Classic Poem

 ‘And alle the wyse that evere were, by auhte I can aspye,
Preisede proverte for beste, if pacience hit folowe,
And bothe bettere and blessedere by manyfold then richesse.
Althouh he be sour to soffre, ther cometh a swete after.
As on a walnote withoute is a bittere barke
And after that bittere barke, be the scale aweye,
Is a cornel of confort, kynde to restore;
So aftur penaunce and poverte, pacientliche ytake,
Maketh man to have mynde in god and his mercy to crave,
The which is the cornel of confort for alle cristene soules.
And wel sikerere he slepeth, the segg that is pore,
And lasse drat by day or in derke to ben yrobbed,
Then he that is rihte ryche, reson bereth witnesse:
Pauper ego ludo, dum tu dives meditaris.
 Holy churche witnesseth, “Who-so forsaketh
His fader or his frendes, fremde other sybbe,
Or eny welthe in this world, his wyf or his childrene,
For the love of our lord loweth hym to be pore,
He shal have an hundred fold of hevene-ryche blisse
And lyf lastyng for evere, byfore oure lord in hevene.”
  Quicunque reliquerit patrem et matrem, &c.
Crist acordeth efte her-with, clerkes wyteth the sothe,
What god saide hymsulve to a segg that he lovede:
“Yf thow likest to lyve,” quod god, “the lyf that is parfit,
Al that thow haste here, hastly go and sulle hit;
Yef pore peple the panes, therof pors thou none,
Ac yef hem forth to pore folk that for my love hit aske;
For-sak al and sue me and so is thi beste.”
  Si vis perfectus esse, vade et vende omnia que habes.
Yut conseileth Crist in commen us all:
“Who-so coveiteth to come to my kyneriche
He mot forsaken hymsulve his suster and his brother
And al that the world wolde, and my will folowe.”
  Nisi renunciaveritis omnibus que possidetis, &c.
 Mo proverbes I myhte have of mony holy seyntes
To testifie for treuthe the tale that I shewe,
And poetes to preven hit, Porfirie and Plato,
Aristotel, Ennedy, enlevene hundred,
Tulius, Tolomeus, I can nat tell here names,
Preveth pacient poverte prince of alle vertues.
 And by the grayn that groweth god us all techeth
Mischiefes on molde mekeliche to soffren:
  Nisi granum frumenti cadens in terra mortuum fuerit, ipsum, solum manet.
Bote if the seed that sowen is in the sloo sterve,
Shal nevere spir sprynge up, ne spike on straw kerne;
Sholde nevere whete wexe but whete furste deyede.
And other sedes also in the same wyse,
That ben layd in louhe erthe, ylore as hit were,
And thorw the grace of god and grayn dede on erthe
At the laste launceth up, where-by we lyven all.
 Ac sedes that ben sowen and mowen soffre wyntres
Aren tidiere and towere to mennes byhofte
Then sedes that sowe ben and mowen nat with forstes,
Ne wynde ne wederes, as in wynter tymes;
As lyn-sed, lek-sed, and lente-sedes all
Aren not so worthy as whete, ne so wel mowe
In the feld with the forst, and hit frese longe,
Riht so, sothly, that soffry may penaunces
Worth allowed of oure lord at here laste ende
And for here pacience ben ypreised as for puyr martir,
Or for a confessor ykud, that counteth nat a rusche
Fere ne famyne ne fals mennes tonges.
But as an hosebonde hopeth after an hard wynter,
Yf god gyveth hym the lyf, to have a gode hervest,
So preveth this profetes that pacientliche soffren.
Mescheves and myshappes and many tribulaciouns
Bitokeneth treuly in tyme comyng after
Murthe for his mornyng and that muche plentee.
For Crist saide so to seyntes that for his sake tholeden
Poverte and penaunce and persecucion of body;
Then angelis in here anger on this wyse hem grette:
  Tristitia vestra vertetur in gaudium.
“Youre sorwe into solace shal turne at the laste
And out of wo into wele youre wirdes shal chaunge.”
 Ac who-so rat of the ryche, the revers may fynde,
How god, as the gospelle telleth, gyveth fole to name,
And that his gost shal go and gode bileve,
And asketh after, “Who shal hit have,
The catel that he kepeth so in coffres and in bernis,
And art so loth to leve that lete shal thow nedes?
  O stulte, ista nocte anima tua egredietur; que congregasti, cuius erunt? Thesaurizat, et ignorat cui, &c.
An unredy reve thy residue shal spene,
That many mothe was maister ynne, in a mynte whyle;
Upholderes on the hulle shal have hit to sulle.”
 Lo, lordes, lo! and ladyes, taketh hede,
Hit lasteth nat longe that is lycour swete,
As pesecoddes, pere-jonettes, plomes and cheries.
That lihtlich launceth up litel while dureth,
And that rathest rypeth rotieth most sonnest.
On fat lond ful of donge foulest wedes groweth;
Riht so, sothly, suche that ben bischopes,
Erles and erchedekenes and othere riche clerkes,
That chafferen as chapmen and chide bote they wynne,
And han the world at her wille, otherwyse to levene.
Riht as wedes waxeth in wose and in donge,
So of rychesse uppe rychesse ariste alle vices.
Lo, lond overleyd with marl and with donge,
Whete that theron wexeth worth lygge ar hit rype;
Riht so, sothly, for to segge treuthe,
Over-plente pruyde norischeth, ther poverte hit distrueth.
 For how hit evere be ywonne, but hit wel despeneth,
Worldly wele ys wykked thyng to hem that hit kepeth.
For if he be fer ther-fro, ful ofte hath he drede
That fals folke fecche awaye felonliche his godes;
And yut more hit maketh man mony tymes and ofte
To synege, and to souche sotiltees of gyle,
For coveytyse of that catel to culle hym that hit kepeth.
And so is many man ymorthred for his moneye and his godes
And tho that dede the dede ydampned ther-fore after,
And he for his hard holdyng in helle, paraunter.
So coveytise of catel was combraunce to hem alle.
Lo, how pans purchaseth fayre places and grete,
That rote is of robbares the rychesses withynne.

 Ac wel worth Poverte! for he may walke unrobbed
Among pilours in pees, yf pacience hym folwe.
Oure prince Jesu poverte chees, and his apostles alle,
And ay the lengere they lyvede the lasse gode they hadde.
  Tanquam nihil habentes, et omnia possidentes.
 Yut ret men that Abraham and Job weren wonder ryche,
And out of nombre tho men many mebles hadden.
Abraham for his hadde moche tene,
For in greet poverte he was put; a prince, as hit were,
Bynome his hosewyf and heeld her hymself,
And Abraham not hardy ones to letten hym
Ne for brihtnesse of here beaute here spouse to be byknowe.
And for he soffrede and saide nauht, oure lord sente tokene,
That the kynge criede to Abraham mercy
And delyverede the weye his wyf, with moche welthe aftur.
 Job the gentele, what joye hadde he on erthe!
And how bittere he hit abouhte, as the book telleth.
And for he song in his sorwe, “ Si bona accepimus a domino ,
Dereworthe and dere god! do we so mala ,”
Alle his sorwe to solace thorw that song turnede,
And Job bykam as a jolyf man, and al his joye newe.
 Lo, how pacience in here poverte thise patriarkes relevede
And broughte hem all above, that in bale rotede.
As grayn that lith in the greut, and thorw grace, at the laste,
Spryngeth and spredeth, so spedde the fader Abraham
And the gentel Job; here joye hath non ende.’