a del;But I trowe that the book seith wel,Who that taketh almesses, that beDewe to folk that men may seeLame, feble, wery, and bare,Pore, or in such maner care,(That conne winne hem nevermo,For they have no power therto),He eteth his owne dampning,But-if he lye, that made al thing.And if ye such a truaunt finde,Chastise him wel, if ye be kinde.But they wolde hate you, percas,And, if ye fillen in hir laas,They wolde eftsones do you scathe,If that they mighte, late or rathe;For they be not ful pacient,That han the world thus foule blent.And witeth wel, [wher] that god badThe good man selle al that he had,And folowe him, and to pore it yive,He wolde not therfore that he liveTo serven him in mendience,For it was never his sentence;But he bad wirken whan that nede is,And folwe him in goode dedis.Seynt Poule, that loved al holy chirche,He bade thapostles for to wirche,And winnen hir lyflode in that wyse,And hem defended truaundyse,And seide, “Wirketh with your honden;”Thus shulde the thing be undirstonden.He nolde, y-wis, bidde hem begging,Ne sellen gospel, ne preching,Lest they berafte, with hir asking,Folk of hir catel or of hir thing.For in this world is many a manThat yeveth his good, for he ne canWerne it for shame, or elles heWolde of the asker delivered be;And, for he him encombreth so,He yeveth him good to late him go:But it can him no-thing profyte,They lese the yift and the meryte.The goode folk, that Poule to preched,Profred him ofte, whan he hem teched,Som of hir good in charite;But therof right no-thing took he;But of his hondwerk wolde he geteClothes to wryen him, and his mete.’Amour.‘Tel me than how a man may liven,That al his good to pore hath yiven,And wol but only bidde his bedis,And never with honde laboure his nedis:May he do so?’F. Sem.‘Ye, sir.’Amour.‘And how?’F. Sem.‘Sir, I wol gladly telle yow:—Seynt Austin seith, a man may beIn houses that han propretee,As templers and hospitelers,And as these chanouns regulers,Or whyte monkes, or these blake—(I wole no mo ensamplis make)—And take therof his sustening,For therinne lyth no begging;But other-weyes not, y-wis,[If] Austin gabbeth not of this.And yit ful many a monk laboureth,That god in holy chirche honoureth;For whan hir swinking is agoon,They rede and singe in chirche anoon.‘And for ther hath ben greet discord,As many a wight may bere record,Upon the estate of mendience,I wol shortly, in your presence,Telle how a man may begge at nede,That hath not wherwith him to fede,Maugre his felones Iangelinges,For sothfastnesse wol non hidinges;And yit, percas, I may abey,That I to yow sothly thus sey.‘Lo, here the caas especial:If a man be so bestialThat he of no craft hath science,And nought desyreth ignorence,Than may he go a-begging yerne,Til he som maner craft can lerne,Thurgh which, withoute truaunding,He may in trouthe have his living.Or if he may don no labour,For elde, or syknesse, or langour,Or for his tendre age also,Than may he yit a-begging go.‘Or if he have, peraventure,Thurgh usage of his noriture,Lived over deliciously,Than oughten good folk comunlyHan of his mischeef som pitee,And suffren him also, that heMay gon aboute and begge his breed,That he be not for hungur deed.Or if he have of craft cunning,And strengthe also, and desiringTo wirken, as he hadde what,But he finde neither this ne that,Than may he begge, til that heHave geten his necessitee.‘Or if his winning be so lyte,That his labour wol not acquyteSufficiantly al his living,Yit may he go his breed begging;Fro dore to dore he may go trace,Til he the remenaunt may purchace.Or if a man wolde undirtakeAny empryse for to make,In the rescous of our lay,And it defenden as he may,Be it with armes or lettrure,Or other covenable cure,If it be so he pore be,Than may he begge, til that heMay finde in trouthe for to swinke,And gete him clothes, mete, and drinke.Swinke he with hondis corporel,And not with hondis espirituel.‘In al thise caas, and in semblables,If that ther ben mo resonables,He may begge, as I telle you here,And elles nought, in no manere;As William Seynt Amour wolde preche,And ofte wolde dispute and techeOf this matere alle openlyAt Paris ful solempnely.And al-so god my soule blesse,As he had, in this stedfastnesse,The accord of the universitee,And of the puple, as semeth me.