The Regiment of Princes

Musynge upon the restlees bysynesse
Which that this troubly world hath ay on honde,
That othir thyng than fruyt of bittirnesse
Ne yildith naght, as I can undirstonde,
At Chestres In, right faste by the Stronde,
As I lay in my bed upon a nyght,
Thoght me byrefte of sleep the force and might. 1

And many a day and nyght that wikkid hyne
Hadde beforn vexed my poore goost
So grevously that of angwissh and pyne
No rycher man was nowhere in no coost.
This dar I seyn, may no wight make his boost
That he with thoght was bet than I aqweynted,
For to the deeth he wel ny hath me feynted.

Bysyly in my mynde I gan revolve
The welthe unseur of every creature,
How lightly that Fortune it can dissolve
Whan that hir list that it no lenger dure;
And of the brotilnesse of hir nature
My tremblynge herte so greet gastnesse hadde
That my spirites were of my lyf sadde.

Me fil to mynde how that nat longe agoo
Fortunes strook doun thraste estat rial
Into mescheef, and I took heede also
Of many anothir lord that hadde a fal.
In mene estat eek sikirnesse at al
Ne saw I noon, but I sy atte laste
Wher seuretee for to abyde hir caste.

In poore estat shee pighte hir pavyloun
To kevere hir fro the storm of descendynge 2
For shee kneew no lower descencion
Sauf oonly deeth, fro which no wight lyvynge
Deffende him may; and thus in my musynge
I destitut was of joie and good hope,
And to myn ese nothyng cowde I grope.

For right as blyve ran it in my thoght,
Thogh poore I be, yit sumwhat leese I may.
Than deemed I that seurtee wolde noght
With me abyde; it is nat to hir pay
Ther to sojourne as shee descende may.
And thus unsikir of my smal lyflode,
Thoght leide on me ful many an hevy lode.

I thoghte eek, if I into povert creepe,
Than am I entred into sikirnesse;
But swich seurtee mighte I ay waille and weepe,
For povert breedith naght but hevynesse.
Allas, wher is this worldes stablenesse?
Heer up, heer doun; heer honour, heer repreef;
Now hool, now seek; now bountee, now mescheef.

And whan I hadde rollid up and doun
This worldes stormy wawes in my mynde,
I sy wel povert was exclusioun
Of al welfare regnynge in mankynde;
And how in bookes thus writen I fynde,
“The werste kynde of wrecchidnesse is
A man to han be weleful or this.”

Allas, thoghte I, what sikirnesse is that
To lyve ay seur of greef and of nusance?
What shal I do? Best is I stryve nat
Ageyn the peys of Fortunes balance,
For wel I woot that hir brotil constance
A wight no whyle souffre can sojourne
In o plyt; thus nat wiste I how to tourne.

For whan man weeneth stonde moost constant,
Thanne is he nexte to his overthrowynge;
So flittynge is shee and so variant,
Ther is no trust upon hir fair lawhynge;
Aftir glad look, shee shapith hir to stynge.
I was adrad so of hir gerynesse
That my lyf was but a deedly gladnesse.

This ilke nyght I walwid to and fro
Seekynge reste, but certeynly shee
Appeerid nat, for thoght, my cruel fo,
Chaced had hir and sleep away fro me.
And for I sholde nat allone be,
Ageyn my lust wach proferred his servyse,
And I admittid him in hevy wyse.

So long a nyght ne felte I nevere noon
As was that same, to my jugement.
Whoso that thoghty is, is wo begoon;
The thoghtful wight is vessel of torment;
Ther nis no greef to him equipollent.
He graveth deepest of seeknesses alle:
Ful wo is him that in swich thoght is falle.

