Classic Poem

 Whenne Nede hadde undernome me thus, anon I ful aslepe,
And mette ful merveylousely that in mannes forme
Auntecrist cam thenne, and al the crop of treuthe
Turned hit tyd up-so-down, and over-tulde the rote,
And made fals sprynge and sprede and spede menne nedes,
In uch a contrey ther he cam, kutte awey treuthe
And garte gyle growe there, as he a god were.
 Freres folewed that fende, for he yaf hem copes,
And religious reverensed hym and rongen here belles
And al the covent cam to welcome the tyraunt,
And alle hise as wel as hym, save onelich foles,
The whiche fooles were wel gladere to deye
Then to lyve lengere, sethe leautee was so rebuked
And a fals fende Auntecrist over all folke regnede.
And that were mylde men and holy, that no meschief dradden,
Defyede all falsnesse and folke that hit usede,
And what kyng that hem confortede, knowynge here gyle,
Thei corsede, and here consail, were hit clerke or lewed.
 Auntecrist hadde thus sone hondredes at his baner
And Pryde hit bar baldly aboute,
With a lord that lyveth after likyng of body,
That cam agen Consience, that kepar was and gyour
Over kynde cristene and cardinale vertues.
 ‘I consail’, quod Consience tho, ‘cometh with me, ye foles,
In to Unite holi-churche, and halde we us there
And crye we to Kynde that he come and defende us
Foles fro this fendes lymes, for Peres love the Plouhman;
And crye we on al the comune that thei come to Unite
And ther abyde and bikere ageyn Beliales childrene.’
 Kynde Consience tho herde, and cam oute of the planetes
And sente forth his forreours, feveres and fluxes,
Cowhes and cardiacles, crampes and toth-aches,
Reumes and radegoundes and roynouse scabbes,
Byles and boches and brennynge aguwes;
Frenesyes and foule eveles, forageres of Kynde,
Hadde ypriked and preyede polles of peple;
Largeliche a legioun lees the lyf sone.
 There was ‘Harow!’ and ‘Help! here cometh Kynde,
With Deth that is dredful, to undon us alle!’
The lord that lyvede aftur lust tho aloud cryede
Aftur Conforte, a knyhte, come and beer his baner.
‘Alarme! alarme!’ quod that lord, ‘uch lyf kepe his owene!’
Thenne mette thise men, ar munstrales myhte pype
And ar heroudes of armes hadden descreved lordes.
 Elde the hore, he was in the vawwarde,
And bar the baner bifore Deth—bi riht he hit claymede.
Kynde cam aftur hym, with many kyne sores,
As pokkes and pestilences, and moche peple shente;
So Kynde thorw corupcions kulde ful mony.
Deth cam dryvyng aftur and al to duste paschte
Kynges and knyhtes, caysers and popes.
Lered ne lewed he lefte no man stande;
That he hitte evene, nevere stured aftur.
Many a lovly lady and here lemmanes knyhtes
Swowened and swelte for sorwe of dethes duntes.
 Consience of his cortesye tho Kynde he bisouhte
To sese and soffre, and se wher they wolde
Leve pryde priveyliche and be parfyt cristene.
And Kynde sesede tho, to se the peple amende.
 Fortune gan flateren thenne to fewe that were alyve
And bihihte hem long lyf, and Lecherye he sente
Amonges alle manere men, wedded and unwedded,
And gaderet a greet ost, alle agayn Consience.
This Lecherye leyde on with lauhyng chere
And with prive speche and paynted wordes,
And armed hym on ydelnesse and on hey berynge.
He bar a bowe on his hond, and many brode arwes,
Weren fythered with fayre biheste and many a fals treuthe,
And with untidy tales he tened ful ofte
Consience and his companye, of holy-churche the techares.
 Thenne cam Covetyse and caste how he myhte
Overcome Consience and cardinal vertues,
And armed hym in avarice and hungriliche lyvede.
His wepne was al wyles to wynnen and to hyden;
With glosynges and be gabbynges he gyled the peple.
Symonye hym suede to assaile Consience
And presed on the pope, and prelates thei made,
To holde with Auntecrist, here temperaltee to save;
And cam to the kynges consail as a kene baron
And knokked Consience in court bifore hem alle
And gert Gode-Faith fle and Fals to abyde
And baldeliche bar adoun, with many a brihte noble,
Moche of the wyt and wisdom of Westministre-halle.
He jogged til a justice and justede in his ere
And over-tulde al his treuthe with ‘Tak-this-on-amendement’;
And in to the arches in haste he yede anon aftur
And turnede Syvyle into Symonye, and sethe he tok the official
And for a menever mantel he made leele matrimonye
Departen ar dethe come, and a devors shupte.
