Classic Poem

For vein honour or for the worldes good
Thei that whilom the stronge werres made,
Wher be thei now? Bethenk wel in thi mod.
The day is goon, the nyght is derk and fade,
Her crualte, which mad hem thanne glade,
Thei sorwen now, and yit have noght the more;
The blod is schad, which no man mai restore.

The werre is modir of the wronges alle;
It sleth the prest in holi chirche at masse,
Forlith the maide and doth hire flour to falle.
The werre makth the grete citee lasse,
And doth the lawe his reules overpasse.
There is no thing wherof meschef mai growe
Which is noght caused of the werre, y trowe.

The werre bringth in poverte at hise hieles,
Wherof the comon poeple is sore grieved;
The werre hath set his cart on thilke whieles
Wher that fortune mai noght be believed.
For whan men wene best to have achieved,
Ful ofte it is al newe to beginne:
The werre hath no thing siker, thogh he winne.

Forthi, my worthi prince, in Cristes halve,
As for a part whos feith thou hast to guide,
Ley to this olde sor a newe salve,
And do the werre awei, what so betide:
Pourchace pes, and set it be thi side,
And suffre noght thi people be devoured,
So schal thi name evere after stonde honoured.

If eny man be now or evere was
Ayein the pes thi preve counseillour,
Let god ben of thi counseil in this cas,
And put awei the cruel werreiour.
For god, which is of man the creatour,
He wolde noght men slowe his creature
withoute cause of dedly forfeture.