Classic Poem

 Tho was Repentaunce aredy and redde hem alle to knele:
‘I shal byseke for alle synneful oure saviour of grace,
To amende us of oure mysdedes, do mercy to us alle.
 God, that of thi goodnesse gonne the world make
And madest of nauhte auhte and man liche thysulve,
And sethe soffredeste hym to synege, a sykenesse to us alle,
And for oure beste, as I beleve, what-so the book telle.
  O felix culpa, O necessarium peccatum Ade!
For thorw that synne thy sone ysent was til erthe
And bicam man of a mayde, mankynde to amende,
And madest thysulve, with thy sone, oure soule and oure body ilych.
  Ego in patre, et pater in me est; et qui videt me, patrem meum videt.
And sethe in oure secte, as hit semed, deydest,
On a Friday, in forme of man, feledest oure sorwe.
  Captivam duxit captivitatem.
The sonne for sorwe ther-of lees liht for a tyme
Aboute mydday, when most liht is, and mel-tyme of sayntes;
Feddest tho with thy flesch and blood oure forfadres in helle.
  Populus qui ambulabat in tenebris, lucem magnam vidit.
The lihte that lup oute of the, Lucifer hit blente
And brouhte thyne yblessed fro thennes into the blisse of hevene.
The thridde day ther-aftur thow yedest into oure sekte;
A synful Marie the saw ar seynte Marye thy dame,
And al to solace synful thow soffredest hit so were.
  Non veni vocare justos, sed peccatores ad penitenciam.
And al that Mark hath ymade, Matheu, Johan and Lucas,
Of thy douhtiest dedes, was don in oure sekte.
  Verbum caro factum est.
And by so muche hit semeth the sykerloker we mowe
Bidde and biseche the, yf hit be thy wille,
That art furste oure fadur and of flesch oure brother,
And sethen oure savyour, and seydest hit with thy tonge
That what tyme we synneful men wolden be sory
For dedes that we han don ylle, dampned sholde we ben nevere,
Yf we knowlechede and cryde Crist ther-fore mercy.
  Quandocumque ingemuerit peccator, omnes iniquitates eius non recordabor amplius.
And for thi muchel mercy and Marie love thi moder,
Have reuthe of alle these rybaudes that repenten hem sore
That evere thei gulte ageyn the, god, in gost or in dede.’
 Thenne hente Hope an horn of Deus, tu conversus vivificabis nos ,
And blewe hit with Beati quorum remisse sunt iniquitates et quorum tecta sunt peccata ,
That alle seyntes for synful songen with David:
  Homines et jumenta salvabis, domine, quemadmodum multiplicasti misericordiam tuam, deus!
A thousend of men tho throngen togyderes,
Criede upward to Crist and to his clene moder
To have grace to go to Treuthe—god leve that they mote!
Ac ther ne was wye non so wys that the way thider couthe,
But blostrede forth as bestes over baches and hulles,
Til late was and longe that thei a lede mette,
Aparayled as a paynyem in pilgrimes wyse.
 He bar a bordon ybounde with a brood liste,
In a wethewynde wyse ywrithe al aboute;
A bolle and a bagge he bar by his syde;
An hundret of ampolles on his hat sette,
Signes of Syse and shelles of Galys,
And many a crouch on his cloke, kayes of Rome,
And the vernicle bifore, for men sholde yknowe
And se by his signes wham he sought hadde.
 This folke frayned hym furste fro whennes he come?
‘Fro Sinaye,’ he sayde, ‘and fro the sepulcre of oure lord.
In Bedlem and in Babiloyne I have be in bothe,
In Armonye, in Alisaundre, and in Damascle.
Ye may se be the signes that sitten on my cappe,
I have souht gode seyntes for my soule helthe
And ywalked ful wide in wete and in drye.’
 ‘Knowest thow auht a cor-seint,’ quod they, ‘that men calleth Treuthe?
Kouthest wissen us the way whoder out Treuthe woneth?’
 ‘Nay, so me god helpe,’ sayde the gome thenne,
‘I saw nevere palmere with pyk ne with scrippe
Axen aftur hym, but now in this place.’

 ‘Peter!’ quod a ploghman, and putte forth his heved,
‘I knowe hym as kyndely as clerk doth his bokes.
Consience and Kyndewyt kenned me to his place
And maden me sykeren sethen to serven hym for evere,
Bothe to sowe and to sette the while I swynke myhte,
And to sowen his seed, suewen his bestes,
Withynne and withouten to wayten his profyt.
I have ybe his foloware al this fourty wynter
And yserved Treuthe sothly, somdel to paye.
In alle kyne craftes that he couthe devise
Profitable as for the plouh, he putte me to lerne,
And, thogh I sey hit mysulf, I serve hym to paye.
I have myn huyre of hym wel and other whiles more;
He is the presteste payere that eny pore man knoweth;
He with-halt non hewe his huyre over even.
He is as louh as a lombe and leel of his tonge,
And who-so wilneth to wyte where that Treuthe woneth,
I wol wissen yow wel, ryht to his place.’
 ‘Ye, leve Peres,’ quod thise pilgrimes, and profrede Peres mede.
 ‘Nay, bi the perel of my soule!’ Peres gan to swerie,
‘I ne wol fonge a ferthynge, for seynt Thomas shryne!
