Classic Poem

 What the montaigne bymeneth and the merke dale
And the feld ful of folk I shal you fair shewe.
 A lovely lady of lere, in lynnene yclothed,
Cam doun fro the castel and calde me by name
And sayde, ‘Wille, slepestou? Seestow this peple,
Hou bisy thei ben aboute the mase?
The moste party of this peple that passeth on this erthe,
Hadde thei worschip in this world, thei wilneth no better;
Of othere hevene then here thei halde no tale.’
 I was afeered of here face, thogh she fayre were,
And sayde, ‘Mercy, ma dame, what may this be to mene?’
 ‘The tour uppon the tofte,’ quod she, ‘Treuthe is there-yne,
And wolde that ye wroughten as his word techeth.
For he is fader of fayth and formor of alle;
To be faythful to hym yaf yow fyve wittes
For to worschipe hym ther-with the whiles ye lyven here.
Wherfore he hette the elementis to helpe yow alle tymes
And brynge forth youre bilyve, bothe lynnen and wollene,
And in mesure how muche were to make yow attese;
And comaundede of his cortesye in comune thre thynges—
Aren non nideful but tho thre, and nemne hem I thenke
And rekene hem by rewe—reherse hem where the liketh.
 The firste is fode, and vesture the seconde,
And drynke—that doth the good, ac drynke nat out of tyme.
Loot in his lyve thorw likerous drynke
Wykkede wroghte and wrathed god almyhty.
In his dronkenesse a day his doughteres he dighte
And lay by hem bothe, as the boke telleth,
In his glotonye bygat gurles that were cherles,
And al he witte the wyn his wikkede dede.
Thorw wyn and thorw woman there was Loot acombred;
Forthy drede delitable drynk bothe day and nyghtes.
 Mesure is medecyne, thogh thow muche yerne;
Al is nat good to the gost that the gutt asketh,
Ne liflode to the lycame that lef is the soule.
Leef nat thy lycame, for a lyare hym techeth,
Which is the wrecchede world, wolde the bigyle;
For the fend and thy flesch folewen togederes,
And that seeth the soule and sayth hit the in herte
And wysseth the to ben ywar what wolde the desseyve.’
 ‘A ma dame, mercy, me lyketh wel youre wordes;
Ac the moneye of this molde, that men so faste kepen,
Telleth me to wham that tresour bylongeth?’
 ‘Go to the gospel,’ quod she, ‘and se what god sayde,
Whenne the peple aposed hym of a peny in the temple,
And god askede at hem whos was the koyne.
“Cesares”, thei sayde, “sothliche we knoweth”.
“ Reddite Cesari ”, sayde god, “that Cesar byfalleth,
Et que sunt dei, deo , or ye don ylle”.
For rightfulliche resoun sholde reule yow alle
And kynde witte be wardeyn, youre welthe to kepe,
And tutor of youre tresor, and take hit yow at nede;
For hosbondrye and he holdeth togederes.’
 I fraynede her fayr tho, for hym that here made,
‘The dep dale and the derke, so unsemely to se to,
What may hit bymene, madame, I byseche?’
 ‘That is the castel of care—whoso cometh ther-ynne
May banne that he born was in body and in soule.
Ther-ynne wonyeth a wyghte that Wrong is his name,
Fader of falshede, fond hit firste of alle;
Adam and Eve he eggede to ylle
And conseylede Caym to cullen his brother.
Judas he byjapede thorw Jewene sulver
And afterward anhengede hym hey uppon an ellerne.
He is lettere of love and lyeth alle tymes;
That tristeth in tresor of erthe he bytrayeth sonest;
To combre men with coveytise, that is his kynde and his lore.’
 Thenne hadde I wonder in my wit what woman she were
That suche wyse wordes of holy writ shewede,
And I halsed here on the hey name or she thennes wente
What she were wytterly that wissede me so and tauhte.
‘Holy churche I am’, quod she, ‘thou oughtest me to knowe;
I undirfenge the formeste and fre man the made.
Thow broughtest me borewes my biddyng to fulfille,
Leve on me and love me al thy lyf-tyme.’
 Thenne I knelede on my knees and kried here of grace
And prayede here pitously to praye for me to amende
And also to kenne me kyndly on Crist to bileve:
‘Teche me to no tresor, but telle me this ilke,
How I may save my soule, that saynt art yholde.’
 ‘When alle tresores ben tried, Treuthe is the beste—
I do hit uppon Deus caritas , to deme the sothe.
Hit is as derworthe a druerie as dere god hymselven,
For who is trewe of his tonge and of his two handes
And doth the werkes therwith and wilneth no man ylle,
He is a god by the gospel and graunte may hele
And also lyk oure lord, by saynt Lukes wordes.
Clerkes that knowen hit is thus sholde kenne it aboute,
For cristene and uncristene claymeth it ech-one.
 Kynges and knyghtes sholde kepen hit by resoun,
Ryden and rappe adoun in reaumes aboute
And take transgressores and teyen hem faste,
Til Treuthe hadde termyned here trespas to the ende,
And halden with hem and here that han trewe accion
And for no lordene love leve the trewe partie.
Treweliche to take and treweliche to fyghte
Is the professioun and puyr ordre that apendeth to knyghtes,
And whoso passeth that poynt is apostata of knyghthed;
For thei sholde nother faste ne forbere the serk
But feithfullich defende and fyghte for treuthe
And never leve for love in hope to lacche sylver.
 David in his daies dobbed knyghtes,
Dede hem swere on here swerd to serve treuthe evere;
And god, whan he bigan hevene in that grete blisse,
Made knyghtes in his couert creatures tene,
Cherubyn and seraphyn, such seven and another—
Lucifer, lovelokest tho, ac litel while it dured.