What wight that inly pensyf is, I trowe,
His moost desir is to be solitarie.
That this is sooth, in my persone I knowe,
For evere whyl that fretynge adversarie
Myn herte made to him tributarie
In sowkynge of the fressheste of my blood;
To sorwe soul me thoghte it dide me good.
For the nature of hevynesse is this:
If it habownde greetly in a wight,
The place eschueth he whereas joie is,
For joie and he nat mowe accorde aright.
As discordant as day is unto nyght,
And honour adversarie is unto shame,
Is hevynesse so to joie and game.

Whan to the thoghtful wight is told a tale,
He heerith it as thogh he thennes were;
His hevy thoghtes him so plukke and hale
Hidir and thidir, and him greeve and dere,
That his eres availle him nat a pere;
He undirstandith nothyng what men seye,
So been his wittes fer goon hem to pleye.

The smert of thoght I by experience
Knowe as wel as any man dooth lyvynge.
His frosty swoot and fyry hoot fervence,
And troubly dremes drempt al in wakynge,
My mazid heed sleeplees han of konnynge
And wit despoillid, and so me bejapid
That aftir deeth ful often have I gapid.

Passe over; whan this stormy nyght was goon
And day gan at my wyndowe in to prye,
I roos me up, for boote fond I noon
In myn unresty bed lenger to lye.
Into the feeld I dressid me in hye,
And in my wo I herte-deep gan wade,
As he that was bareyne of thoghtes glade.

By that I walkid hadde a certeyn tyme,
Were it an hour I not, or more or lesse,
A poore old hoor man cam walkynge by me,
And seide, “Good day, sire, and God yow blesse!”
But I no word, for my seekly distresse
Forbad myn eres usen hir office,
For which this old man heeld me lewde and nyce,
Til he took heede to my drery cheere,
And to my deedly colour pale and wan.
Than thoghte he thus: “This man that I see heere
Al wrong is wrestid, by aght I see can.”
He stirte unto me and seide, “Sleepstow, man?
Awake!” and gan me shake wondir faste,
And with a sigh I answerde atte laste:

“A, who is there?” “I,” quod this olde greye,
“Am heer,” and he me tolde the manere
How he spak to me, as yee herde me seye.
“O man,” quod I, “for Crystes love deere,
If that thow wilt aght doon at my prayeere,
As go thy way, talke to me no more;
Thy wordes alle annoyen me ful sore.

“Voide fro me, me list no conpaignie.
Encresse nat my greef, I have ynow.”
“My sone, hast thow good lust thy sorwe drye
And mayst releeved be? What man art thow?
Wirke aftir me: it shal be for thy prow.
Thow nart but yong and hast but litil seen,
And ful seelde is that yong folk wyse been.

“If that thee lyke to been esid wel,
As suffre me with thee to talke a whyle.
Art thow aght lettred?” “Yee,” quod I, “sumdel.”
“Blessid be God, than hope I, by Seint Gyle,
That God to thee thy wit shal reconsyle
Which that me thynkith is fer fro thee went
Thurgh the assaut of thy grevous torment.

“Lettred folk han gretter discrecion
And bet conceyve konne a mannes sawe,
And rather wole applie to reson,
And from folie sonner hem withdrawe,
Than he that neithir reson can ne lawe,
Ne lerned hath no maner letterure.
Plukke up thyn herte – I hope I shal thee cure.”
“Cure, good man? Yee, thow art a fair leeche!
Cure thyself that tremblest as thow goost,
For al thyn aart wole enden in thy speeche.
It lyth nat in thy power, poore goost,
To hele me; thow art as seek almoost
As I! First on thyself kythe thyn aart,
And if aght leve, let me thanne have paart.

“Go foorth thy way, I thee preye, or be stille;
Thow doost me more annoy than that thow weenest.
Thow art as ful of clap as is a mille;
Thow doost naght heer but greevest me and teenest.
Good man, thow woost but litil what thow meenest.
In thee lyth naght redresse my nusance,
And yit thow maist be wel-willid, par chance.

“It muste been a gretter man of might
Than that thow art that sholde me releeve.”
“What, sone myn, thow feelist nat aright;
To herkne me, what shal it harme or greeve?”
“Petir, good man, thogh we talke heer til eeve,
Al is in veyn; thy might may nat atteyne
To hele me, swich is my woful peyne.”

