Classic Poem

Of a mon Matheu thoghte,
Tho he the winyord wroghte,
And wrot it on his bok.
In marewe men he soghte,
At under mo he broghte,
And nom, and non forsok.
At midday and at non
He sende hem thider fol son
To helpen hem with hok;
Here foreward wes to fon
So the furmest hevede idon,
Ase the erst undertok.

At evesong even negh,
Idel men yet he segh
Lomen habbe an honde.
To hem he saide an hegh
That suithe he wes undregh
So idel for to stonde.
So it wes bistad
That no mon hem ne bad
Here lomes to fonde.
Anon he was birad
To werk that he hem lad;
For night nolde he nout wonde.

Here hure anight he nome,
He that furst and last come,
A penny brod and bright.
This other swore, alle and some,
That er were come with lome,
That so nes it nout right,
And swore somme unsaght
That hem wes werk bitaght
Longe er it were light;
For right were that me raght
The mon that all day wraght
The more mede anight.

Thenne seith he, iwis:
" Why, nath nout uch mon his?
Holdeth now or pees.
Away, thou art unwis!
Tak all that thine is,
And fare ase foreward wees.
If I may betere beode
To my latere leode,
To leve nam I nout lees;
To alle that ever hider eode
To do today my neode,
Ichulle be wrathelees. "

This world me wurcheth wo;
Rooles ase the ro,
I sike for unsete,
And mourne ase men doth mo
For doute of foule fo,
How I my sunne may bete.
This mon that Matheu gef
A penny that wes so bref,
This frely folk unfete,
Yet he yirnden more,
And saide he come well yore,
And gonne his love forlete.