Classic Poem

 Thus yrobed in russet I romede aboute
Alle a somer seson for to seke Dowel,
And fraynede ful ofte of folke that I mette
Yf eny wiht wiste where Dowel was at ynne,
And what man he myhte be of mony men I askede.
 Was nevere wihte in this worlde that me wisse couthe
Where that he longed, lasse ne more,
Til hit biful in Fryday two freres I mette,
Maystres of the menores, men of gret witte.
I haylsede hem hendly, as I hadde ylered,
And preyde hem pur charite ar they passede forthere
Yf they knewe eny contre other costes aboute
Wher that Dowel dwelleth, ‘Dere frendes, telleth me,
For ye ar men of this molde that moste wyde walken
And knowen contrees and courtes and many kynne plases,
Bothe princes paleis and pore menne cotes,
And Dowel and Do-evele, where thei dwellen both.’
 ‘Sothly,’ saide the frere, ‘he sojourneth with us freres
And evere hath, as I hope, and evere wol here-aftur.’
 ‘ Contra ,’ quod I as a clerke, and comsed to despute,
And saide sothly, ‘ Septies in die cadit justus ,
Fallyng fro joye, Jesu wot the sothe!
“Sevene sithe,” sayth the bok, “synegeth day by day
The rihtfulleste reng that regneth in erthe.”
And who-so synegeth,’ I saide, ‘certes, he doth nat wel;
For who-so synegeth, sikerly doth evele,
And Dowel and Do-evele may nat dwelle togyderes.
Ergo , he is nat alwey at hom amonges yow freres;
He is other-while elleswher to wisse the peple.’
 ‘I shal sey the, my sone,’ sayde the frere thenne,
How sevene sithes the sad man synegeth on the day.
By a forbisene,’ quod the frere, ‘I shal the fayre shewe.
 Lat bryng a man in a bot amydde a brood water;
The wynde and the water and wagyng of the bote
Maketh the man many tyme to stomble, yf he stande;
For stonde he nevere so stifliche, thorw steryng of the bote
He bendeth and boweth, the body is unstable,
And yut is he saf and sound; and so hit fareth by the rihtful.
Thogh he falle, he falleth nat but as who-so ful in a bot
That ay is saf and sound, that sitte withynne the borde.
So hit fareth,’ quod the frere, ‘by the ryhtful mannes fallynge;
Thogh he thorw fondynges falle, he falleth nat out of charite,
So dedly synne doth he nat, for Dowel hym helpeth.
The water is likned to the world, that wanyeth and waxeth;
The godes of this grounde ar like the grete wawes,
That as wyndes and wederes waleweth aboute;
The bot is liknet to oure body, that bretil is of kynde,
That thorw the fend and oure flesch and this freel worlde
Synegeth sevene sithes the saddest man on erthe,
And lyf-holiest of lyf that lyveth under sonne.
 Ac fre wil and fre wit foleweth man evere
To repenten and to arise and rowe out of synne
To contricion, to confessioun, til he come til his ende.
For rather have we no reste til we restitue
Oure lyf to oure lord god for oure lycames gultes.’
 ‘I have no kynde knowlechyng to conseyve al this speche,
Ac yf I may lyve and loke I shal go lerne bettere.’
 ‘I bykenne the Crist,’ quod he, ‘that on the cross deyede;’
And I sayde, ‘The same save yow fro meschaunce,
And gyve me grace on this grounde with good ende to deye.’
 I wente forth wyde-whare, walkynge myn one,
By a wilde wildernesse and by a wode-syde.
Blisse of the briddes abyde me made,
And under lynde upon a launde lened I a stounde
To lythen here layes and here lovely notes.
Murthe of here mouthes made me ther to slepe,
And merveilousliche me mette amyddes al that blisse.
 A muche man, as me thoghte ylike to mysulve,
Cam and calde me be my kynde name
‘What art thow?’ quod I, ‘that thow my name knowest?’
‘That wost thou, Wille,’ quod he, ‘and no wyht bettere.’
‘Wot I,’ quod I, ‘who art thow?’ ‘Thouhte,’ sayde he thenne;
‘I have sued the this seven yer, saw thow me no rather?’
 ‘Art thow Thouhte?’ quod I tho, ‘thow couthest me wisse
Where that Dowel dwelleth, and do me to knowe?’
 ‘Dowel and Dobet,’ quod he, ‘and Dobest the thridde
Aren thre fayre vertues and ben nat fer to fynde.
Who is trewe of his tonge and of his two handes
And thorw lele labour lyveth and loveth his emcristene
And therto trewe of his tayl and halt wel his handes
And is nat dronklewe ne dedeynous, Dowel hym foleweth.
 Dobet doth al this, ac yut he doth more;
He is logh as a lomb and loveliche of speche,
And helpeth alle men of that he may spare.
The bagges and the bigerdeles he hath to-broken hem alle,
That the erl Averous held, and his ayres,
And of Mammonas money maked hym many frendes,
And is ronne into religioun and hath rendred the bible
And precheth to the peple seynt Paules wordes:
  Libenter suffertis insipientes, cum sitis ipsi sapientes.
“Ye worldliche wyse, unwyse that ye soffre,
Lene hem and love hem,” this Latyn is to mene.
 Dobest bere sholde the bisshopes crose
And halie with the hoked ende ille men to gode,
And with the pyk pulte adoun prevaricatores legis .
Lordes that lyven as hem lust and no lawe acounten,
For here mok and here mebles suche men thenketh
Sholde no bisshop be, here biddynges to with-sitte.
Ac Dobest sholde drede hem nat, but do as god hihte.
  Nolite timere eos qui possunt occidere corpus.
 Thus Dowel and Dobet demede as Dobest
And crounede one to be kyng, to kull withoute synne
That wolde nat do as Dobest devinede and tauhte.
Thus Dowel and Dobet and Dobest the thridde
Crounede one to be a kyng and kepen us alle,
And to reule alle reumes by here thre wittes,
But othere wise ne elles nat, but as they thre assentede.’
 I thonkede Thoght tho, that he me so tauhte:
‘Ac yut savereth nat me thy sawes, so me Crist spede;
A more kyndere knowynge coveyte I to here
Of Dowel and Dobet and who doth best of alle.’
 ‘Bote yf Wit wol the wisse,’ quod Thouhte, ‘where tho thre dwelleth,
Elles knowe I non that can, in none kyneryche.’
 Thought and I thus thre dayes we yeden,
Disputyng uppon Dowel day after other,
And ar we ywar were, with Wit gan we mete.
He was long and lene, ylyk to noon other,
Was no pruyde on his parail, no poverte noythere;
Sad of his semblant, with a softe speche.
I durste meve no matere to maken hym to jangle,
Bote as I bad Thouht tho to be mene betwene
And putte forth som purpos to proven his wittes,
What was Dowel fro Dobet and Dobest fro hem bothe.
 Thenne Thouht in that tyme sayde this wordes:
‘Whare Dowel and Dobet and Dobest ben in londe,
Here is one wolde ywyte, yf Wit couthe teche,
And what lyves they lyve and what lawe thei usen,
And what they drede and doute, dere sire, telleth.’