“What that I may or can ne woost thow noght.
Hardily, sone, telle on how it is.”
“Man, at a word, it is encombrous thoght
That causith me thus sorwe and fare amis.”
“Now, sone, and if ther nothyng be but this,
Do as I shal thee seye, and thyn estat
Amende I shal but thow be obstinat,

“And wilfully rebelle and disobeye,
And list nat to my lore thee conforme;
For in swich cas, what sholde I speke or seye,
Or in my beste wyse thee enforme?
If thow it weyve and take anothir forme,
Aftir thy childissh misreuled conceit,
Thow doost unto thyself harm and deceit.
“O thyng seye I, if thow go feerelees
Al solitarie and conseil lakke and reed,
As me thynkith thy gyse is, doutelees
Thow likly art to bere a dotid heed.
Whil thow art soul, thoght his wastyng seed
Sowith in thee, and that in greet foysoun,
And thow reedlees nat canst voide his poisoun.

“The Book seith thus – I redde it yore agoon:
‘Wo be to him that list to been allone,
For if he falle, help ne hath he noon
To ryse.’ This seye I by thy persone;
I fond thee soul and thy wittes echone
Fer fro thee fled and disparpled ful wyde,
Wherfore it seemeth thee needith a gyde,

“Which that thee may unto thy wittes lede.
Thow graspist heer and there as dooth the blynde,
And ay misgoost, and yit, have I no drede,
If thow receyve wilt into thy mynde
My lore and execute it, thow shalt fynde
Therin swich ese that thy maladie
Abregge it shal and thy malencolie.

“Ful holsum were it stynten of thy wo
And take unto thee spirit of gladnesse.
What profyt fyndest thow to mourne so?
Salomon seith that sorwe and hevynesse
Bones of man drieth by his duresse,
And herte glad makith florisshyng age;
Therfore I rede thow thy wo asswage.

“He seith: ‘As motthes to a clooth annoyen
And of his wolle maken it al bare,
And also as wormes a tree destroien
Thurgh hir percynge, right so sorwe and care
Byreven man his helthe and his welfare
And his dayes abregge and shorte his lyf.’
Lo, what profyt is for to be pensyf?
“Now, goode sone, telle on thy grevance:
What is thy cause of thoght in special?
Haast thow of worldly goodes habundance
And carist how that it ykept be shal?
Or art thow needy and hast nat but smal,
And thristist sore a ryche man to be?
Or lovest hire that nat loveth thee?

“I have herd seyn, in keepynge of richesse
Is thoght and wo and bisy awayt alway. 3
The poore and needy eek hath hevynesse,
For to his purpos nat atteyne he may;
The lovere also seen men day by day
Prolle aftir that that he shal nevere fynde;
Thus thoght tormentith folk in sundry kynde.

“If thow thee feele in any of thise ygreeved
Or elles what, telle on, in Goddes name.
Thow seest al day the begger is releeved
That sit and beggith blynd, crookid, and lame,
And why? For he ne lettith for no shame
His harmes and his povert to bywreye
To folk as they goon by him in the weye.

“For and he keepe him cloos and holde his pees,
And nat out shewe how seek he inward is,
He may al day so sitten helpelees;
And, sone myn, althogh he fare amis
That hydeth so, God woot, the wyt is his;
But this begger his hurtes wole nat stele;
He wole telle al and more – he can naght hele.

“Right so, if thee list have a remedie
Of thyn annoy that prikkith thee so smerte,
The verray cause of thyn hid maladie
Thow moot deskevere and telle out al thyn herte.
If thow it hyde, thow shalt nat asterte
That thow ne falle shalt in sum meschance;
Forthy amende thow thy governance.

