Classic Poem

Of tournamentys þat are forbede
Yn holy cherche, as men rede,
Of tournamentys Y preve þerynne,
Sevene poyntes of dedly synne:
Fyrst ys pryde, as þou wel wost,
Ayauntement, bobaunce, and bost;
Of ryche atyre ys here avaunce,
Prykyng here hors with olypraunce.
Wete þou wel þyr ys envye
Whan one seeþ anoþer more maystrye,
Oþer yn wurdys, oþer yn dedys,
Envye moste of alle hem ledys.
Yre and wraþþe may þey nat late;
Ofte are tournamentys made for hate.
Gyf every knygt lovede oþer weyl,
Tournamentes shulde be never a deyl;
And certys þey falle yn sloghnes,
they love hyt more þan God or messe.
And þerof ys hyt no doute,
they dyspende more gode þeraboute,
(that ys geve al to folye)
than to any dede of mercy.
And gyt may nat, on no wyse,
Be forgete Dame Coveytyse,
For she shal fonde, on alle wyse,
To wynne hors and harnyse.
And gyt shal he make sum robbery,
Or bygyle hys noste þer he shal lye.
Glotonye also ys hem among,
Delycyus metes to make hem strong;
And drynke þe wyne þat he were lyght,
Wyþ glotonye to make hym wyght.
Gyt ys þere Dame Lecherye:
Of here cumþ alle here maystrye.
Many tymes, for wymmen sake,
Knyghteys tournamentys make;
And whan he wendyþ to þe tournament
She sendyþ hym sum pryvy present.
And byt hym do for hys lemman
Yn vasselage alle þat he kan;
So ys he bete þere, for here love,
that he ne may sytte hys hors above,
that peraventure, yn alle hys lyve,
Shal he never aftyr þryve.
Loke now whedyr swyche tourneours
Mow be kalled turmentours:
For þey turmente alle with synne;
there tourment ys, þer shul þey ynne,
But þey leve swyche myschaunce,
And for here synne do penaunce.
Also Y telle by justyng,
therof cumþ myschefful þyng:
Alle ys þe toon with þe touþer
As a shyppe þat ys turned with þe roþer.
And þese bourdys of þese squyers,
Also have þey made for swyche maners
Of pryde, hate, and envye;
Sloghnes, coveytyse, and glotonye,
Lecherye makþ hem alle to bygynne:
these wymmen are partyners of þere synne.
A clerk of order þat haþ þe name,
Gyf he juste, he ys to blame,
Hyt were wurþy þat had þe gre,
Brokyn þe arme, or lege, or thee;
Hyt ys forsoþe, gyf he so werche,
Agens þe state of holy cherche.
Hyt ys forbode hym, yn þe decre,
Myracles for to make or se;
For myracles gyf þou bygynne,
Hyt ys a gaderyng, a syght of synne.
He may yn þe cherche, þurgh þys resun,
Pley þe resurreccyun,
that ys to seye, how God ros,
God and man yn mygt and los,
To make men be yn beleve gode
that he ros with flesshe and blode.
And he may pleye withoutyn plyght
Howe God was bore yn Gole nyght,
To make men to beleve stedfastly
that he lyght yn þe Vyrgyne Mary.
Gif þou do hyt yn weyys or grevys,
A syght of synne truly hyt semys.
Seynt Isidre, Y take to wyttnes,
For he hyt seyþ, þat soþe hyt es:
thus hyt seyþ, yn hys boke,
they forsake þat þey toke,
God and here Crystendam,
that make swyche pleyys to any man
As myracles and bourdys,
Or tournamentys of grete prys.
these are þe pompes þat þou forsoke,
Fyrst whan þou þy Crystendam toke.
At þe fonte, seyþ þe lewed man:
‘Y forsake þe, here, Satan;
And alle þy pompes and all thy werkys?
thys ys þy lore, aftyr þe clerkys.
Haldyst þou forward, e certys nay,
Whan þou makyst swyche adray?
Agens God þou brekest cunnaunt,
And servyst goure syre. Termagaunt.
Seynt Ysodre seyþ yn hys wrytyng:
‘Alle þo þat delyte to se swyche þyng,
Or hors or harneys lenyþ þartyl;
Gyt have þey gylt of here þeryl.
Gyf prest or clerk lene vestement
that halwed ys þurgh sacrament,
More þan ouþer þey are to blame,
Of sacrylege þey have þe fame;
Fame, for þey falle yn plyght,
they shul be chastised perfor with ryge.
Daunces, Rarols, somour games,
Of many swych come many shames;
Whan þou stodyyst to make þyse,
thou art slogh yn Goddys servyse;
And þat synnen yn swych þurgh þe,
For hem þou shalt acouped be.
What seye ge by every mynstral,
that yn swyche þynges delyte hem alle?
Here doyng ys ful perylous,
Hyt loveth noþer God ne Goddys house.
Hem were lever here of a daunce,
Of bost, and of olypraunce,
than any gode of God of hevene,
Or ouþer wysdom þat were to nevene.
Yn foly ys alle þat þey gete,
Here cloth, here drynke, and here mete.
And, for swych þyng, telle Y shal,
What byfyl onys of a mynstral.
Seynt Gregorye relleþ yn hys spell:
How hyt of a mynstral fell.