University of Virginia Library

I frayned here fayre, for hym that here made:
“The dongen in the dale that dredful his of sygth,
Wat may hit mene, madame, Y beseche?”
“That ys the kastel of care: ho so cometh thereinne
May banne that he bore was to body or to soule.
Thereinne wonyes a weye that Wrong ys hote
Ant eke fadur of falseed, formed hymsylf:
Adam ant Eue he egged to ylle,
Consayled Kaym to kyllen ys brothur;
Judas he byjaped wyth Juen syluer
Ant sennes on an hellerne hanged hym aftur.
He ys lettare of loue, lyeth hem alle:
That trysteth on ys tresor, trayed as sone.”
Then haued Y wondur in my wyt, wat wom[a]n he were
That such wyse wordus of holy wryt schewed,
Ant halsened here on the heye name, hor he thennus yede,
Wat that a were that wyssed me so fayre
Bothe of falsenesse ant fayth: “Fayne nat, Y hote!”
“Holy Chirche Y am,” quad sche, “thow houghtest me to knowe.
Y vndurfong the furst ant thy fayth taughte,
Ant broughtest me borwes my byddyng to holde,
Wil thy lyf lasted to loue me oure alle,
Ant eke to be buxum my byddying to wyrche.”
Thenne Y courbed on my knes, cryed here of here grace,
Preyed here petousely to prey for my synnes
Ant to kenne me kyindely on Cryst to byleue,
That Y myght werchyn ys wylle that wroght me to man.
“Theche me to no tresor but telle me thys ylke,
How Y may saue my soule that senne hard yholde.”

“Wan alle tresores ar tryed, trewthe ys the beste.
Y do hit on Deus caritas to dome the sothe:
Hit ys as derworthe a drewerye as dere God hymsylf.
For ho ys trewe of ys tonge ant telleth non other,
Doth the wercus therewyth, wylneth no man ylle,
He ys a god be the gospel, a grounde ant alofte,
Ant eke yleke to oure lord by seynt Leucus lessoun.
Clercus that knoweth hit scholde kennen hit aboute,
For cristene ant vncristene claymeth hit vchone.
Euery wyght that ys wys wylneth hit to haue:
Kyngus ant knyghtus scholde kepen hyt be resoun,
Ryden an rappe down in reumus aboute,
Ant take trangressores ant teyen hem faste
Tyl trewthe haued ytermyned here trespas to the ende.
For Dauid in hys days dubbed knyghtes,
Dede hem swere on here swerd to serue trewth euere.
Þat ys profession that appendeth to knyghtus
Ant nat to faste a fryday in fifscore wyntur,
But halde wyth hym ant wyth here that haschet the trewthe
Ant neuer leue hem for loue ne for lachyng of yftus,
Ant ‘ho’ so passeth thys poynt ys apostata in the hordre.
Cryst, kynggen kyng, knigte[d] tene:
Cherubyn ant seraphyn, such seuene ant anothur,
Yaf hem mygthe in hys mageste—the murgur hym thoughte—
Ant ouer ys mene mayne made hem arcangles;
Taughte hem thorw the trynite the trewthe to knowe,
To be buxum at ys bede, a bad hem nat ellus.
Lucifer wyth legyounes lerned hit in heuene
Ant was the louelokest of lyght after oure lord syluen,
Tyl he brak boxumnesse torw bost of hemsylfe.
Thenne fulle he wyth ys felawscipe ant fendes bycome,
Out of heue into helle hobeled they faste.
Somme in eyr, somme in herthe, somme in helle depe,
Ac Lucifer lowest lyth of hem alle:
For pruyde that hym pulte out ys peyne hath non ende,
Ant apostata of that place ant pelour of helle.
Ant alle that wyrcheth wyth Wrong, wenden they scollen
Aftur here deth day ant dwelle wyth that schrew.
Ac tho that wyrchen the word that holy wryt techeth
Ant endeth as Y or sayde in parfite vertus,
Mow be syker that here soule schal wende to heuene
There trewthe his in trinite, ant tronen hem alle.
Forthy Y seyde er by syght of thys tyxtes:
Wen alle tresores ar tryed, trewthe ys the beste.

Lere hyt thus to lewed men, for lettred hyt knoweth,
That trewthe his the tresor trydest on erthe.”
“I haue no kynde knowyng: yut mot ye kene me betre
By wat craft in my cors hyt comseth ant were.”
“Thow doted daffe,” quad sche, “dulle are thy wyttes!
Hyt ys a kynde knowyng that keneth
For to louy thy god leuere than thyselue;
To do no dedly synne, deye thow [thow] scholdest,
For thus wytnessett ys word: wyrche thow thereaftur!
Thys, Y trowe, be trewthe; ho can theche the bettere,
Loke thow suffre hym to seye ant senes lere hit aftur.
For loue his the leuest thynk that oure lord hasketh,
Ant eke the plente of pes—preche hit in thyn harpe,
There thow art murye at the mete, yf men byt the yed.

For in kynde knowyng in herte there comseth a myght,
Ant that falleth to the fadur that fourmed vs alle,
Loked on vs wyth loue, let ys sone deye
Mylelyche for oure mysdedes to menden vs alle,
Ant yut wolde hem no wo that wrowghte hym that tene,
But mikelyche wyth mouthe mercy a bysowghte,
To haue pite on the peple that peyned hym to dethe.
Here myght thow se ensawmples in hymsylf one,
That he was myghtfol ant meke ant mercy gan graunte
To hem that hongen hym heye ant ys herte thorled.
Forthy Y rede, ye ryche, habbeth rewth on the pore;
Thow ye be myghty to mote, beth meke in youre wercus:
Loketh on hem wyth loue-lawes, thow ye hem kepe.
For the same mesures that methet amys
Other alles ye schal be wo therewyth wen ye wenden hennus.
Thouȝ ye be trewe of yor tonge ant trewlyche wynne
Ant be as schast as a childe ant do chirches make,
But yf ye loue lelelyche ant lene the pore,
Of such god as God ou sent godlyche parte,
Ye habbeth no more meryte in masse ne in houres
Then Maleken of here maydenhod that no man desyreth.
James the gentel iuggeth by ys bokes
That fayth wythouten the fet ys febler then nauȝt
Ant as ded as a dorenayl, but yf dedus folwe.
Mony chapelyns aren chaste, ac charite ys aweye.
Aren noen harder then summe wen they ben avaunsed,
Ant eke vnkynde to here [kyn] ant to alle other crystene;
Cheweth here charite, chyden aftur more.
Here loue ys likned to a laumpe that no lyght ys ynne:
Such chastite wythouten charite worth cheyned in helle!
For ye curatores that kepeth yow clene of youre body
Ant beth acombred wyth couetyse, ye konnen nat crepe out,
So harde haueth auarice yhapsed yow togyderes,—
Trewthe taughte neuere so, but trecherye of elle—
Ant lereth the lewed men later to dele,
Foryth wordus ywryte in the ewangelye:
‘Date et dabitur vobis, for Y dele yow alle.’
That ys lok of loue that lateth out grace
To conforte the carful acombred wyth synne.
Loue ys the lyfloede that oure lord haschet,
Ant eke the gate of grace that goth into heune.
Forthy, seye as Y seyde er, by syght of this tyxtus:
Wen alle tresoures ben tryed, trewthe ys the best.
Now haue Y told the wat trewthe ys—taken in thyn herte.
Y may no lengur lenge the wyth—now loke the oure lord!”