Classic Poem

Ffulfyllyd ys the profe[s]y for ay
That Merlyn sayd, and many on mo,
Wysdam ys wel ny away,
No man may knowe hys f[r]end fro foo.
Now gyllorys don gode men gye;
Rygt gos redles alle behynde;
Truthe ys turnyd to se trechery;
Ffor now the bysom ledys the blynde.

Now gloserys fulle gayly they go;
Pore men be perus of this land;
Sertes sum tyme hyt was not so,
But sekyr alle this ys synnes sonde.
Now maynte[ne]rys be made justys,
And lewde men rewle the lawe of kynde;
Nobulle men be holdyn wyse,
Ffor now the bysom ledys the blynde.

Truthe is set at lytyl prys;
Worschyp fro us longe hath be slawe;
Robberys now rewle rygtwysenesse,
And wynnerys with her sothe sawe;
Synne sothfastnesse has slawe;
Myrth ys now out of mannys mynde;
The drede of God ys al todrawe;
Ffor now the bysom ledys the b[l]ynde.
Now brocage ys made offycerys;
And baratur ys made bayly;
Knygtus be made custemerys,


Flatererys be made kyngus perys;
Lordys be led alle out of kynde;
Pore men ben knygtus ferys;
Ffor now the bysom ledys the blynde.

The constery ys combryd with coveytyse,
Ffor trouth his sonkyn undur the grounde;
W[ith] offycyal nor den no favour ther ys,
But if sir symony shewe them sylver rounde.
Ther among sp[irit]ualté it ys founde,
Ffor peté ys clene out of ther mynde.
Lord, whan thy wylle is, al ys confounde;
Ffor now the bysom ledys the blynde.

He ys lovyd that wele can lye;
And thevys tru men honge;
To God I rede that we cry,
That this lyfe last not longe.
This werld is turnyd up-so-doune among;
For frerys ar confessourys, ageyn a kynde,
To the chefe ladyes of this londe;
Therfor the bysom ledys the blynde.

Lordys the lawe they lere,


Japerys syt lordys ful nere;
Now hath the devylle alle hys devys;
Now growyth the gret flour-de-lys;
Wymmonis wyttes are fulle of wynd;
Now ledres ladyn the leward at her debres;
For caus the bysom ledys [the] blynde.

Now prelates don pardon selle,
And holy chyrche ys chaffare,
Holynes comyth out of helle,
Ffor absoluciouns waxyn ware.
Gabberys gloson eny whare,
And gode feyth comys alle byhynde;
Ho shalle be levyd the sothe wylle spare?
Ffor now the bysom ledys the blynde.

The grete wylle the sothe spare,
The comonys love not the grete;
Therfor every man may care,
Lest the wade growe over the whete.
Take hede how synne hath chastysyd Frauns,
Whan he was in hys fayrest kynde;
ow that Flaundrys hath myschannys;
Ffor cause the bysom ledyth the blynde.

Therfor every lord odur avauns,
And styfly stond yn ych a stoure;
Among gou make no dystaunce,
But, lordys, buskys gou out of boure.
Ffor to hold up this londus honour,
With strenkyth our enmys for to bynde,
That we may wynne the hevynly tour;
Ffor here the bysom ledys the blynde.