Classic Poem

In a somer sesoun, whan softe was the sonne,
I shope me into shroudes, as I a shep were,
In abite as an heremite, unholy of werkes,
Wente forth in the world wondres to here,
And saw many selles and selcouthe thynges.
Ac on a May mornyng on Malverne hulles
Me biful for to slepe, for werynesse of walkyng;
And yn a launde as I lay, lened I and slepte,
And merveylousliche me mette, as I may telle.
Al the welthe of the world and the wo bothe
Wynkyng, as hit were, witterliche I saw hit,
Of treuthe and tricherye, tresoun and gyle,
Al I saw slepynge, as I shal telle.
 Estward I beheld aftir the sonne
And saw a tour—as I trowe, Treuthe was there-ynne.
Westward I waytede in a while aftir
And saw a depe dale—Deth, as I leve,
Woned in tho wones, and wikkede spiritus.
A fair feld, ful of folk, fond I there bytwene,
Of alle manere of men, the mene and the pore,
Worchyng and wandryng as this world asketh.
 Somme putte hem to the plogh, playde ful selde,
In settynge and in sowynge swonken ful harde,
And wonne that this wastors with glotony destrueth.
And summe putte hem to pruyde and parayled hem ther-after,
In continance and clothyng in many kyne gyse.
In preiers and penaunces putten hem mony,
Al for love of oure lord lyveden swythe harde,
In hope to have a good ende and heven-riche blisse:
As ankeres and eremites, that holdeth hem in here selles,
Coveyten noght in contreys to cayren aboute
For no likerous liflode here lycame to plese.
 And summe chesen chaffare—thei cheveth the bettre,
As it semeth to oure sighte that suche men thryveth;
And summe merthes to make, as mynstrels conneth,
Wolleth neyther swynke ne swete, bote sweren grete othes,
Fyndeth out foule fantasyes and foles hem maketh
And hath wytt at wille to worche yf thei wolde.
That Poule prechede of hem preve hit I myhte;
Qui turpiloquium loquitur is Luciferes knave.
 Bidders and beggers faste aboute yede
Til here bagge and here bely was bretful ycrammed,
Fayteden for here fode and foughten at the ale.
In glotony tho gomes goth thei to bedde
And riseth with rybaudrye tho Robardus knaves;
Slep and also slewthe sueth suche ever.
 Pilgrymes and palmers plighten hem togyderes
To seke seynt James and seyntes of Rome,
Wenten forth on here way with many wyse tales
And hadden leve to lye aftir, al here lyf-tyme.
Eremites on an hep with hokede staves
Wenten to Walsyngham, and here wenches aftir;
Grete lobies and longe, that loth wer to swynke,
Clothed hem in copis to be knowe fram othere
And made hemself heremites, here ese to have.
 I fonde there of freris alle the foure ordres,
Prechyng the peple for profyt of the wombe,
And glosede the gospel as hem good likede;
For coveytise of copis contraryed somme doctours.
Mony of thise maistres of mendenant freres
Here moneye and marchandise marchen togyderes;
Ac sith charite hath be chapman and chief to shryve lordes,
Mony ferlyes han falle in a fewe yeres,
And but holi chirche and charite choppe adoun suche shryvars
The moste meschief on molde mounteth up faste.
 There prechede a pardoner as he a prest were
And brouht forth a bulle with bischopis selys,
Sayde that hymself myhte assoylen hem alle
Of falsnesses and fastynges, of vowes ybrokene.
Lewed men leved hym wel and lykede his wordes
And comen and knelede to kyssen his bulles;
He bounchede hem with his brevet and blered here yes
And raughte with his rageman rynges and broches.
Thus ye gyve youre gold, glotons to helpe,
And leneth it lorelles that lecherye haunten.
Were the bischop yblessed and worth bothe his eres,
His seel sholde nought be ysent in deseyte of the people.
Ac it is nought by the bischop, I leve, that the boy precheth,
For the parsche-prest and the pardoner parten the selver
That the peple in parsches sholde have, yf thei ne were.
 Persones and parsche-prestis pleyned to the bischop
That here parsches were pore sithe this pestelence tyme,
To have a licence and a leve in London to dwelle
And synge ther for symonye, while selver is so swete.
 Yut mette me more, of mene and of riche,
As barones and burgeys and bonde-men of thorpes,
Al I saw slepynge, as ye shal here herafter,
Bothe bakeres and breweres, bochers and other,
Webbesteres and walkeres and wynners with handes,
As taylers and tanners and tulyers of erthe,
As dykers and delvers, that doth here dedis ylle,
And driveth forth here days with ‘ Dew vous save, dame Emme! ’
Cokes and here knaves cryede ‘Hote pyes, hote!
Goode gees and grys, ga we dyne, ga we!’
Taverners til hem tolde the same:
‘Whit wyn of Oseye and wyn of Gascoyne,
Of the Reule and of the Rochele, the roost to defy!’
Al this I saw sleping, and sevyn sythes more.