 ‘Allas!’ quod Conscience tho, and cryede, ‘Wolde Crist of his grace
That Coveytyse were cristene, that is so kene to fihte,
And bolde and abydynge, the while his bagge lasteth’.
 And thenne lowh Lyf, and lette dagge his clothes,
And armed hym in haste in harlotes wordes,
And helde Holinesse a jape, and Hendenesse a wastour,
And leet Leautee a cherl, and Lyare a freman;
Consience and conseil he counted hit folye.
Thus relyed Lyf for a litel fortune
And priketh forth with Pruyde—prayseth he no vertue
Ne careth nat how Kynde slowh, and shal come at the laste
And culle all erthely creature, save Consience one.
 Lyf lepte asyde and lauhte hym a lemman:
‘Hele and I’, quod he, ‘and heynesse of herte
Shal do the nat drede nother Deth ne Elde,
And to foryete yowthe and yeve nat of synne’.
This likede Lyf, and his lemman Fortune,
And geten in here glorie a gadlyng at the laste,
One that moche wo wrouhte, Sleuthe was his name.
Sleuthe was wonder yerne, and sone was of age,
And wedded one Wanhope, a wenche of the stuyves;
Here syre was a sysour, that nevere swor treuthe,
One Tomme Two-tonge, ateynt at uch enqueste.
This Sleuthe was sley of werre, and a slynge made,
And throw drede of dispayr a doysayne myle aboute.
 For care Conscience tho cryede upon Elde
And bad hym fonde to fihte and afere Wanhope.
And Elde hente gode hope and hastiliche shrof hym
And wayved away Wanhope, and with Lyf he fihteth;
And Lyf fley for fere to Fisyk aftur helpe
And bisouhte hym of socour, and of here salve hadde,
And gaf hym golde, gode won, that gladde here hertes,
And they gyven hym agayne a glasene hove.
Lyf levede that lechecraft lette sholde Elde
And dryve awey Deth with dyas and drogges.
 And Elde auntered hym on Lyf, and at the laste he hitte
A fisician with a forred hod, that he ful in a palesye,
And ther deyede that doctour ar thre dayes aftur.
‘Now I see’, saide Lyf, ‘that surgerie ne fysyke
May nat a myte avayle to medlen agen Elde’.
And in hope of his hele, gode herte he hente
And rode so to Revel, a ryche place and a merye,
(The compeny of Comfort men clepede hit som tyme),
And Elde aftur hym, and over myn heved yede,
And made me balled bifore and bar on the crowne;
So harde he yede over myn heved, hit wol be sene evere!
 ‘Syre evele-taught Elde’, quod I, ‘unhende go with the!
Sennes whanne was the way over menne hevedes?
Haddest thow be hende,’ quod I, ‘thow wost have asked leve’.
 ‘Ye, leve, lordeyne!’ quod he, and leide on me with age,
And hitte me under the ere—unnethe may I here.
He boffeted me aboute the mouthe and beet out my wang-teeth,
And gyved me in gowtes—I may nat go at large.
And of the wo that I was ynne, my wyf hadde reuthe,
And wisched wel witterly that I were in hevene,
For the lyme that she loved me fore, and leef was to fele
(A nyhtes, nameliche, when we naked were),
I ne myhte in none manere maken hit at here wille,
So Elde and she hit hadde for-bete.
 And as I sat in this sorwe, I saw how Kynde passede,
And Deth drow neyynge me, for drede gan I quaken
And cryede to Kynde out of care me brynge:
‘Lo, how Elde the hore hath me byseye;
Awreke me, yif youre wille be, for I wolde be hennes’.
 ‘Yf thow wolde be wreke, wende in to Unite
And halde the there evere til I sende for the,
And loke thow conne som craft ar thow come thennes’.
 ‘Consaileth me, Kynde’, quod I, ‘what craft be beste to lere?’
 ‘Lerne to love’, quod Kynde, ‘and leef alle othere’.
 ‘How shal I come to catel so, to clothe me and to fede?’
 ‘And thow love lelly, lacke shal the nevere
Wede ne worldly mete while thy lif lasteth’.
And I bi conseil of Kynde comsed to rome
Thorw Contricion and Confessioun til I cam to Unite;
And ther was Conscience constable, cristene to save,
And biseged sothly with sevene grete geauntes
That with Auntecrist helden harde ageyn Consience.
 Sleuthe with his slynge an hard sawt he made.
Proude prestes cam with hym, passyng an hundred,
In paltokes and pikede shoes and pissares longe knyves
Comen agen Consience; with Covetyse they helden.
