Classic Poem

Anothere exemple of disceytte.

Now listen welle how they made us a baleys
Whan they borwed at the towne of Caleys,
As they were wonte, ther wolle that was hem lente,
Ffor yere and yere they schulde make paymente,
And some tyme als too yere and too yere;
This was fayre lone, but yett wolle ye here
How they to Bruges wolde her wolles carye,
And for hem take paymente wythouten tarye,
And selle it faste for redy money in honde?
Ffor fifty pounde of money of losse they wolde not wonde
In a thousande pounde, and lyve therebye,
Tylle the day of paymente easylye,
Some ageyne in exchaunge makynge,
Ffulle lyke usurie, as men make undertakynge.
Than whan thys payment of a thowsande pounde
Was welle contente, they shulde have chaffare sounde,
Yff they wolde fro the staple fulle
Reseyve ageyne ther thousande pounde in wolle.
And thus they wold, if we will beleve,
Wypen our nose with our owne sleve;
Thow this proverbe be homly and undew,
Yet be liklynesse it is for soth fulle trew.
In Cotteswolde also they ryde aboute,
And al Englonde, and bien, wythouten doute,
What them liste, wythe fredome and fraunchise,
More then we Englisshe may getyn in any wyse.
But wolde God that, wythoute lenger delayse,
These galeise were unfraught in xl. daies,
And in tho xl. dayes charged ageyne;
And that they myght be put to certeyne
To go to oste, as wee there wyth hem doo.
It were expediente that they did right soo
As wee do there; if the kynge wolde itt,
A! what worschip wold falle to Englysshe witte!
What profite also to oure marchaundye,
Whiche wolde of nede be cherisshed hartelye!
Ffor I wolde wete why nowe owre navey fayleth,
Whan many a foo us at oure dorre assayleth,
Now in these dayes, that, if there come a nede,
What navey shulde wee have it is to drede.
In Denmarke ware fulle noble conquerours
In tyme passed, fulle worthy werriours,
Whiche when they had here marchaundes destroyde,
To poverte they felle, thus were they noyede;
And so they stonde at myscheffe at this daye;
This lerned I late, welle wryten, this no naye.
Therefore be ware, I can no better wylle,
Yf grace it wole of other mennys perylle;
Ffor yef marchaundes were cherysshede to here spede,
We were not lykelye to fayle in ony nede.
Yff they bee riche, than in prosperite
Schalbe oure londe, lordes, and comonte.
And in worship nowe thinke I on the sonne
Of marchaundy, Richarde of Whitingdone,
That loode-sterre and chefe chosen floure,
Whate hathe by hym oure England of honoure?
And whate profite hathe bene of his richesse?
And yet lasteth dayly in worthinesse,
That penne and papere may not me suffice
Him to describe, so high he was of prise;
Above marchaundis to sette him one of the beste,
I can no more, but God have hym in reste.