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Thei sain that it to no man longeth
To reprove them though that thei erre,
But falsly Godd'is godes thei fongeth,
And therwith maintein wo and werre;
Ther dedes should be as bright as sterre,
Ther living leudè mann'is light:
Thei saie the Popa ne maie not erre ;
Nede must that passin mann'is might.

Though' a priest lie with his lemman' al night,
And tellen his felowe and he him,
He goith to masse anon right,
And saieth he singeth out of sinne;
His birde abideth him at his inne,
And dighteth his diner the mene while,
He singeth his masse for he would winne,
And so he wenith God begile.

'Hem thinkith long till thei be met,
And that thei use forth all the yere ;
Emong the folke whan he is set
He holdith no man half his pere:
Of the bishop he hath powere
To soile men, or els thei ben lore,
His absolucion maketh them skere;
Wo is the soule that he singeth for!

The Griffon began for to threte,

And saied, Of monkis canst thou ought?
The Pelli'can said, Thei ben full grete,
And in this world moche wo hath wrought;
Sainct Benet, that ther ordir brought,
Ne made 'hem ner in soche manere,
I trowe it came ner in his thought
That thei should use so grete powere.

That a man should a monke Lorde call,
Ne serve him on knees as a king;
He is as proude as prince in pall,
In mete and drinke, and in all thing:
Some weren a miter and ring,
With double worstid well idight,
With roiall mete and richè drinke,
And ride on courser as a knight.
With haukis and with houndis eke,
With broche or ouchis on his bode;
Some saie no masse in all a weke;
Of deintees is ther mostè sode
With lordshippis and with bondmen;
This is a roiall regioun ;

Sainct Benet made ner non of 'hem
To have lordship of man ne toune.

Now thei ben queint and curious,
With fine clothe clad and servid clene,
Proude, and angrie, and envious,
Malice is mochil that thei mene;
In catching craftie and covetous,
Lordly livin in grete liking;
This living' is not religious
According to Benet's living.

Thei ben clerkes, and courts ovir se,
Ther pore tenaunce fully thei slite;
The hier a man amercid be
The gladlyir thei woll it write:

This is farre from Christes poverte,
For all with cove'tise thei endite;
On the pore thei have no pite,

Ne ner 'hem cherishe but or bite.

And comminly soche ben comen
Of pore peple', and of 'hem begete,
That this perfection han inomen:
Ther fathirs ride but on their fete,
And travaile sore for that thei ete,
In povert livith yong and old;
Ther fathirs suffreth drought and wete,
Many hungrie meles, thurste, and cold.

And all this the monkes han forsake
For Christ's love and Sainct Benete,
To pride and ese have 'hem betake;
This religion is ill besete:
Had thei ben out of gret religion
Thei must have hangid at the plowe,
Threshid and diked fro toune to toune,
With sorie mete not halfe inowe.

Therfore thei han this all forsake,
And take to riches, pride, and ese;

Full fewe for God wol monkes 'hem make,
Lite is soche ordir for to praise;
Sainct Benet ordained it not so,
But bad hem to the cherèliche,
In churchliche manir live and go,
Boistous in yerth, and not lordliche.

Thei disclauderin Sainct Benet,
Therfore thei have his holy curse;
Sainct Benet with hem never met
But if thei thought to robbe his purse.

I can no more here of 'hem tell
But that thei ben like tho before,
And clene serve the devill of hell,
And ben his tresure and his store;

And all soche othir counterfaitours,
Chanons, canons, and soche disgised,
Ben Godd'is enemies and traitours,
His religion han foule dispised;
And of freris I have before
Told in a makin of a crede,
And yet I could tell worse and more,
But men would werien it to rede.

As Goddes godenes no man tell might,
Ne write ne speke, ne thinke in thought,
So ther falshed and ther unright

Maie no man tell that ere God wrought.
The Griffon saied, Thou canst no gode,
Thou came ner of no gentill kinde;
Othir I trowe thou waxist wode
Or ellis thou hast loste thy minde.

Should holy churche y have no hedde
Who should ybe her governaile,

Who should her rule, who should her redde,
Who should her forthren, who availe?
Eche man shall live by his travaile;
Who best doith shall have most mede:
With strength if men the churche assaile
With strength men must defende her nede.

And if the Pope were purely pore
And nedy, and nothing ne had,
He shuld be drive from dore to dore;
The wickid of him n'olde not drad :
Of soche an hedde men would be sade,
And sinfully liven' as 'hem lust;
With strength amendis soche be made,
With wepin wolves from shepe be wust.