‘By the Marie’, quod a mansed prest, was of the marche of Ireland,
‘I counte no more Consience, bi so I cache sulver,
Then I do to drynke a drauht of gode ale!’
And so sayde syxty of the same contreye,
And shoten ageynes hym with shotte, many a shef of othes,
And brode-hokede arwes—goddes herte, and his nayles—
And hadden almost Unite and holy-churche adowne.
 Consience cryede ‘Helpe, Clergie, or I falle
Thorw imparfit prestes and prelates of holy-churche!’
Freres herde hym crye and comen hym to helpe,
Ac for they couthe nat wel here crafte, Consience for-sok hem.
Nede neyhede tho ner and Consience he tolde
That they cam for covetyse to have cure of soules:
‘And for thei aren pore, paraunter, for patrimonye hem faileth,
Thei wol flatere, to fare wel, folke that ben riche.
And sethen thei chosen chele and cheytyf poverte,
Late hem chewe as thei chose, and charge hem with no cure!
For lomere he lyeth that lyflode mot begge
Then he that laboreth for lyflode and leneth hit beggares.
And senne freres forsoke the felicite of erthe,
Lat hem be as beggares, or lyve by angeles fode!’
 Consience of this consail tho comesede for to lawhe,
And corteysliche he confortede hem and calde hem in, alle freres,
And saide, ‘Syres, sothly welcome be ye alle
To Unite and holi-churche, ac o thyng I yow preye—
Holdeth yow in Unite and haveth non envye
To lered ne to lewed, but lyveth aftur youre reule.
I wol be youre borwh, ye shal have breed and clothes
And other necessaries ynowe; yow shal no thyng lakke,
With that ye leve logyk and lerneth for to lovye.
For love lefte they lordschipe, bothe londe and scole,
Frere Fraunceys and Domynyk, for love to be holy.
 And yf ye coveiteth cure, Kynde wol yow telle
That in mesure god made alle manere thynges
And sette hit at a serteyne and at a syker nombre
And nempned hem names and nombred the sterres.
  Qui numerat multitudinem stellarum.
Kynges and knyghtes, that kepten and defenden,
Han officerys under hem and uch of hem a certeyne.
And yf thei wage men to werre, thei wryten hem in nombre;
Wol no tresorer taken hem wages, travayle they nevere so sore,
Bote they ben nempned in the nombre of hem that been ywaged.
Alle othere in bataile been yholde brybours,
Pilours and pike-harneys, in uche a parsch acorsed
Monkes and monyales and alle men of religioun,
Here order and here reule wol to have a certeyne nombre.
Of lewed and of lered the lawe wol and asketh
A certeyne for a certeyne—save onliche of freres!
Forthy,’ quod Consience, ‘bi Crist, Kynde Wit me telleth
Hit is wikked to wage yow, ye wexeth out of nombre!
Heven hath evene nombre, and helle ys withouten nombre;
Forthy I wolde witterly that ye were in registre
And youre nombre under notarie sygne, and nother mo ne lasse!’
 Envye herde this, and heete freres go to scole
And lerne logyk and lawe and eke contemplacioun,
And preche men of Plato and proven hit by Seneca
That alle thynges under hevene ouhte to be in comune.
 He lyeth, as I leve, that to the lewed so precheth,
For god made to men a lawe and Moyses hit tauhte:
  Non concupisces rem proximi tui.
And evele is this yholde in parsches of Yngelonde,
For persones and parsche-prestes, that sholde the peple shryve—
And they ben curatours cald, to knowe and to hele,
Alle that been here parschienes, penaunses enjoynen,
And be aschamed in her shryft; ac shame maketh hem wende
And fle to the freres, as fals folke to Westmynstre,
That borweth and bereth hit theddere and thenne biddeth frendes
Yerne of foryevenesse or lengere yeres leve.
Ac while he is in Westmynstre, he wol be bifore
And maken hym merye with other menne godes.
And so hit fareth with moche folke that the freres shryven:
As sisours and secutours they shall yeve the freres
A parcel to preye for hem, and make hem merye
With the remenaunt that othere men biswonke,
And soffren the dede in dette to the day of dome.
 Envye herefore hatede Consience,
And freres to filosophye he fond hem to scole,
The while Covetyse and Unkyndenesse Consience assailede.
In Unite holi-churche Consience heeld hym
And made Pees porter to pynne the gates.
Of all tale-tellares and titerares an ydel,
Ypocrisye and they an hard sawt they yeven.
Ypocrisye at the gate harde gan fyhte
And wounded wel wykkedly many a wys techare
That with Consience acordede and cardinal vertues.
Consience calde a leche, that couthe wel shryve,
To salve tho that syke were and thorw synne ywounded.
