Classic Poem

The common speech is, spend and God will send.
But what sends he? a bottle and a bag,
A staff, a wallet and a woeful end,
For such as list in bravery so to brag.
Then if thou covet coin enough to spend,
Learn first to spare thy budget at the brink,
So shall the bottom be the faster bound:
But he that list with lavish hand to link
(In like expense) a penny with a pound,
May chance at last to sit aside and shrink
His harebrained head without Dame Dainty's door.
Hick, Hob and Dick, with clouts upon their knee,
Have many times more gunhole groats in store
And change of crowns more quick at call than he,
Which let their lease and took their rent before.
For he that raps a royal on his cap,
Before he put one penny in his purse,
Had need turn quick and broach a better tap,
Or else his drink may chance go down the worse.
I not deny but some men have good hap,
To climb aloft by scales of courtly grace,
And win the world with liberality:
Yet he that yerks old angels out apace,
And hath no new to purchase dignity,
When orders fall, may chance to lack his grace.
For haggard hawks mislike an empty hand:
So stiffly some stick to the mercer's stall,
Till suits of silk have sweat out all their land.
So oft thy neighbours banquet in thy hall,
Till Davie Debit in thy parlour stand,
And bids thee welcome to thine own decay.
I like a lion's looks not worth a leek
When every fox beguiles him of his prey:
What sauce but sorrow serveth him a week,
Which all his cates consumeth in one day?
First use thy stomach to a stound of ale,
Before thy malmsey come in merchants' books,
And rather wear (for shift) thy shirt of mail,
Than tear thy silken sleeves with tenterhooks.
Put feathers in thy pillows great and small,
Let them be prinked with plumes that gape for plums,
Heap up both gold and silver safe in hooches,
Catch, snatch, and scratch for scrapings and for crumbs,
Before thou deck thy hat (on high) with brooches.
Let first thine one hand hold fast all that comes,
Before that other learn his letting fly:
Remember still that soft fire makes sweet malt,
No haste but good (who means to multiply):
Bought wit is dear, and dressed with sour salt,
Repentance comes too late, and then say I,
Who spares the first and keeps the last unspent,
Shall find that sparing yields a goodly rent.

Hail Saint Michael with thy longe spere!
Fair beeth thy winges up thy sholdere;
Thou hast a rede kirtil anon to thy fote:
Thou art best angel that ever God maked!
This vers is ful wel y-wrought;
It is of wel ferre y-brought.

Hail Saint Cristofre with thy longe stake!
Thou ber our Loverd Jesus Crist over the brod lake.
Many grete conger swimmeth aboute thy fete.
How many hering to peny at West Chep in London?
This vers is of Holy Writte;
It com of noble witte. . . .

Hail Saint Dominic with thy longe staffe!
It is at the over-end croked as a gaffe.
Thou berest a book on thy bak — ich wene it is a bible;
Though thou be a good clerk, be thou not to heigh.
Trie rime, la, God it wot!
Such an other on erthe I n'ot.

Hail Saint Franceis with thy many fowles,
Kites and crowes, ravenes and owles,
Foure and twenty wild gees and a poucok!
Many bold begger seweth thy route.
This vers is ful wel y-sette;
Swithe ferre it was y-fette.

Hail be ye freres with the white copes!
Ye habbeth a hous at Drochda wher men maketh ropes.
Ever ye beeth roilend the landes al aboute;
Of the water daissers ye robbeth the churches.
Maister he was swithe good
That this sentence understood . . . .

Hail be ye marchans with your grete packes
Of draperie, avoir-de-peise, and your wol-sackes,
Gold, silver, stones riche, markes and ek poundes!
Litil yive ye therof to the wreche pover.
Sleigh he was and ful of witte
That this lore put in writte. . . .

Hail be ye bouchers with your bole-ax!
Fair beeth your barmhatres, yelow beeth your fax;
Ye standeth at the shamel, brod ferlich bernes,
Fleyis you foloweth, ye swoloweth ynow!
The best clerk of al this town
Craftfullich maked this bastoun.

Hail be ye bakers with your loves smale
Of white bred and of blake, ful many and fale!
Ye pincheth on the right weight ayens Goddes law:
To the faire pillory ich rede ye take hede.
This vers is y-wrought so welle
That no tung, y-wis, may telle. . . .

Hail be ye hokesters down by the lake,
With candles and golokes and the pottes blake,
Tripes and kine feet and shepen hevedes!
With the hory tromchery hory is youre inne.
He is sory of his lif
That is fast to such a wif! ...

Maketh glad, my frendes; ye sitteth to long stille;
Speketh now and gladieth and drinketh al your fille!
Ye habbeth y-herd of men lif that woneth in land;
Drinketh deep and maketh glade, ne hab ye non other nede.
This song is y-said of me;
Ever y-blessed mot ye be!