Classic Poem

Lo, he that can be Cristes clerc,
And knowe the knottes of his crede,
Now may se a wonder werke
Of harde happes to take goud heede.
The dome of dethe is hevy drede
For hym that wol not mercy crie;
Than is my rede, for mucke ne mede
That no man melle of lollardrye.

I sey for meself, yut wist I never
But now late what hit shuld be,
And, by my trouthe, I have wel lever
No more kyn than my a, b, c.
To lolle so hie in suyche degre
Hit is no perfit profecie;
Sauf seker sample to the and me
To be war of lollardie.

The game is nogt to lolle so hie
Ther fete failen fondement;
And yut is a moche folie
For fals beleve to ben brent.
Ther the Bibelle is al myswent
To jangle of Job or Jeremye,
That construen hit after her entent
For lewde lust of lollardie.

Hit is unkyndly for a knigt,
That shuld a kynges castel kepe,
To bable the Bibel day and nigt
In restyng tyme when he shuld slepe;
And carefoly awey to crepe,
For alle the chief of chivalrie.
Wel aught hym to waile and wepe,
That suyche lust hath in lollardie.

An old castel, and not repaired,
With wast walles and wowes wide,
The wages ben ful yvel wared
With suiche a capitayn to abide;
That rerethe riot for to ride
Agayns the kynge and his clergie,
With prive peyne and pore pride;
Ther is a poynt of lollardie.

For many a man withyn a while
Shal aby his gult ful sore;
So fele gostes to begile
Hym aught to rue evermore.
For his sorowe shal he never restore
That he venemed with envye;
But ban the burthe that he was of bore,
Or ever had lust in lollardie.

Every shepe that shuld be fed in felde,
And kepte fro wolfes in her folde,
Hem nedethe nether spere ne shulde,
Ne in no castel to be withholde.
For ther the pasture is ful colde,
In somer seson when hit is drie;
And namly when the soyle is solde,
For lewde lust of lollardie.

An old castel draw al doun,
Hit is ful hard to rere hit newe,
With suyche a congregacioun
That cast hem to be untrewe.
When beggers mow nether bake ne brewe,
Ne have wherwith to borow ne bie.
Than mot riot robbe or reve,
Unde[r] the colour of lollardie.

That castel is not for a kynge
That the walles ben overthrowe;
And yut wel wors abidynge
Whan the captayn away is flowe,
And forsake spere and bowe,
To crepe fro knigthode into clergie.
Ther is a bitter blast yblowe,
To be bawde of lollardie.

I trowe ther be no knigt alyve
That wold have don so open a shame,
For that crafte to studi or strive,
Hit is no gentel mannes game;
But if hym lust to have a name
Of pelour under ipocrasie,
And that were a foule defame
To have suyche lose of lollardie.

And, parde, lolle thei never so longe,
Yut wol lawe make hem lowte;
God wol not suffre hem be so stronge
To bryng her purpos so abowte,
With saunz faile and saunz doute,
To rere riot and robberie;
By reson thei shul not long route,
While the taile is docked of lollardie.

Of the hede hit is las charge,
When grace wol not be his gide,
Ne suffre hym for to lepe at large,
But hevely his hede to hide.
Where shuld he other route or ride
Agayns the chief of chivalrie.
Not hardi in no place to abide,
For alle the sekte of lollardie.

A! God, what unkyndly gost
Shuld greve that God grucchede nougt!
Thes Lollardes that lothen ymages most
With mannes handes made and wrougt,
And pilgrimages to be sougt;
Thei seien hit is but mawmentrie.
He that this lose first up brougt,
Had gret lust in lollardie.

He wer ful lewde that wold byleve
In figure mad of stok or ston,
Yut fourme shulde we none repreve,
Nether of Marie ne of Jon,
Petre, Poule, ne other none
Canonised by clergie;
Than the seyntes everychone
Be litel holde to lollardie.

And namly James among hem alle,
For he twyes had turnement,
Moche mischaunse mot him befalle
That last beheded hym in Kent;
And alle that were of that assent.
To Crist of heven I clepe and crie,
Sende hem the same jugement,
And alle the sekte of lollardie.

For that vengans agayns kynde
Was a poynt of cowardyse;
And namly suyche on to bete or bynde
That migt not stande, set, ne rise.
What dome wold ye hym devyse
By lawe of armes or gentrie,
But serve hym in the same wise,
And alle the sekte of lollardie.

When falsnes faileth frele folie,
Pride wol preseyn sone amonge;
Than willerdome with old envy
Can none other way but wronge.
For synne and shame with sorowe stronge,
So overset with avutrie,
That fals beleve is fayn to fonge
The lewde lust of lollardie.

And under colour of suiche lollynge,
To shape sodeyn surreccioun
Agaynst oure liege lord kynge,
With fals ymaginacioun.
And for that corsed conclusion,
By dome of knigthode and clergie,
Now turneth to confusioun
The sory sekte of lollardie.

For holy writ berithe witnes,
He that fals is to his kynge,
That shamful dethe and hard distres,
Shal be his dome at his endynge.
Than double dethe for suyche lollynge
Is hevy, when we shul hennes hye.
Now, Lord, that madest of nougt alle thinge,
Defende us alle fro lollardie.