Classic Poem

He that neuere knew the swetnesse of wele,
Thogh he yt lakke ay, lesse hym greue yt schal
Than hym that hath ben weleful yeerys fele,
And in effect hath feeld no greef at al.
O pouert, God me schylde fro thy fal.
O deth, thy strook gyt ys more agreable
To me than lyue a lyf so miserable.

Sixe marc geerly and no more than that,
Fader, to me me thynkyth ys ful lyte,
Consideryng how that I am nougt
In housbondrye ilemed worth a myte.
Scarsely kowde I charre away the kyte
That me byreue wolde my pullaylle.
And more axit housbondly gouernaylle.

Wyth plow can I nougt medlen ne with harwe,
Ne woot nougt what lond good ys for what corne,
And for to lade a cart or fylle a barwe,
To whyche I neuer vsyd was toforn,
My bakke vnbuxum hath swyche thyng forsworn
At instaunce of wrytyng, hys werreour,
That stowpyng hath hym spylt with hys labour.

Many men, fader, weenen that wrytyng
No trauaile ys, they hold hyt but a game.
Art hath no foo but swyche folk vnkunnyng.
But who so lyst dysporte hym in þat same
Let hym continue and he schal fynde yt grame.
It ys wel gretter labour than yt semeth.
The blynde man of colours al wrong demeth.

A wryter moot thre thynges to hym knytte,
And in tho may be noo disseueraunce.
Mynde, ye, and hande, non may fro other flytte
But in hem moot be ioynt continuance.
The mynde al hool wythouten variaunce
On ye and hand awayte moot alway,
And they two eke on hym, yt ys no nay.

Who so schal wryte may nougt holde a tale
Wyth hym and hym, ne synge thys ne that,
But al hys wyttys hoole grete and smale
There most appere and halden them therat.
And syn he speke may ne synge nat,
But bothe two he nedys moot forbere,
Hys labour to hym ys th'elengere.

Thys artificers se I day by day
In the hootteste of al hyre bysynesse
Talken and singe and make game and play
And forth hyr labour passyth with gladnesse.
But we laboure in trauayllous stilnesse.
We stowpe and stare vpon the schepys skyn
And kepe must oure song and wordys in.

Wrytyng also doth grete anoyes three,
Of whyche ful fewe folkes taken hede,
Sauf we oureself, and thyse lo þey be.
Stomak ys on, whom stowpyng out of drede
Annoyeth sore. And to oure bakkes nede
Moot yt be greuous. And the thrid, oure yen
Vpon the whyte mochel sorwe dryen.