If that the Pope and prelates would
So begge and bid, bowe and borowe,
Holy churche should ystande full cold,
Her servauntes sit and soupe sorowe;

And thei were noughtie, foule, and horowe,
To worship God men would wlate
Both on evin and on morowe :
Sochè harlotrie men would hate.

And therfore men of holy churche
Should in be honeste in all thing,
And worshipfull God's workis werche ;
So semeth it to serve Christ ther king
In honest and in clene clothing,
With vessels of gold and clothes riche
To God honestly to make offring,
For to his lordship none is liche.

The Pellican cast an houge crie,
And saied, Alas! why saiest thou so?
Christ is our hede that sitteth on hie,
Heddis ne ought we have no mo;
We ben his membres bothe also,
Fathir he taught us call him als,
Maisters to call forbad he tho;
All maisters ben wickid and fals

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That takith maistrie in his name
Ghostly, and to win yerthly gode;
Kingis and lordes should lordship have,
And rule the peple with milde mode,
-But Christ, for us that shed his blode,
Bad his priests no maistirship have,
Ne carke not for clothis ne fode;
From all mischief he woll 'hem save.

Ther riche clothes shall be rightwisnesse,.
Ther tresure a true life shall be,
Charite shal be ther richesse,
Ther Lordship shall be unite,
And hope in God ther honeste,
Ther vessel a clene conscience;
Pore in sprite, and humilite,
Shall be holy church'is defence.

What! saied the Griffon, maie the greve
That othir folkis faren wele?

What hast thou to doin with ther live?
Thy falsed every man maie fele,
For thou ne canst no cattell getc,
But livest in londe as a lorell,

With glosing gettist thou thy mete;
So farith the devil in hell.

He would that eche man there should dwell, For he livith in clene envie,

So with the tales that thou doest tell

Thou wouldest othir peple destrie
With your glose and your heresie,
For ye can live no bettir life
But cleue in fals hypocrisie,
And bringist the in wo and strife.

And therwith have ye not doen,
For ye ne having here ne eure ;
Ye serve the devill, not God ne man,
And he shall payin you your hire;
For ye wol farin wel at festes,
And be warm clothid for the cold,
Therfore ye glosin Godd'is hestes,
And begile peple yong and old.

And all the sevin sacramentes
Ye speke ayenst as ye were slie,
Tithings, offringes, with your ententes,
And on your Lord's body lie:
All this ye doen to live in ese,
As who sayith ther ben none soche,
And sain The Pope' is not worth a pese,
To make the peple' ayen him groche.

And this ycommith in by fendes
To bring the Christin in distaunce,
For thei would that no man were frendes.
Levith thy chattring with mischaunce!
If thou live well what wilt thou more?
Let othir men live as 'hem list,
Spenden ther gode or kepe in store;
Othir mennes conscience ner thou n'ist.

Ye han no cure to answere fore;
What meddle' ye that han not to doen?
Let men live as thei han doen yore,
For thou shalt answerde for no man.
The Pellican sayid, Sir, naie,

I ne dispisid not the Pope

Ne no sacrament, sothe to saie,

But speke in charite' and gode hope:

But I dispise ther hiè pride,

Ther welthe that should be pore in sprite;
Ther wickidnesse is knowe so wide,
Thei servin God in false habite,
And touruin mekenesse into pride,
And lowlinesse into' hie degre,
And Godd'is wordis tourne and hide,
And I am moved by charite

To lettin men to livin so

With all my conning and my might,
And to waruin men of ther wo,
And to tellin 'hem trouth and right.
The sacramentes be soul'is hele
If thei ben usid in gode use;
Ayenst that speke I ner a dele,
For than ne were I nothing wise;

But thei that use 'hem in misse manere,
Or set 'hem up to any sale,

I trowe thei shall abie 'hem dere;
This is my reson, this my tale:
Who so taketh hem unrightfulliche
Ayenst the ten commandèmentes,
Or elles by glose wretchidliche
Selleth any of the sacramantes,

I trowe thei doe the devill homage,
In that thei wetin thei doe wrong,
And therto I dare well to wage
Thei serve Sathan for all their song.
To tithen' and offre' is holsome life,
So it be doen in due manere,
A man to houselin and to shrive,
Wedding, and all othir in fere.

So it be nother solde ne bought,
Ne také ne give for covetise,
And it be so taken' it is nought;
Who selleth him so maie sore agrise:
On our Lordes body' I doe not lie,
I saie the sothe thorough true rede,

His fleshe and blode, through his misterie,

Is there all in the forme of brede.

