Classic Poem

A mynstralle, a gulardous,
Come onys to a bysshopes hous
And asked þere þe charyte;
the porter lete hym have entre.
At tyme of mete, þe bourde was leyd,
And þe benesun shuld be seyd,
thys mynstral made hys melody
With grete noyse, and loude and hy.
Of þe bysshope þe fame ran
that he was an holy man;
the bysshope sette hym at þe bourde,
And shuld have blessed hyt with wurde.
So was he sturbled with þe mynstral,
that he hadde no grace to sey withalle
His graces ryght devoutely
For þe noyse of þe mynstralsy.
the bysshope pleyned hym ful sore,
And seyd to alle þat were þore,
that he ne shulde make hys nycere
Before the graces of þe charyte.
He sagh hyt weyl, þurgh þe Spyryt,
that þer shuld come veniaunce astyt.
‘Gyveþ hy þe charyte, and latyþ hym go
Hys deþ ys nygh, þat shal hym slo.
He toke charyte, and toke hys gate,
And as he passed out at þe gate,
A stone fyl down of þe wal,
And slogh þere þe mynstral.
that betokened þat God was noght
Payd of þat þe mynstral wroght;
that he desturbled þe benesoun
And þe gode mannys devocyoun.
thys tolde Y for þe glemennes sake,
To loke whan þey here gle shul make;
And also for þo þat shuld hyt here,
that þey love hyt nat so dere;
Ne have þerynne so grete lykyng,
the lesse to wurschyp hevene Kyng.