“Be waar of thoght, for it is perillous;
He the streight way to desconfort men ledith;
His violence is ful outrageous;
Unwys is he that bisy thoght ne dredith.
In whom that he his mortel venym shedith,
But if a vomyt aftir folwe blyve,
At the port of despeir he may arryve.

“Sone, swich thoght lurkynge thee withynne,
That huntith aftir thy confusioun,
Hy tyme it is to voide and lat him twynne,
And walke at large out of thy prisoun.
Be waar the feendes sly conclusioun,
For if he may thee unto despeir brynge,
Thow mourne shalt, and lawhe he wole and synge.

“Sum man for lak of occupacioun
Musith ferthere than his wit may strecche,
And at the feendes instigacioun
Dampnable errour holdith, and can nat flecche
For no conseil ne reed, as dide a wrecche
Nat fern ago, which that of heresie
Convict and brent was unto asshen drie.

“The precious body of our Lord Jhesu
In forme of brede he leeved nat at al;
He was in nothyng abassht ne eschu
To seye it was but brede material.
He seide a preestes power was as smal
As a rakers or swich anothir wight,
And to make it hadde no gretter might.

“My lord the Prince – God him save and blesse –
Was at his deedly castigacioun
And of his soule hadde greet tendrenesse,
Thristynge sore his sauvacioun.
Greet was his pitous lamentacioun
Whan that this renegat nat wolde blynne
Of the stynkynge errour that he was ynne.

“This good lord highte him to be swich a mene
To his fadir, our lige lord sovereyn,
If he renounce wolde his error clene
And come unto our good byleeve ageyn,
He sholde of his lyf seur been and certain;
And souffissant lyflode eek sholde he have
Unto the day he clad were in his grave.

“Also this noble prynce and worthy knyght –
God qwyte him his charitable labour –
Or any stikke kyndlid were or light,
The sacrament, our blessid Sauveour,
With reverence greet and hy honour,
He fecche leet, this wrecche to converte,
And make our feith to synken in his herte.

“But al for naght, it wolde nat betyde;
He heeld foorth his oppinioun dampnable,
And caste our holy Cristen feith asyde
As he that was to the feend acceptable.
By any outward tokne resonable,
If he inward hadde any repentance,
That woot He that of nothyng hath doutance.

“Lat the dyvynes of him speke and muse
Where his soule is bycome or whidir goon;
Myn unkonnynge of that me shal excuse;
Of swich mateere knowleche have I noon.
But wolde God tho Crystes foos echoon
That holde as he heeld were yserved so,
For I am seur that ther been many mo.

“The more routhe is! Allas, what men been they
That hem delyten in swich surquidrye?
For mannes reson may nat preeve our fey
That they wole it dispreeven or denye.
To our lord God that sitte in hevenes hye,
Shul they desyre for to been egal?
Nay, that was nevere, certes, ne be shal.

“That our lord God seith in Holy Scripture
May nat be fals, this knowith every wight
But he be mad; and thogh a creature
In his Goddes werk feele nat aright,
Shal he rebelle ageyn his lordes might,
Which that this wyde world hath maad of noght,
For reson may nat knytte it in his thoght?

“Was it nat eek a moustre as in nature
That God ybore was of a virgyne?
Yit is it sooth, thogh man by conjecture
Of reson or what he can ymagyne
Nat savoure it ne can it determyne.
He that almighty is dooth as him list;
He wole his konnynge hid be and nat wist.

“Our feith nat were unto us meritorie
If that we mighten by reson it preeve.
Lat us nat fro God twynnen and His glorie;
As Holy Chirche us bit, lat us byleeve.
But we therto obeye, it shal us greeve
Importably; lat us do as shee bit;
Oure goode fadres olde han folwed it.

“Presumpcion, a benedicitee!
Why vexest thow folk with thy franesie,
Thogh nothyng elles were, I seye for me?
But see how that the worthy prelacie,
And undir hem the souffissant clergie,
Endowid of profounde intelligence,
Of al this land werreyen thy sentence.