‘No good man oughte it to refuse,Ne oughte him therof to excuse,Be wrooth or blythe who-so be;For I wol speke, and telle it thee,Al shulde I dye, and be put doun,As was seynt Poul, in derk prisoun;Or be exiled in this caasWith wrong, as maister William was,That my moder YpocrisyeBanisshed for hir greet envye.‘My moder flemed him, Seynt Amour:This noble dide such labourTo susteyne ever the loyaltee,That he to moche agilte me.He made a book, and leet it wryte,Wherin his lyf he dide al wryte,And wolde ich reneyed begging,And lived by my traveyling,If I ne had rent ne other good.What? wened he that I were wood?For labour might me never plese,I have more wil to been at ese;And have wel lever, sooth to sey,Bifore the puple patre and prey,And wrye me in my foxeryeUnder a cope of papelardye.’Quod Love, ‘What devel is this I here?What wordis tellest thou me here?’F. Sem.‘What, sir?’Amour.‘Falsnesse, that apert is;Than dredist thou not god?’F. Sem.‘No, certis:For selde in greet thing shal he spedeIn this world, that god wol drede.For folk that hem to vertu yiven,And truly on her owne liven,And hem in goodnesse ay contene,On hem is litel thrift y-sene;Such folk drinken gret misese;That lyf [ne] may me never plese.But see what gold han usurers,And silver eek in [hir] garners,Taylagiers, and these monyours,Bailifs, bedels, provost, countours;These liven wel nygh by ravyne;The smale puple hem mote enclyne,And they as wolves wol hem eten.Upon the pore folk they getenFul moche of that they spende or kepe;Nis none of hem that he nil strepe,And wryen him-self wel atte fulle;Withoute scalding they hem pulle.The stronge the feble overgoth;But I, that were my simple cloth,Robbe bothe robbed and robbours,And gyle gyled and gylours.By my treget, I gadre and thresteThe greet tresour into my cheste,That lyth with me so faste bounde.Myn highe paleys do I founde,And my delytes I fulfilleWith wyne at feestes at my wille,And tables fulle of entremees;I wol no lyf, but ese and pees,And winne gold to spende also.For whan the grete bagge is go,It cometh right with my Iapes.Make I not wel tumble myn apes?To winne is alwey myn entent;My purchas is better than my rent;For though I shulde beten be,Over-al I entremete me;Withoute me may no wight dure.I walke soules for to cure.Of al the worlde cure have IIn brede and lengthe; boldelyI wol bothe preche and eek counceilen;With hondis wille I not traveilen,For of the pope I have the bulle;I ne holde not my wittes dulle.I wol not stinten, in my lyve,These emperouris for to shryve,Or kyngis, dukis, and lordis grete;But pore folk al quyte I lete.I love no such shryving, pardee,But it for other cause be.I rekke not of pore men,Hir astate is not worth an hen.Where fyndest thou a swinker of labourHave me unto his confessour?But emperesses, and duchesses,Thise quenes, and eek [thise] countesses,Thise abbesses, and eek Bigyns,These grete ladyes palasyns,These Ioly knightes, and baillyves,Thise nonnes, and thise burgeis wyves,That riche been, and eek plesing,And thise maidens welfaring,Wher-so they clad or naked be,Uncounceiled goth ther noon fro me.And, for her soules savetee,At lord and lady, and hir meynee,I axe, whan they hem to me shryve,The propretee of al hir lyve,And make hem trowe, bothe meest and leest,Hir paroch-prest nis but a beestAyens me and my company,That shrewis been as greet as I;For whiche I wol not hyde in holdNo privetee that me is told,That I by word or signe, y-wis,[Nil] make hem knowe what it is,And they wolen also tellen me;They hele fro me no privitee.And for to make yow hem perceyven,That usen folk thus to disceyven,I wol you seyn, withouten drede,What men may in the gospel redeOf Seynt Mathew, the gospelere,That seith, as I shal you sey here.‘Upon the chaire of Moyses—Thus is it glosed, douteles:That is the olde testament,For therby is the chaire ment—Sitte Scribes and Pharisen;—That is to seyn, the cursid menWhiche that we ypocritis calle—Doth that they preche, I rede you alle,But doth not as they don a del,That been not wery to seye wel,But to do wel, no wille have they;And they wolde binde on folk alwey,That ben to [be] begyled able,Burdens that ben importable;On folkes shuldres thinges they couchenThat they nil with her fingres touchen.’Amour.