He was an archangel of hevene, on of goddes knyghtes;
He and other with hym helden nat with treuthe,
Lepen out in lothly forme for his fals wille
That hadde lust to be lyke his lord that was almyghty.
  Ponam pedem meum in aquilone, et similis ero altissimo.
 Lord! why wolde he tho, that wykkede Lucifer,
Luppen alofte in the north syde
Thenne sitten in the sonne syde there the day roweth?
Nere hit for northerne men, anon I wolde yow telle—
Ac I wol lacky no lyf', quod that lady sothly.
‘Hit is sikerere bi southe ther the sonne regneth
Then in the north by many notes, no man leve other;
For theder as the fende fly his fote for to sette,
Ther he faylede and ful and his felawes alle,
And helle is ther he is, and he there ybounde.
Evene the contrarie sitteth Crist, clerkes wyteth the sothe.
  Dixit dominus domino meo, sede a dextris meis.
Ac of this matere no more meven I nelle;
Hewes in the haliday after hete wayten,
Ac thei caren nat thogh hit be cold, knaves, when thei worche.
 Wonderwyse holy wryt telleth how thei fullen,
Summe in erthe, summe in ayr, summe in helle depe,
Ac Lucifer lowest lith of hem alle;
For pruyde ther hym pokede his payne hath non ende.
And alle that worchen that wikked is, wenden thei sholle
After here deth-day and dwelle ther Wrong is,
And alle that han wel ywrouhte, wende they sholle
Estward til hevene, evere to abyde
There Treuthe is, the tour that trinite ynne sitteth.
Lere hit thus lewed men, for lettred hit knoweth,
That treuthe and trewe love, is no tresor bettre.’
 ‘I have no kynde knowying’, quod I, ‘yut mot ye kenne me bettere,
By what wey it wexeth and wheder out of my menynges.’
 ‘Thow dotede daffe’, quod she, ‘dulle aren thy wittes;
To lyte lernedest thow, I leve, Latyn in thy yowthe:
Heu michi, quod sterilem duxi vitam juvenilem!
Hit is a kynde knowynge that kenneth in thyn herte
For to lovye thy lord levest of alle,
Dey rather then do eny dedly synne:
  Melius est mori quam male vivere.
And this I trowe be treuth; whoso kan teche the bettre,
Lok thow soffre hym to seye and so thow myht lerne.
 For Treuthe telleth that love ys triacle to abate synne
And most soverayne salve for soule and for body.
Love is plonte of pees, most precious of vertues,
For hevene holde hit ne myghte, so hevy hit first semede,
Til hit hadde of erthe ygoten hitsilve.
Was never lef uppon lynde lyhtere ther-after,
As when hit hadde of the folde flesch and blode taken.
Tho was hit portatif and persaunt as is the poynt of a nelde;
May non armure hit lette ne none heye walles.
 Forthi is love ledare of oure lordes folke of hevene,
And a mene, as the mayre is bitwene the kyng and the comune;
Ryht so is love a ledare and the lawe shapeth,
Up man for his mysdedes the mercement he taxeth.
 And for to knowe hit kyndly, hit comeseth by myhte,
And in the herte—ther is the hed and the heye welle;
For of kynde knowynge of herte ther comseth a myhte
And that falleth to the fader that formede us alle,
Lokede on us with love, let his sone deye
Mekeliche for oure mysdedes, to amende us alle,
And yut wolde hem no wo that wrouthe hym al that tene
Bote mekeliche with mouth mercy he bysoughte,
To have pite on that peple that payned hym to dethe.
 Here myhtow se ensaumples in hymself one
That he was myhtfull and meke, and mercy gan graunte
To hem that hengen hym hye and his herte thorlede.
Forthy I rede yow riche, haveth reuthe uppon the pore;
Thogh ye be myhty to mote, beth meke in youre werkes,
For the same mesure that ye meteth, amis other elles,
Ye shal be weye ther-with whenne ye wende hennes.
  Eadem mensura qua mensi fueritis, remecietur vobis.
 For thogh ye ben trewe of youre tonges and trewliche wynne
And ben as chast as a child that chyt nother ne fyhteth,
But yf ye lovye leeliche and lene the pore
Of such good as god yow sent goodliche parte,
Ye na haveth na more meryte in masse ne in houres
Then Malkyn of here maydenheed when no man here covayteth.
 For James the gentele jugeth in his bokes
That fayth withouten the feet is feblere then naught
And as ded as dore-nayl, but yf the dedes folowe:
  Fides sine operibus mortua est.
Chastite withouten charite worth cheyned in helle;
Hit is as lewed thyng as a laumpe that no liht is ynne.
Mony chapeleynes aren chaste, ac charite hem fayleth;
Aren none hardere ne hungriere then men of holy chirch,
Averous and evel-willed when thei ben avaunsed,
Unkynde to here kyn and to alle cristene.
Thei chewen here charite and chiden after more,
And ben acombred with coveytise—thei can nought crepe out,
So harde hath avaryce yhasped hem togederes.
And that is no treuthe of the trinite, but triccherye, synne,
And luther ensaumple, leef me, as for the lewed peple.
 For this aren wordes ywryten in the evangelie:
Date et dabitur vobis —for I dele yow alle.
And that is the lok of love and unloseth grace,
That conforteth alle careful, acombred with synne.
 So love is leche of lyf and lysse of alle payne
And the graffe of grace and grathest way to hevene.
Forthi I may seye, as I saide eer, by sight of this textes,
Whenne alle tresores ben tried, treuthe is the beste;
Love hit,’ quod that lady, ‘lette may I no lengere
To lere the what love is’—and leve at me she lauhte.