“That selve same to me were a brydil
By which wolde I governed been and gyed,
And elles al my labour were in ydil.
By Holy Chirche I wole be justified;
To that al hoolly is myn herte applied,
And evere shal. I truste in Goddes grace;
Swich surquidrie in me shal have no place.

“Sone, if God wole, thow art noon of tho
That wrappid been in this dampnacioun?”
“I? Cryst forbeede it, sire,” seide I tho.
“I thanke it God, noon inclinacioun
Have I to laboure in probacioun
Of His hy knowleche and His mighty werkis,
For swich mateere unto my wit to derk is.

“Of our feith wole I nat despute at al,
But at o word, I in the sacrament
Of the auter fully byleeve and shal,
With Goddes help, whil lyf is to me lent,
And in despit of the feendes talent,
In alle othir articles of the feith
Byleeve as fer as that Holy Writ seith.”

“Now good thrift come unto thee, sone deere;
Thy goost is now awakid wel, I see,
And sumwhat eek amendid is thy cheere.
And first I was ful sore agast of thee,
Lest that thow thurgh thoghtful adversitee
Nat haddest standen in thy feith aright;
Now is myn herte woxen glad and light.

“Hast thow in me any gretter savour
Than that thow haddest first whan thow me sy,
Whan I opposid thee of thy langour?
Seye on the soothe.” “Yee, sumdel,” quod I.
“My sone, in feith that is seid ful feyntly;
Thy savour yit ful smal is, as I trowe,
But or aght longe I shal the soothe knowe.
“I woot wel, sone, of me thus wilt thow thynke:
This olde dotid grisel halt him wys; 4
He weeneth maken in myn heed to synke
His lewde clap, of which sette I no prys.
He is a noble prechour at devys;
Greet noyse hath thurgh his chynned lippes drye
This day out past, the devel in his ye.

“But thogh I old and hoor be, sone myn,
And poore be my clothynge and array,
And nat so wyde a gowne have as is thyn –
So smal ypynchid ne so fressh and gay –
My reed in hap yit thee profyte may,
And likly that thow deemest for folie
Is gretter wysdam than thow canst espie.

“Undir an old poore habyt regneth ofte
Greet vertu, thogh it moustre poorely;
And whereas greet array is up on lofte,
Vice is but seelden hid – that wel woot I.
But nat reporte, I preye thee, inwardly,
That fressh array I generally deprave;
Thise worthy men mowe it wel use and have.

“But this me thynkith an abusioun,
To see oon walke in gownes of scarlet
Twelve yerdes wyde, with pendaunt sleeves doun
On the ground, and the furrour therin set,
Amountyng unto twenti pound or bet.
And if he for it paied have, he no good
Hath left him wherwith for to bye an hood.

“For thogh he gette foorth among the prees
And overlooke every poore wight,
His cofre and eek his purs been penylees;
He hath no more than he gooth in right.
For land, rente, or catel he may go light;
The weighte of hem shal nat so moche peise
As dooth his gowne. Is swich array to preise?

“Nay, soothly, sone, it is al mis, me thynkith,
So poore a wight his lord to countrefete
In his array; in my conceit it stynkith.
Certes to blame been the lordes grete,
If that I durste seyn, that hir men lete
Usurpe swich a lordly apparaille;
It is nat worth, my chyld, withouten faille.

“Sumtyme afer men mighten lordes knowe
By hir array from othir folk, but now
A man shal studie and musen a long throwe
Which is which. O lordes, it sit to yow
Amende this, for it is for your prow;
If twixt yow and your men no difference
Be in array, lesse is your reverence.

“Also ther is anothir neewe get:
A foul waast of clooth and an excessyf
Ther gooth, no lesse in a mannes typet
Than of brood clooth a yerde, by my lyf;
Me thynkith this a verray inductyf
Unto stelthe. Waar hem of hempen lane,
For stelthe is medid with a chekelewe bane.