‘And why wol they not touche it?’F. Sem.‘Why?For hem ne list not, sikirly;For sadde burdens that men takenMake folkes shuldres aken.And if they do ought that good be,That is for folk it shulde see:Her burdens larger maken they,And make hir hemmes wyde alwey,And loven setes at the table,The firste and most honourable;And for to han the first chaierisIn synagoges, to hem ful dere is;And willen that folk hem loute and grete,Whan that they passen thurgh the strete,And wolen be cleped “Maister” also.But they ne shulde not willen so;The gospel is ther-ageyns, I gesse:That sheweth wel hir wikkidnesse.‘Another custom use we:—Of hem that wol ayens us be,We hate hem deedly everichoon,And we wol werrey hem, as oon.Him that oon hatith, hate we alle,And coniecte how to doon him falle.And if we seen him winne honour,Richesse or preys, thurgh his valour,Provende, rent, or dignitee,Ful fast, y-wis, compassen weBy what ladder he is clomben so;And for to maken him doun to go,With traisoun we wole him defame,And doon him lese his gode name.Thus from his ladder we him take,And thus his freendis foes we make;But word ne wite shal he noon,Til alle his freendis been his foon.For if we dide it openly,We might have blame redily;For hadde he wist of our malyce,He hadde him kept, but he were nyce.‘Another is this, that, if so falleThat ther be oon among us alleThat doth a good turn, out of drede,We seyn it is our alder dede.Ye, sikerly, though he it feyned,Or that him list, or that him deynedA man thurgh him avaunced be;Therof alle parceners be we,And tellen folk, wher-so we go,That man thurgh us is sprongen so.And for to have of men preysing,We purchace, thurgh our flatering,Of riche men, of gret poustee,Lettres, to witnesse our bountee;So that man weneth, that may us see,That alle vertu in us be.And alwey pore we us feyne;But how so that we begge or pleyne,We ben the folk, without lesing,That al thing have without having.Thus be we dred of the puple, y-wis.And gladly my purpos is this:—I dele with no wight, but heHave gold and tresour gret plentee;Hir acqueyntaunce wel love I;This is moche my desyr, shortly.I entremete me of brocages,I make pees and mariages,I am gladly executour,And many tymes procuratour;I am somtyme messager;That falleth not to my mister.And many tymes I make enquestes;For me that office not honest is;To dele with other mennes thing,That is to me a gret lyking.And if that ye have ought to doIn place that I repeire to,I shal it speden thurgh my wit,As sone as ye have told me it.So that ye serve me to pay,My servyse shal be your alway.But who-so wol chastyse me,Anoon my love lost hath he;For I love no man in no gyse,That wol me repreve or chastyse;But I wolde al folk undirtake,And of no wight no teching take;For I, that other folk chastye,Wol not be taught fro my folye.‘I love noon hermitage more;Alle desertes, and holtes hore,And grete wodes everichoon,I lete hem to the Baptist Iohan.I quethe him quyte, and him relesseOf Egipt al the wildirnesse;To fer were alle my mansiounsFro alle citees and goode tounes.My paleis and myn hous make IThere men may renne in openly,And sey that I the world forsake.But al amidde I bilde and makeMy hous, and swimme and pley therinneBet than a fish doth with his finne.‘Of Antecristes men am I,Of whiche that Crist seith openly,They have abit of holinesse,And liven in such wikkednesse.Outward, lambren semen we,Fulle of goodnesse and of pitee,And inward we, withouten fable,Ben gredy wolves ravisable.We enviroune bothe londe and see;With al the world werreyen we;We wol ordeyne of alle thing,Of folkes good, and her living.