Were it itolde Treuthe that I toke mede
He wolde love me the lasse a long tyme after.
 Ac who-so wol wende ther Treuthe is, this is the way theder.
 Ye mote go thorw Mekenesse, alle men and wommen,
Til ye come into Consience, yknowe of god sulve,
That ye lovye hym as lord leely above alle;
That is to sey sothly, ye sholde rather deye
Thenne eny dedly synne do, for drede or for preyere.
And thenne youre neghebores next in none wyse apayre
Otherwyse then ye wolden they wrouhte yow alle tymes.
 And so goth forth by the brok, a brugge as it were,
For to ye fynde a ford, Youre-fader-honoureth;
Wadeth in at that water and wascheth yow wel there
And ye shal lepe the lihtloker al youre lyf-tyme.
  Honora patrem et matrem.
 And thenne shalt thow se Swere-nat-but-if-it-be-for-nede-
And-nameliche-an-ydel-the-name-of-god-almyhty.
 Thenne shalt thow come by a croft, ac com thow nat therynne;
The croft hatte Coveyte-nat-menne-catel-ne-here-wyves-
Ne-none-of-here-servauntes-that-nuye-hem-myhte;
Loke thou bere nat there aweye, but yf hit be thyn owene.
 Two stockes ther stondeth, ac stynte thow nat there;
Thei hatte Stel-nat and Sle-nat—stryk forth by bothe
And leveth hem on the lift hand and loke nat therafter,
And hold wel the haliday heye til even.
 Thenne shaltow blenche at a berw, Ber-no-fals-witnesse,
Ys frithed in with floreynes and othere fees monye;
Loke thow plokke no plaunte there, for perel of thy soule.
 Thenne shaltow se Say-sothe-so-hit-be-to-done-
In-none-manere-elles-nat-for-no-mannes-preyere,
And so shaltow come to a court as cleer as the sonne;
The mote is of Mercy, the manere in the myddes,
And al the wallyng is of Wyt, for Wil ne sholde hit wynne.
The carneles ben of Cristendom, that kynde to save,
Ybotresed with Bileve-so-or-thow-best-not-ysaved;
And alle the hous been yheled, halles and chaumbres,
With no leed but with Love, and with Lele-speche.
The barres aren of Buxumnesse, as brethrene of o wombe.
The brygge hatte Byde-wel-the-bet-may-thow-spede;
Eche a piler is of Penaunces and preyeres to seyntes;
The hokes aren Almes-dedes that the gates hange on.
 Grace hatte the gate-ward, a gode man for sothe;
His man hatte Amende-yow, many man hym knoweth.
Tel hym this ilke tokene: “Treuthe wot the sothe,
I am sory of my synnes and so I shal evere,
And performed the penaunce that the prest me hihte.”
Biddeth Amende-yow to meke yow to his maister Grace,
To opene and undo the hye gate of hevene
That Adam and Eve agenes us alle shette.
  Per Evam janua celi cunctis clausa est, et per Mariam virginem iterum patefacta est.
A ful leel lady unlek hit of grace,
And she hath the keye and a clycat, thogh the kynge slepe,
And may lede in that she loveth as here lef lyketh.
 And yf Grace graunte the to go in in this wyse,
Thow shalt se Treuthe sitte in thy sulve herte,
And solace thy soule and save the fram payne,
And charge Charite a churche to make
In thyne hole herte, to herborwe alle trewe
And fynde alle manere folke fode to here soules,
Yef love and leute and owre lawe be trewe:
  Quodcumque petieritis in nomine meo, dabitur enim vobis.
 Be war thenne of Wrath, that wikkede shrewe,
For he hath envye to hym that in thyn herte setteth
And poketh forth pruyde to preyse thysulven.
The boldenesse of thy been-fetes maketh the blynd thenne,
So worth thow dryven out as deux, and the dore yclosed,
Ykeyed and yclyketed to close the withouten,
Hapliche an hundred wynter ar thow eft entre.
Thus myhte thow lesen his love, to lete wel by thysulven,
And geten hit agayne thorw grace, ac thorw no gifte elles.
 Ac ther ben sevene susteres that serven Treuthe evere
And aren porters over the posternes that to that place bilongen.
That on hatte Abstinence and Umbletee annother,
Charite and Chastite ben his chief maydenes,
Pacience and Pees muche peple thei helpe,
Largenesse that lady lat in ful monye—
None of hem alle helpe may in betere,
For she payeth for prisones in places and in peynes.
And who is sib to this sevene, so me god helpe,
Is wonderliche welcome and fayre underfonge.
Who is nat syb to this sevene, sothly to telle,
Hit is ful hard, be myn heved, eny of yow alle
To geten ingang at eny gate, bote grace be the more.’
 ‘By Crist,’ quod a cutte-pors, ‘I have no kyn there.’
 ‘Ne I,’ quod an apeward, ‘by auht that I know!’
 ‘Wyte god,’ quod a wafrestere, ‘wiste I this for sothe,
Wolde I nevere forthere no fot for no frere prechynge!’
 ‘Yus,’ quod Peres the ploghman, and pokede hem alle to gode,
‘Mercy is a mayden there hath myhte over hem alle,
And she is sib to alle synful, and here sone bothe.
And thorw the helpes of hem two, hope thow non other,
Thow myhte gete grace there, so thow go by-tymes.’