“Let every lord his owne men deffende
Swich greet array, and thanne, on my peril,
This land withynne a whyle shal amende.
In Goddes name, putte it in exyl;
It is a synne outrageous and vyl;
Lordes, if yee your estat and honour
Loven, fleemeth this vicious errour.

“What is a lord withouten his meynee?
I putte cas that his foos him assaille
Sodeynly in the street: what help shal he
Whos sleeves encombrous so syde traille
Do to his lord? He may him nat availle;
In swich a cas he nis but a womman;
He may nat stande him in stide of a man.

“His armes two han right ynow to doone,
And sumwhat more, his sleeves up to holde.
The taillours, trowe I, moot heeraftir soone
Shape in the feeld; they shul nat sprede and folde
On hir bord, thogh they nevere so fayn wolde,
The clooth that shal been in a gowne wroght;
Take an hool clooth is best, for lesse is noght.

“The skynner unto the feeld moot also –
His hous in Londoun is to streit and scars
To doon his craft; sumtyme it was nat so.
O lordes, geve unto your men hir pars
That so doon, and aqweynte hem bet with Mars,
God of bataille; he loveth noon array
That hurtith manhode at preef or assay.

“Who now moost may bere on his bak at ones
Of clooth and furrour hath a fressh renoun;
He is a lusty man clept, for the nones.
But drapers and eek skynners in the toun
For swich folk han a special orisoun,
That droppid is with curses heer and there,
And ay shal til they paied be for hir gere.

“In dayes olde, whan smal apparaille
Souffysid unto hy estat or mene,
Was greet houshold wel stuffid of vitaille;
But now housholdes been ful sclendre and lene,
For al the good that men may repe or glene
Waastid is in outrageous array,
So that housholdes men nat holde may.

“Pryde hath wel lever bere an hungry mawe
To bedde than lak of array outrage.
He no prys settith by mesures lawe,
Ne takith of him clooth, mete, ne wage;
Mesure is out of land on pilgrimage;
But I suppose he shal resorte as blyve,
For verray neede wole us therto dryve.

“Ther may no lord take up no neewe gyse
But that a knave shal the same up take.
If lordes wolden wirken in this wyse
For to do swiche gownes to hem make
As men dide in old tyme, I undirtake,
The same get sholde up be take and usid,
And al this costlewe outrage refusid.

“Of Lancastre Duk John, whos soule in hevene
I fully deeme and truste sit ful hye –
A noble prince, I may allegge and nevene –
Othir may no man of him testifie;
I nevere sy a lord that cowde him gye
Bet lyk his estat; al knyghtly prowesse
Was to him girt – o God, his soule blesse!

“His garnementes weren nat ful wyde,
And yit they him becam wondirly wel.
Now wolde God the waast of clooth and pryde
Yput were in exyl perpetuel
For the good and profyt universel;
And lordes mighte helpe al this, if they wolde
The old get take, and it foorth use and holde.

“Than mighte silver walke more thikke
Among the peple than that it dooth now.
Ther wolde I fayn that were yset the prikke –
Nat for myself, I shal do wel ynow –
But, sone, for that swiche men as thow,
That with the world wrastlen, mighte han plentee
Of coyn, whereas yee han now scarsetee.

“Now hath this land but litil neede of bromes
To sweepe away the filthe out of the street,
Syn syde sleeves of penylees gromes
Wole it up likke, be it drie or weet.
O Engeland, stande upright on thy feet!
So foul a waast in so symple degree
Banisshe, or sore it shal repente thee.

“If a wight vertuous but narwe clothid
To lordes courtes now adayes go,
His conpaignie is unto folkes lothid;
Men passen by him bothe to and fro,
And scorne him for he is arraied so.
To hir conceit is no wight vertuous
But he that of array is outrageous.

“But he that flatere can or be a baude,
And by tho tweyne fressh array him gete,
It holden is to him honour and laude.
Trouthe and clennesse musten men forgete
In lordes courtes, for they hertes frete;
They hyndren folk. Fy upon tonges treewe!
They displesance in lordes courtes breewe.