Shrift schupte scharpe salve and made men do penaunses
For here mysdedes that thei wrouht hadde,
And that Peres pardon were ypayd, redde quod debes .
 Some liked nat this leche and lettres they sente,
Yf eny surgien were in the sege that softer couthe plastre.
Sire Lyf-to-lyve-in-lecherye lay there and groned;
For fastyng of a Fryday he feerde as he wolde deye.
‘Ther is a surgien in the sege that softe can handele,
And more of fysyke bi fer, and fayrer he plastereth;
One frere Flatrere is fisicien and surgien’.
Quod Contricion to Consience, ‘Do hym come to Unite,
For here is many man hert thorw Ypocrisye’.
‘We han no nede’, quod Consience; ‘I wot no bettere leche
Than person other parsche-prest, penytauncer or bischope,
Save Peres the Ploghman, that hath power over alle
And indulgence may do, but yf dette lette hit.
I may wel soffre’, sayde Consience, ‘sennes ye desiren,
That frere Flaterare be fet and fisyke yow seke’.
 The frere her-of herde and hyede faste
To a lord for a lettre, leve to have to curen
As a curatour he were, and kam with his lettre
Baldly to the bishope and his breef hadde,
In contreys ther he cam, confessiones to here;
And cam ther Consience was, and knokked at the gate.
Pees unpynned hyt, was porter of Unite,
And in haste askede what his wille were?
 ‘In fayth,’ quod this frere, ‘for profyt and for helthe,
Carpe I wolde with Contricioun and therfore I cam heddere’.
 ‘He is syke’, saide Pees, ‘and so ar many other;
Ypocrisye hath herte hem—ful hard is yf thei kevere.’
 ‘I am a surgien’, saide the frere, ‘and salves can make;
Consience knoweth me wel and what I can bothe’.
 ‘I preye the’, quod Pees tho, ‘ar thow passe forthere,
What hattest thow? I praye the, hele nat thy name’,
‘Certes’, saide his felawe, ‘sire Penetrans-domos ’.
 ‘Ye, go thy gate’, quod Pees, ‘bi god, for al thi fisyke,
Bote thow conne eny craft, thou comest nat here-ynne!
I knewe such one ones, nat eyhte wynter passed,
Cam ynne thus ycoped at a court ther I dwelte,
And was my lordes leche and my ladyes bothe,
And at the laste this lymytour, tho my lord was oute,
He salved so oure wymmen til some were with childe!’
 Hende-speche heet Pees tho opene the gates:
‘Lat in the frere and his felawe and make hem fayre chiere.
He may se and here her, so may bifalle,
That Lyf thorw his lore shal leve Covetyse
And he adrad of Deth and withdrawe hym from Pruyde
And acorde with Consience and kusse here ayther other’.
 Thus thorw Hende-speche entred the frere
And cam to Consience and corteyslich hym grette.
‘Thow art welcome’, quod Consience, ‘can thow hele syke?
Here is Contricioun’, quod Consience, ‘my cosyn, ywounded;
Conforte hym’, quod Consience, ‘and tak kepe to his sores.
The plasteres of the persoun, and poudres, ben to sore,
And lat hem lygge over-longe, and loth is to chaungen;
Fro lente to lente he lat his plastres byte’.
 ‘That is over-long’, quod this lymitour, ‘I leve I schal amenden hit’;
And goth and gropeth Contricion and gaf hym a plastre
Of a pryve payement and ‘I shal preye for yow,
And for hem that ye aren helde to, al my lyf-tyme,
And make yow my Ladye in masse and in matynes
Of freres of oure fraternite, for a litel sulver’.
Thus he goth and gedereth, and gloseth ther he shryveth,
Til Contricioun hadde clene foryete to crye and to wepe
And wake for his wikkede werkes, as he was woned bifore.
For confort of his confessour, Contricioun he lefte,
That is the sovereyne salve for alle kyne synnes.
 Sleuth saw that, and so dede Pruyde,
And comen with a kene wil, Consience to assaile.
Consience cryede efte Clergie come help hym,
And bad Contricioun to come to helpe kepe the gate.
‘He lyeth adreint’, saide Pees, ‘and so doth mony othere;
The frere with his fisyke this folke hath enchaunted
And doth men drynke dwale, that men drat no synne’.
 ‘By Crist’, quod Consience tho, ‘I wol bicome a pilgrime,
And wenden as wyde as the world regneth
To seke Peres the Ploghman, that Pruyde myhte destruye,
And that freres hadde a fyndynge, that for nede flateren,
And countrepledeth me, Consience. Now Kynde me avenge,
And sende me hap and hele til I have Peres Ploghman’.
And sethe he gradde aftur grace tyl I gan awake.