Classic Poem

 Thenne hadde Wit a wyf, was hote dame Studie,
That ful lene lokede and lyf-holy semede;
She was wonderly wroth that Wit me so tauhte.
Al staryng dame Studie sterneliche sayde:
‘Wel artow wyse,’ quod she to Wyt, ‘suche wysedomes to shewe
To eny fol or to flaterere or to frentike peple;’
And sayde, ‘ Nolite mittere , ye men, margerie-perles
Among hogges that han hawes at wille;
They do bote drevele theron—draf were hem levere.
Then al the preciouse perye that eny prince weldeth.
I syg hit by suche,’ quod Studie, ‘that sheweth by here werkes
That they lovyen lond and lordshipe and lykynge of body
More then holynesse or hendenesse or al that seyntes techeth.
 Wysdom and wit now is nat worth a carse
Bote hit be cardet with coveytise, as clotheres kemben here wolle.
Who can contreve and caste to disseyve the rightful
And lette with a love-day treuthe, and bigile,
That coveite can and caste thus ar cleped into the consayle.
Qui sapiunt nugas et crimina lege vocantur,
Qui recte sapiunt, lex jubet ire foras.
He is reverensed and yrobed that can robbe the peple
Thorw fallas and fals questes and thorw fikel speche.
 Job the gentele in his gistes witnesseth
What shal worthen of suche when thei lyf leten:
  Ducunt in bonis dies suos, et in fine descendunt ad infernum.
The sauter saith the same of alle suche ryche:
  Ibunt in progenies patrum suorum, et usque in eternum non videbunt lumen.
  Et alibi: Ecce ipsi peccatores, &c.
“Lo!” saith holy letrure, “whiche lordes beth this schrewes!
Tho that god most good yeveth, greveth most riht and treuthe.”
  Que perfecisti, destruxerunt.
Harlotes for here harlotrye aren holpe ar nedy pore;
And that is no riht ne resoun, for rather men sholde
Help hem that hath nauhte then tho that han no nede.
 Ac he that hath holy writ ay in his mouth
And can telle of Treuthe and of the twelve aposteles
Or of the passioun of Crist or of purgatorie the peynes,
Litel is he loved or leet her-fore among lordes at festes.
 Nowe is the manere at the mete, when munstrals ben stille,
The lewed agen the lered the holy lore to dispute,
And tellen of the trinite how two slowe the thridde
And brynge forth ballede resones, taken Bernard to witnesse,
And putten forth presompciouns to preve the sothe.
Thus they drevele at the deyes, the deite to knowe,
And gnawen god with gorge when here guttes fullen.
 Ac the carful may crye and quake at the gate,
Bothe a-fyngred and a-furst, and for defaute spille;
Ys non so hende to have hym yn, but hote hym go ther god is!
Thenne semeth hit to my siht, to suche that so biddeth,
God is nat in that hom, ne his helpe nother.
Lytel loveth he that lord that lente hym al that blisse
That so parteth with the pore a parsel, when hym nedeth.
Ne were mercy in mene men more then in riht riche,
Mony tymes mendenauntes myhte gon a-fyngred;
And so saith the sauter, I saw hit in Memento:
  Ecce audivimus eam (i.e. caritatem) in Effrata; invenimus eam in campus silve.
 Clerkes and knyhtes carpen of god ofte
And han muche in here mouth, ac mene in herte.
Freres and faytours han founde up suche questions
To plese with proude men sennes this pestelences,
And prechyng at seynt Poules in puyr envye of clerkes,
That folk is nat ferme in the faith ne fre of here godes,
Ne sory for here synnes; so is pruyde enhanced
In religion and in al the reume among riche and pore,
That preyeres han no power this pestilences to lette.
For god is deef nowadayes and deyneth us nat to here
And gode men for oure gultes he al to-grynt to deth;
And yut this wreches of this world is none ywar by other,
Ne for drede of eny deth withdraweth hem fro pruyde
Ne parteth with the pore, as puyr charite wolde,
Bote in gaynesse and in glotonye for-glotten here godes
And breketh nat here bred to the pore, as the bok hoteth:
  Frange esurienti panem tuum.
Ac the more he wynneth and hath the world at his wille
And lordeth in ledes, the lasse gode he deleth.
 Tobie techeth nat so, taketh hede, ye ryche,
How he tolde in a tyme and tauhte his sone dele:
  Si tibi sit copia, abundanter tribue; si autem exiguum, illud impertiri libenter stude.
And is to mene no more bote “Who muche gode weldeth,
Be large ther-of whil hit lasteth to ledes that ben nedy;
And yf thow have litel, leve sone, loke by thy lyve
Get the love ther-with, thogh thow worse fare.”
Ac lust no lord now ne lettred man of suche lore to here,
Bote lythen how they myhte lerne leest god spene.
And that loveth lordes now and leten hit a Dowel,
For is no wit worth now but if hit of wynnynge soune.
Forthy, Wit,’ quod she, ‘be war holy writ to shewe
Amonges hem that han hawes atten wille,
The which is a lykyng and a luste and love of the world.’
 And when Wit was ywar what Studie menede,
I myhte gete no grayn of Wittes grete wittes,
But al lauhynge he louted and loked uppon Studie,
Semyng that I sholde bysechen here of grace.
 And when I was war of his wille, to that womman gan I louten,
And saide, ‘Mercy, ma dame youre man shal I worthen
As longe as I lyve, bothe late and rathe,
And for to worche youre wille the while my lyf duyreth,
With that ye kenne me kyndeliche to knowe what is Dowel.’