“Lo, sone myn, that tale is at an eende.
Now, goode sone, have of me no desdeyn,
Thogh I be old and myn array untheende,
For many a yong man, woot I wel certeyn,
Of corage is so prowd and so hauteyn
That to the poore and old mannes doctryne
Ful seelde him deyneth bowen or enclyne.

“Senek seith, age is an infirmitee
That leche noon can cure ne it hele,
For to the deeth next neigheburgh is he.
Ther may no wight the chartre of lyf ensele;
The ende is deeth of male and of femele;
Nothyng is more certeyn than deeth is,
Ne more uncerteyn than the tyme, ywis.
“As touchynge age, God in Holy Writ
Right thus seith: ‘Fadir and modir honure,
That thow maist be long-lyved’ – thus he bit.
Than moot it folwen upon this scripture,
Age is a guerdoun to a creature,
And long-lyved is noon withouten age,
Wherfore I seye, in elde is avauntage;

“And the reward of God may nat be smal;
His giftes been ful noble and profitable;
Forthy ne lakke thow nat age at al.
Whan youthe is past is age sesonable;
Age hath insighte how unseur and unstable
This worldes cours is by lengthe of his yeeres,
And can deffende him from his sharpe breres.

“Lord, whethir it be maistrie to knowe
Whan a man ofte hath sundry weyes ride,
Which is the beste? Nay, for soothe, I trowe,
Right so he that hath many a world abide
There he in youthe wroghte mis or dide,
His age it seeth and bit him it eschue
And seekith weyes covenable and due.

“Whan that thow hast assayed bothe two,
Sad age, I seye, aftir thy skittissh yowthe,
As thow moot needes atteyne therto
Or sterve yong, than trowe I thow wilt bowe thee
To swiche conceites as I have nowthe,
And thanke God devoutly in thyn herte
That He hath suffrid thee thy yowthe asterte.

“Youthe ful smal reward hath to goodnesse,
And peril dredith he noon, woot I wel;
Al his devocion and holynesse
At the taverne is, as for the moost del;
To Bachus signe and to the levesel
His youthe him halith, and whan it him happith
To chirche goon, of nycetee he clappith.
“The cause why men oghten thidir goon,
Nat cause can his wilde steerissh heed
To folwen it. Also, boote is it noon
To telle it him, for thogh men sowen seed
Of vertu, in a yong man it is deed;
As blyve his rebel goost it mortifieth.
Al thyng sauf folie in a yong man dieth.

“Whan I was yong, I was ful rechelees,
Prowd, nyce, and riotous for the maistrie,
And among othir, consciencelees.
By that sette I nat the worth of a flie;
And of hem hauntid I the conpaignie
That wente on pilgrimage to taverne,
Which before unthrift berith the lanterne.

“There offred I wel more than my tythe,
And withdrow Holy Chirche his duetee.
My freendes me conseillid often sythe
That I with lownesse and humilitee
To my curat go sholde and make his gree,
But straw, unto hir reed wolde I nat bowe
For aght they cowden preyen alle or wowe!

“Whan folk wel reuled dressid hem to bedde
In tyme due by reed of nature,
To the taverne qwikly I me spedde
And pleide at dees whil the nyght wolde endure.
There the former of every creature
Dismembred I with oothes grete, and rente
Lym fro lym or that I thennes wente.

“And ofte it fals was that I swoor or spak,
For the desir fervent of covetyse
Fond in perjurie no deffaute or lak,
But evere entyced me that in al wyse
Myne oothes grete I sholde excercyse,
And specially for lucre, in al maneere,
Swere and forswere with bold face and cheere.
“But this condicioun, lo, hadde I evere:
Thogh I prowd were in wordes or in speeche,
Whan strokes cam, a place I gan dissevere;
Fro my felawes soghte I nevere leeche
For hurt which that I took; what sholde I seeche
A salve whan I therof had no neede?
I hurtlees was ay thurgh impressid dreede.