‘If ther be castel or citeeWherin that any bougerons be,Although that they of Milayne were,For ther-of ben they blamed there:Or if a wight, out of mesure,Wolde lene his gold, and take usure,For that he is so coveitous:Or if he be to leccherous,Or [thefe, or] haunte simonye;Or provost, ful of trecherye,Or prelat, living Iolily,Or prest that halt his quene him by;Or olde hores hostilers,Or other bawdes or bordillers,Or elles blamed of any vyce,Of whiche men shulden doon Iustyce:By alle the seyntes that we pray,But they defende hem with lamprey,With luce, with elis, with samons,With tendre gees, and with capons,With tartes, or with cheses fat,With deynte flawnes, brode and flat,With caleweys, or with pullaille,With coninges, or with fyn vitaille,That we, undir our clothes wyde,Maken thurgh our golet glyde:Or but he wol do come in hasteRoo-venisoun, [y]-bake in paste:Whether so that he loure or groine,He shal have of a corde a loigne,With whiche men shal him binde and lede,To brenne him for his sinful dede,That men shulle here him crye and roreA myle-wey aboute, and more.Or elles he shal in prisoun dye,But-if he wol [our] frendship bye,Or smerten that that he hath do,More than his gilt amounteth to.But, and he couthe thurgh his sleightDo maken up a tour of height,Nought roughte I whether of stone or tree,Or erthe, or turves though it be,Though it were of no vounde stone,Wrought with squyre and scantilone,So that the tour were stuffed welWith alle richesse temporel;And thanne, that he wolde updresseEngyns, bothe more and lesse,To caste at us, by every syde—To bere his goode name wyde—Such sleightes [as] I shal yow nevene,Barelles of wyne, by sixe or sevene,Or gold in sakkes gret plente,He shulde sone delivered be.And if he have noon sich pitaunces,Late him study in equipolences,And lete lyes and fallaces,If that he wolde deserve our graces;Or we shal bere him such witnesseOf sinne, and of his wrecchidnesse,And doon his loos so wyde renne,That al quik we shulde him brenne,Or elles yeve him suche penaunce,That is wel wors than the pitaunce.‘For thou shalt never, for nothing,Con knowen aright by her clothingThe traitours fulle of echerye,But thou her werkis can aspye.And ne hadde the good keping beWhylom of the universitee,That kepeth the key of Cristendome,[They] had been turmented, alle and some.Suche been the stinking [fals] prophetis;Nis non of hem, that good prophete is;For they, thurgh wikked entencioun,The yeer of the incarnaciounA thousand and two hundred yeer,Fyve and fifty, ferther ne ner,Broughten a book, with sory grace,To yeven ensample in comune place,That seide thus, though it were fable:—“This is the Gospel Perdurable,That fro the Holy Goost is sent.”Wel were it worth to ben [y]-brent.Entitled was in such manereThis book, of which I telle here.Ther nas no wight in al Parys,Biforn Our Lady, at parvys,That [he] ne mighte bye the book,To copy, if him talent took.Ther might he see, by greet tresoun,Ful many fals comparisoun:—“As moche as, thurgh his grete might,Be it of hete, or of light,The sunne sourmounteth the mone,That troubler is, and chaungeth sone,And the note-kernel the shelle—(I scorne nat that I yow telle)—Right so, withouten any gyle,Sourmounteth this noble EvangyleThe word of any evangelist.”And to her title they token Christ;And many such comparisoun,Of which I make no mencioun,Might men in that boke finde,Who-so coude of hem have minde.‘The universitee, that tho was aslepe,Gan for to braide, and taken kepe;And at the noys the heed up-caste,Ne never sithen slepte it faste,But up it sterte, and armes tookAyens this fals horrible book,Al redy bateil for to make,And to the Iuge the book to take.But they that broughten the book thereHente it anoon awey, for fere;They nolde shewe it more a del,But thenne it kepte, and kepen wil,Til such a tyme that they may seeThat they so stronge woxen be,That no wight may hem wel withstonde;For by that book they durst not stonde.Away they gonne it for to bere,For they ne durste not answereBy exposicioun ne gloseTo that that clerkis wole apposeAyens the cursednesse, y-wis,That in that boke writen is.Now wot I not, ne I can not seeWhat maner ende that there shal beOf al this [boke] that they hyde;But yit algate they shal abydeTil that they may it bet defende;This trowe I best, wol be hir ende.‘Thus Antecrist abyden we,For we ben alle of his meynee;And what man that wol not be so,Right sone he shal his lyf forgo.We wol a puple on him areyse,And thurgh our gyle doon him seise,And him on sharpe speris ryve,Or other-weyes bringe him fro lyve,But-if that he wol folowe, y-wis,That in our boke writen is.Thus moche wol our book signifye,That whyl [that] Peter hath maistrye,May never Iohan shewe wel his might.