Classic Poem

In a somer seson whenne softe was the sunne
I shop me into a shroud as I a shep were,
In habite as an hermite unholy of werkes,
Wente wide in this world wondres to here.
But on a May morwening upon Malverne hilles
Me befel a ferly, of fairye me thoughte;
I was wery ofwandred and wente me to reste
Under a brod bank by a bournes side;
And as I lay and lenede and lookede on the watres,
I slomerede into a sleeping, it swyede so merye.
Thenne gan I mete a merveillous swevene:
That I was in a wildernesse, wiste I nevere where;
Ac as I beheld into the Est on high to the sunne

I saw a towr on a toft tryely y-maked;
A deep dale benethe, a dungeoun thereinne
With deepe dikes and derke and dredful of sight.
A fair feeld ful of folk fand I there-betwene,
Of alle maner of men, the mene and the riche,
Worching and wandringe as the world asketh.
Some putte hem to plow, playede ful selde,
In setting and sowing swunke ful harde,
Wonne that these wastours with glotonye destroyeth.
And some putte hem to pride, aparailede hem thereafter,
In countenaunce of clothing comen disgised.
In prayers and penaunce putten hem manye,
Al for love of oure Lord livede wel straite,
In hope for to have hevene-riche blisse,
As ancres and hermites that holden hem in celles,
Coveite not in cuntré to cairen aboute
For no likerous liflode here likam to plese.

And some chosen to chaffare, they chevede the betere,
As it seemeth to oure sight that suche men thriven.
And some merthes to make, as minstrales cunne,
And gete gold with here glee giltles, I trowe.