“Tho mighte I spende an hundred mark by yeer,
Al thyng deduct, my sone, I gabbe noght.
I was so prowd, I heeld no man my peere;
In pryde and leccherie was al my thoght.
No more I hadde set therby or roght
A wyf or mayde or nonne to deffoule
Than sheete or pleyen at the bal or boule.

“Right nyce girles at my retenue
Had I an heep, wyves and othir mo –
What so they were, I wolde noon eschue;
And yeeres fele I continued so.
Allas, I nothyng was waar of the wo
That folwed me; I lookid nat behynde;
Conceites yonge been ful dirk and blynde.

“An office also hadde I lucratyf,
And wan ynow, God woot, and mochil more,
But nevere thoghte I in al my yong lyf
What I unjustly gat for to restore,
Wherfore I now repente wondir sore;
As it misgoten was, mis was despendid,
Of which our lord God greetly was offendid.

“He sy I nolde absteene for no good
Of myn outrageous iniquitee,
And whan that His lust was, withdrow the flood
Of welthe, and at ground ebbe sette He me;
With povert for my gilt me feffid He.
Swich wreche took He for my cursid synne;
No more good have I than I stonde ynne.
“Gold, silver, jewel, clooth, beddyng, array –
Ne have I noon othir than thow maist see;
Pardee, this bare old russet is nat gay,
And in my purs so grete sommes be
That ther nis contour in al Cristientee
Which that hem can at any noumbre sette.
That shalt thow see, my purs I wole unshette.

“Come hidir to me, sone, and looke whethir
In this purs ther be any crois or crouche
Sauf nedel and threde and themel of lethir;
Heer seestow naght that man may handele or touche.
The feend, men seyn, may hoppen in a pouche
Whan that no crois therynne may appeere,
And by my purs the same I may seye heere.

“O, where is now al the wantoun moneye
That I was maistir of and governour,
Whan I kneew nat what povert was to seye?
Now is povert the glas and the mirour
In which I see my God, my sauveour.
Or povert cam, wiste I nat what God was,
But now I knowe and see Him in this glas.

“And where be my gownes of scarlet,
Sangwyn, murray, and blewes sadde and lighte;
Greenes also, and the fair violet;
Hors and harneys, fressh and lusty in sighte –
My wikkid lyf hath put al this to flighte.
But, certes, yit me greeveth moost of alle,
My frendshipe is al clene fro me falle.

“O whyle I stood in wele, I was honurid
And many oon of my conpaignie glad,
And now I am mislookid on and lourid;
Ther rekkith noon how wo I be bystad.
O Lord, this world unstable is and unsad;
This world honureth nat mannes persone
For himself, sone, but for good allone.
“Ful sooth fynde I the word of Salomon,
That to moneie obeien alle thynges;
For that my coyn and coynworth is agoon,
Contrarien they my wil and my biddynges,
That in my welthe with hir flaterynges
Heelden with me what that I wroghte or seide;
Now disobeyen they that thanne obeide.

“Now seyn they thus: ‘I wiste wel alway
That him destroie wolde his fool largesse;
I tolde him so and evere he seide nay.’
And yit they lien, also God me blesse;
They me conforted ay in myn excesse,
And seide I was a manly man withalle;
Hir hony wordes tornen me to galle.

“God, which of His benigne courtesie,
And of His cheere lovynge tendrenesse,
He of the synful hath nat wole he die,
But lyve for to amende his wikkidnesse;
Him thanke I and His infynyt goodnesse;
His grace lykith that thurgh worldly peyne
My soule eschape may the feendes cheyne.

“Job hadde an hevyer fal than I, pardee,
For he was clumben hyer in richesse,
And paciently he his adversitee
Took, as the Byble bere can witnesse.
And aftirward, God al his hevynesse
Torned to joie, and so may He do myn
Whan that it lykith to His