‘Now have I you declared rightThe mening of the bark and rindeThat makith the entenciouns blinde.But now at erst I wol biginneTo expowne you the pith withinne:—[And first, by Peter, as I wene,The Pope himself we wolden mene,]And [eek] the seculers comprehende,That Cristes lawe wol defende,And shulde it kepen and mayntenenAyeines hem that al sustenen,And falsly to the puple techen.[And] Iohan bitokeneth hem [that] prechen,That ther nis lawe covenableBut thilke Gospel Perdurable,That fro the Holy Gost was sentTo turne folk that been miswent.The strengthe of Iohan they undirstondeThe grace in which, they seye, they stonde,That doth the sinful folk converte,And hem to Iesus Crist reverte.‘Ful many another horribleteMay men in that boke see,That ben comaunded, douteles,Ayens the lawe of Rome expres;And alle with Antecrist they holden,As men may in the book biholden.And than comaunden they to sleenAlle tho that with Peter been;But they shal nevere have that might,And, god toforn, for stryf to fight,That they ne shal y-nough [men] findeThat Peters lawe shal have in minde,And ever holde, and so mayntene,That at the last it shal be seneThat they shal alle come therto,For ought that they can speke or do.And thilke lawe shal not stonde,That they by Iohan have undirstonde;But, maugre hem, it shal adoun,And been brought to confusioun.But I wol stinte of this matere,For it is wonder long to here;But hadde that ilke book endured,Of better estate I were ensured;And freendis have I yit, pardee,That han me set in greet degree.‘Of all this world is emperourGyle my fader, the trechour,And emperesse my moder is,Maugre the Holy Gost, y-wis.Our mighty linage and our routeRegneth in every regne aboute;And wel is worth we [maistres] be,For al this world governe we,And can the folk so wel disceyve,That noon our gyle can perceyve;And though they doon, they dar not saye;The sothe dar no wight biwreye.But he in Cristis wrath him ledeth,That more than Crist my bretheren dredeth.He nis no ful good champioun,That dredith such similacioun;Nor that for peyne wole refusenUs to correcten and accusen.He wol not entremete by right,Ne have god in his eye-sight,And therfore god shal him punyce;But me ne rekketh of no vyce,Sithen men us loven comunably,And holden us for so worthy,That we may folk repreve echoon,And we nil have repref of noon.Whom shulden folk worshipen soBut us, that stinten never moTo patren whyl that folk us see,Though it not so bihinde hem be?‘And where is more wood folye,Than to enhaunce chivalrye,And love noble men and gay,That Ioly clothis weren alway?If they be sich folk as they semen,So clene, as men her clothis demen,And that her wordis folowe her dede,It is gret pite, out of drede,For they wol be noon ypocritis!Of hem, me thinketh [it] gret spite is;I can not love hem on no syde.But Beggers with these hodes wyde,With sleighe and pale faces lene,And greye clothis not ful clene,But fretted ful of tatarwagges,And highe shoes, knopped with dagges,That frouncen lyke a quaile-pype,Or botes riveling as a gype;To such folk as I you devyseShuld princes and these lordes wyseTake alle her londes and her thinges,Bothe werre and pees, in governinges;To such folk shulde a prince him yive,That wolde his lyf in honour live.And if they be not as they seme,That serven thus the world to queme,There wolde I dwelle, to disceyveThe folk, for they shal not perceyve.‘But I ne speke in no such wyse,That men shulde humble abit dispyse,So that no pryde ther-under be.No man shulde hate, as thinketh me,The pore man in sich clothing.But god ne preiseth him no-thing,That seith he hath the world forsake,And hath to worldly glorie him take,And wol of siche delyces use;Who may that Begger wel excuse?That papelard, that him yeldeth so,And wol to worldly ese go,And seith that he the world hath left,And gredily it grypeth eft,He is the hound, shame is to seyn,That to his casting goth ageyn.‘But unto you dar I not lye:But mighte I felen or aspye,That ye perceyved it no-thing,Ye shulden have a stark lesingRight in your hond thus, to biginne,I nolde it lette for no sinne.’The god lough at the wonder tho,And every wight gan laughe also,And seide:—‘Lo here a man arightFor to be trusty to every wight!’