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How it is there it nedeth not strive,
Whethre' it be subget or accident,
But as Christ was whan he' was on live
So is he there in verament.

If Pope or cardi'nall live gode live,
As Christ us bad in his gospell,
Ayenst that ne woll I not strive,
But me thinkith thei live not well;

For if the Pope lived as God bedde,
Pride and highnesse he should dispise,
Richesse, covetise, and croune on hedde;
Mekenesse and poverte' he should use.
The Griffon saied he should abaie,
Thou shalt be brent in balefull fire,
And all thy sect I shall distrie;
Ye shall be hangid by the swire.

Ye shulle be hangid and to drawe:
Who givith you leve for to preche,
Or spekin ayenst Godd'is lawe,
And the peple thus falsely teche?

Thou shalt be cursed with boke and bell,
And dissevered from holie churche,
And clene idampnid into Hell,
Otbirwise but ye wollin worche.

The Pelli'can saied, That I ne drede;
Your cursing is of lite value;
Of God I hope to have my mede,
For it is falshed that ye shewe,
For ye ben out of charite,

And wilne vengeaunce, as did Nero:
To suffrin I wol redy be;

I drede not all that thou canst do.

Christ bad ones suffre for his love,
And so he taught all his servauntes,
But thou' amende for his sake above;
I drede not all thy maintenaunce;
For if I drede the world's hate,
Me thinkith I were lite to praise :
1 drede nothing your hie estate,
Ne I ne drede not your disese.

Wollin ye tourne and leve your pride,
And your hie porte and your richesse,
Your cursing should not go so wide;
God bring you into right wisenesse !
For I drede not your tirannie,
For nothing that ye can ydoen;
To suffre I am all redie,

Sikir I recke nevir how sone.

The Griffon grinned as he were wode,

And lokid lovely as an owle,
And swore by cock'is herte and blode
He wold him tere every doule;
Holy churche thou disclaundrist foule;
For thy speche I woll the to race,
And make thy flesh to rote and moule;
Losell, thou shalt have hardè grace.

The Griffon flewe forth on his waie,
The Pellican did sit and wepe,
And to himself he gan to saie,
God would that any of Christes shepe
Had herdin, and itaken kepe
Eche a word that here sayid was,
And would it write and well ikepe;
God would it were all for his grace!

PLOWMAN.

I answerid, and saied I would,
If for my travaile oue would pey.

PELLICAN.

He saied yes; these ther God han sold, For thei han grete store of money.

PLOWMAN,

I sayid, Tell me and thou maie, Why tellist thou menn'is trespace?

PELLICAN.

He said, To' amende hem in gode fay,
If God woll give me any grace;
For Christ himself is liken to me,
That for his peple died on rode;
As fare I right so farith he,
He fedith his birdes with his blode:
But these doen evill ayenst Gode,
And ben his foen undir frendes face;
I told 'hem how ther living stode,
And God amende 'hem for his grace!

PLOWMAN.

What ailith the Griffon, tell why
That he holdith on the' othir side,
For thei two yben likily
And with kindis yrobin wide.

PELLICAN.

The foulè betokinith pride,
As Lucifer that high flewe was,
And sith he did him in ill hide,
For he agilted Godd'is grace..

As birde flyith up in the aire,
And livith by birdes that ben meke,
So these ben flowe up in dispaire,
And shendin sely soulis eke;
The soulis that ben in sinnes eke
He culleth 'hem; knele therfore, alas!
For bribrie Godd'is forbode breke;
But God amende it for his grace!

The hinder parte is a loun,

A robber and a raviner,

That robbeth the peple in yerth doune,
And in yerth holdith none his pere:
So fareth this foule both ferre and nere,
With tempo'rel strength the peple chase
As a lion proude in yerth here;
May God amende 'hem for his grace!

PELLICAN.

He flewe forth with his wingis twain
All drouping, and dasid, and dull,
But sone the Griffon came again,
Of his foulis the yerth was full;
The Pelli'can he had cast to pull,
So grete nombre ner sene ther was,
What manir of foules telle I woll,
If God wol give me of his 'grace.

With the Griffon come foulis fele,
Ravins, rokis, crowis, and pie,
And graie foulis, agadrid wele,
Igurde above they wouldin hie,

Gledis and bosardes weren 'hem by,

White molles and puttockes toke ther place,
And lapwinges, that wel conith lie;
This company' han forlete ther grace.