‘Fals Semblant,’ quod Love, ‘sey to me,Sith I thus have avaunced thee,That in my court is thy dwelling,And of ribaudes shalt be my king,Wolt thou wel holden my forwardis?’F. Sem.‘Ye, sir, from hennes forewardis;Hadde never your fader herebifornServaunt so trewe, sith he was born.’Amour.‘That is ayeines al nature.’F. Sem.‘Sir, put you in that aventure;For though ye borowes take of me,The sikerer shal ye never beFor ostages, ne sikirnesse,Or chartres, for to bere witnesse.I take your-self to record here,That men ne may, in no manere,Teren the wolf out of his hyde,Til he be [flayn], bak and syde,Though men him bete and al defyle;What? wene ye that I wole bigyle?For I am clothed mekely,Ther-under is al my trechery;Myn herte chaungeth never the moFor noon abit, in which I go.Though I have chere of simplenesse,I am not weary of shrewednesse.My lemman, Streyned-Abstinence,Hath mister of my purveaunce;She hadde ful longe ago be deed,Nere my councel and my reed;Lete hir allone, and you and me.’And Love answerde, ‘I truste theeWithoute borowe, for I wol noon.’And Fals-Semblant, the theef, anoon,Right in that ilke same place,That hadde of tresoun al his faceRight blak withinne, and whyt withoute,Thanketh him, gan on his knees loute.Than was ther nought, but ‘Every manNow to assaut, that sailen can,’Quod Love, ‘and that ful hardily.’Than armed they hem communlyOf sich armour as to hem fel.Whan they were armed, fers and fel,They wente hem forth, alle in a route,And set the castel al aboute;They wil nought away, for no drede,Til it so be that they ben dede,Or til they have the castel take.And foure batels they gan make,And parted hem in foure anoon,And toke her way, and forth they goon,The foure gates for to assaile,Of whiche the kepers wol not faile;For they ben neither syke ne dede,But hardy folk, and stronge in dede.Now wole I seyn the countenaunceOf Fals-Semblant, and Abstinaunce,That ben to Wikkid-Tonge went.But first they helde her parlement,Whether it to done wereTo maken hem be knowen there,Or elles walken forth disgysed.But at the laste they devysed,That they wold goon in tapinage,As it were in a pilgrimage,Lyk good and holy folk unfeyned.And Dame Abstinence-StreynedTook on a robe of camelyne,And gan hir graithe as a Begyne.A large coverchief of thredeShe wrapped al aboute hir hede,But she forgat not hir sautere;A peire of bedis eek she bereUpon a lace, al of whyt threde,On which that she hir bedes bede;But she ne boughte hem never a del,For they were geven her, I wot wel,God wot, of a ful holy frere,That seide he was hir fader dere,To whom she hadde ofter wentThan any frere of his covent.And he visyted hir also,And many a sermoun seide hir to;He nolde lette, for man on lyve,That he ne wolde hir ofte shryve.And with so gret devocionThey maden her confession,That they had ofte, for the nones,Two hedes in one hood at ones.Of fair shape I devyse her thee,But pale of face somtyme was she;That false traitouresse untreweWas lyk that salowe hors of hewe,That in the Apocalips is shewed,That signifyeth tho folk beshrewed,That been al ful of trecherye,And pale, thurgh hypocrisye;For on that hors no colour is,But only deed and pale, y-wis.Of suche a colour enlangouredWas Abstinence, y-wis, coloured;Of her estat she her repented,As her visage represented.She had a burdoun al of Thefte,That Gyle had yeve her of his yefte;And a scrippe of Fainte Distresse,That ful was of elengenesse,And forth she walked sobrely:And False-Semblant saynt, ie vous die,[Had], as it were for such mistere,Don on the cope of a frere,With chere simple, and ful pitous;His looking was not disdeinous,Ne proud, but meke and ful pesible.About his nekke he bar a bible,And squierly forth gan he gon;And, for to reste his limmes upon,He had of Treson a potente;As he were feble, his way he wente.But in his sleve he gan to thringeA rasour sharp, and wel bytinge,That was forged in a forge,Which that men clepen Coupegorge.So longe forth hir way they nomen,Til they to Wicked-Tonge comen,That at his gate was sitting,And saw folk in the way passing.The pilgrimes saw he faste by,That beren hem ful mekely,And humblely they with him mette.Dame Abstinence first him grette,And sith him False-Semblant salued,And he hem; but he not remued,For he ne dredde hem not a-del.For when he saw hir faces wel,Alway in herte him thoughte so,He shulde knowe hem bothe two;For wel he knew Dame AbstinaunceBut he ne knew not Constreynaunce.He knew nat that she was constrayned,Ne of her theves lyfe feyned,But wende she com of wil al free;But she com in another degree;And if of good wil she began,That wil was failed her [as] than.And Fals-Semblant had he seyn als,But he knew nat that he was fals.Yet fals was he, but his falsnesseNe coude he not espye, nor gesse;For semblant was so slye wrought,That falsnesse he ne espyed nought.But haddest thou knowen him beforn,Thou woldest on a boke have sworn,Whan thou him saugh in thilke arayThat he, that whylom was so gay,And of the daunce Ioly Robin,Was tho become a Iacobin.But sothely, what so men him calle,Freres Prechours been good men alle;Hir order wickedly they beren,Suche minstrelles if [that] they weren.So been Augustins and Cordileres,And Carmes, and eek Sakked Freres,And alle freres, shodde and bare,(Though some of hem ben grete and square)Ful holy men, as I hem deme;Everich of hem wolde good man seme.But shalt thou never of apparenceSeen conclude good consequenceIn none argument, y-wis,If existence al failed is.For men may finde alway sophymeThe consequence to envenyme,Who-so that hath the subtelteeThe double sentence for to see.Whan the pilgrymes commen wereTo Wicked-Tonge, that dwelled there,Hir harneis nigh hem was algate;By Wicked-Tonge adoun they sate,That bad hem ner him for to come,And of tydinges telle him some,And sayde hem:—‘What cas maketh yowTo come into this place now?’‘Sir,’ seyde Strained-Abstinaunce,‘We, for to drye our penaunce,With hertes pitous and devoute,Are commen, as pilgrimes gon aboute;Wel nigh on fote alway we go;Ful dusty been our heles two;And thus bothe we ben sentThurghout this world that is miswent,To yeve ensample, and preche also.To fisshen sinful men we go,For other fisshing ne fisshe we.And, sir, for that charitee,As we be wont, herberwe we crave,Your lyf to amende; Crist it save!And, so it shulde you nat displese,We wolden, if it were your ese,A short sermoun unto you seyn.’And Wikked-Tonge answerde ageyn,‘The hous,’ quod he, ‘such as ye see,Shal nat be warned you for me,Sey what you list, and I wol here.’‘Graunt mercy, swete sire dere!’Quod alderfirst Dame Abstinence,And thus began she hir sentence:Const. Abstinence.‘Sir, the first vertue, certeyn,The gretest, and most sovereynThat may be founde in any man,For having, or for wit he can,That is, his tonge to refreyne;Therto ought every wight him peyne.For it is better stille beThan for to speken harm, pardee!And he that herkeneth it gladly,He is no good man, sikerly.And, sir, aboven al other sinne,In that art thou most gilty inne.Thou spake a Iape not long ago,(And, sir, that was right yvel do)Of a yong man that here repaired,And never yet this place apaired.Thou seydest he awaited nothingBut to disceyve Fair-Welcoming.Ye seyde nothing sooth of that;But, sir, ye lye; I tell you plat;He ne cometh no more, ne goth, pardee!I trow ye shal him never see.Fair-Welcoming in prison is,That ofte hath pleyed with you, er this,The fairest games that he coude,Withoute filthe, stille or loude;Now dar [he] nat [him]self solace.Ye han also the man do chace,That he dar neither come ne go.What meveth you to hate him soBut properly your wikked thought,That many a fals lesing hath thought?That meveth your foole eloquence,That iangleth ever in audience,And on the folk areyseth blame,And doth hem dishonour and shame,For thing that may have no preving,But lyklinesse, and contriving.For I dar seyn, that Reson demeth,It is not al sooth thing that semeth,And it is sinne to controveThing that is [for] to reprove;This wot ye wel; and, sir, thereforeYe arn to blame [wel] the more.And, nathelesse, he rekketh lyte;He yeveth nat now thereof a myte;For if he thoughte harm, parfay,He wolde come and gon al day;He coude him-selfe nat abstene.Now cometh he nat, and that is sene,For he ne taketh of it no cure,But-if it be through aventure,And lasse than other folk, algate.And thou here watchest at the gate,With spere in thyne arest alway;There muse, musard, al the day.Thou wakest night and day for thought;Y-wis, thy traveyl is for nought.And Ielousye, withouten faile,Shal never quyte thee thy travaile.And scathe is, that Fair-Welcoming,Withouten any trespassing,Shal wrongfully in prison be,Ther wepeth and languissheth he.And though thou never yet, y-wis,Agiltest man no more but this,(Take not a-greef) it were worthyTo putte thee out of this baily,And afterward in prison lye,And fettre thee til that thou dye;For thou shalt for this sinne dwelleRight in the devils ers of helle,But-if that thou repente thee.’‘Ma fay, thou lyest falsly!’ quod he.‘What? welcome with mischaunce now!Have I therfore herbered youTo seye me shame, and eek reprove?With sory happe, to your bihove,Am I to-day your herbergere!Go, herber you elleswhere than here,That han a lyer called me!Two tregetours art thou and he,That in myn hous do me this shame,And for my soth-sawe ye me blame.Is this the sermoun that ye make?To alle the develles I me take,Or elles, god, thou me confounde!But er men diden this castel founde,It passeth not ten dayes or twelve,But it was told right to my-selve,And as they seide, right so tolde I,He kiste the Rose privily!Thus seide I now, and have seid yore;I not wher he dide any more.Why shulde men sey me such a thing,If it hadde been gabbing?Right so seide I, and wol seye yit;I trowe, I lyed not of it;And with my bemes I wol bloweTo alle neighboris a-rowe,How he hath bothe comen and gon.’Tho spak Fals-Semblant right anon,‘Al is not gospel, out of doute,That men seyn in the toune aboute;Ley no deef ere to my speking;I swere yow, sir, it is gabbing!I trowe ye wot wel certeynly,That no man loveth him tenderlyThat seith him harm, if he wot it,Al be he never so pore of wit.And sooth is also sikerly,(This knowe ye, sir, as wel as I),That lovers gladly wol visytenThe places ther hir loves habyten.This man you loveth and eek honoureth;This man to serve you laboureth;And clepeth you his freend so dere,And this man maketh you good chere,And every-wher that [he] you meteth,He you saleweth, and he you greteth.He preseth not so ofte, that yeOught of his come encombred be;Ther presen other folk on yowFul ofter than [that] he doth now.And if his herte him streyned soUnto the Rose for to go,Ye shulde him seen so ofte nede,That ye shulde take him with the dede.He coude his coming not forbere,Though ye him thrilled with a spere;It nere not thanne as it is now.But trusteth wel, I swere it yow,That it is clene out of his thought.Sir, certes, he ne thenketh it nought;No more ne doth Fair-Welcoming,That sore abyeth al this thing.And if they were of oon assent,Ful sone were the Rose hent;The maugre youres wolde be.And sir, of o thing herkeneth me:—Sith ye this man, that loveth yow,Han seid such harm and shame now,Witeth wel, if he gessed it,Ye may wel demen in your wit,He nolde no-thing love you so,Ne callen you his freend also,But night and day he [wolde] wake,The castel to destroye and take,If it were sooth as ye devyse;Or som man in som maner wyseMight it warne him everydel,Or by him-self perceyven wel;For sith he might not come and gonAs he was whylom wont to don,He might it sone wite and see;But now al other-wyse [doth] he.Than have [ye], sir, al-outerlyDeserved helle, and IolylyThe deth of helle douteles,That thrallen folk so gilteles.’Fals-Semblant proveth so this thingThat he can noon answering,And seeth alwey such apparaunce,That nygh he fel in repentaunce,And seide him:—‘Sir, it may wel be.Semblant, a good man semen ye;And, Abstinence, ful wyse ye seme;Of o talent you bothe I deme.What counceil wole ye to me yeven?’F. Sem.‘Right here anoon thou shalt be shriven,And sey thy sinne withoute more;Of this shalt thou repente sore;For I am preest, and have pousteeTo shryve folk of most digniteeThat been, as wyde as world may dure.Of al this world I have the cure,And that had never yit persoun,No vicarie of no maner toun.And, god wot, I have of theeA thousand tymes more piteeThan hath thy preest parochial,Though he thy freend be special.I have avauntage, in o wyse,That your prelates ben not so wyseNe half so lettred as am I.I am licenced boldelyIn divinitee to rede,And to confessen, out of drede.If ye wol you now confesse,And leve your sinnes more and lesse,Without abood, knele doun anon,And you shal have absolucion.’