Long while the Pellican was oute,
But at last he commith againe,

And brought with him the phenix stoute;
The Griffon would have flow ful faine,
His foulis flewen as thicke as raine,
The phenix tho began 'hem chace;
To flie from him it was in vaine,
For he did vengeaunce and no grace.

He slewe 'hem doune without mercy;
There estarte neither fre ne thrall;
On him they cast a rufull crie
Whan that the Griffon doun was fall;
He bete him not, but slewe hem all:
Where he 'hem drove no man may trace:
Under the erth methought they yall;
Alas, they had a feble grace!

The Pellican then axid right
For my writing if I have blame
Who then wol for me fight of flight?
Who shullin sheldè me from shame?
He that yhad a maide to dame,
And the Lambè that slaine ywas,
Shal sheldin me from gostly blame,
For erthely harme is Godd'is grace.

Therfore I pray every man
Of my writing have me excused,
This writing writeth the Pellican,
That thus these peple hath dispised;
For I am freshe fully advised
I n'ill not maintene his menace,
For the devill is ofte disguised
To bring a man to evil grace.

Witith the Pelli'can and not me,
For herof I n'il not avowe
In hie ne lowe, ne no degre,
But as fable take it ye mowe.

To holy churche I will me bowe;

Eche man to' amende him Christe sende space! And for my writing me alowe

He that' is almighty for his grace.

HERE ENDETH THE PLOWMAN'S TALE.

THE PROLOGUE;

OR, THE MERY ADVENTURE OF THE PARDONERE AND TAPSTERE,

AT THE INN AT CANTERBURY.

WHEN all this freshe feleship were come to Cantirbury,

As ye have herde to fore, with Talys glad and merry,
Som of sotill sentence of vertue and of lore,
And som of othir mirthis, for them that hold no store
Of wisdom, ne of holynes, ne of chivalry,
Nethir of vertuouse matere, but to foly

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Quod she, with a frendly loke, al redy for to kys;
And he, as a man i lerned of such kyndnes,
Bracyd hir by the myddyll, and made hir gladly
chere,

As thoughe he had iknowen hir al the rathir yeer: She halid hym into the tapstry there hir bed way was makid ;'

"Lo, here I ligg," (quod she) "myself al nyght al nakid,

Without manny's company syn my love was dede, Jenkyn Harpour, yf ye hym knewe: from fete to

the hede

Was not a lustier persone to daunce ne to lepe Then he was, thoughe I it sey:" and therwith to

wepe

She made, and with hir napron feir and white ywash She wypid soft hir eyen for teris that she out lash As grete as any mylstone: upward gon they stert For love of her swetyng, that sat so nighe hir hert: She wept and waylid, and wrong her hondis, and made much to done,

For they that loven so passyngly such trowes they have echon:

She snyffith, sighith, and shoke hire hede, and made rouful cher:

"Benedicite!" quod the Pardonere, and toke hir by

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I durst swere upon a book that trewe he shuld | And put me out of the chirch with an egir mode."
yewe fynd,
"Now Seynt Daniel," quod the Pardonere, " your
swevyn turn to gode,

For he that is so yore dede is grene in yeur mynd.
Ye made me a sory man; I dred ye wold have
stervid."
[unaservid:
"Graunt mercy, gentil sir," quod she, "that ye
Yee be a nobile man, iblessid mut yee be:
Sit down; ye shul drynk.”—“Nay I wis" (quod he)
"I am fastyng yit, myne own hert'is rote."
"Fastyng yit, alass!" quod she; "therof I can
gode bote."

She stert into the town and fet a py al hote,
And set to fore the Pardonere ; "Jenken, I ween
I n'ote
[sustir,
Is that your name I yow prey."—"I wis, myn own
So was I enformed of them that did me fostir.
"And what is yowrs ?"—"Kitt, iwis; so cleped me
my dame."

"And Godd'is blessing have thow, Kitt; now broke
wel thy name;"

And privylich unlasid his both eyen liddes,
And lokid hir in the visage paramour and amyddis,
And sighed there with a litil time that she it here
myghte,

And gan to rown and seyn this song, "Now, love,
then do me righte."

"Ete and be merry," quod she; "why breke ye
nowt your fast?

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And I woll halsow it to be best, have it in yeur. mynd,

For comyngly of these swevyngs the contrary men
shul fynd.

Ye have be a lover glad, and litil joy yhad;
Plick up a lusty herte, and be mery and glad,
For ye shul have an husbond that shall yewe wed
to wyve,

That shal love yewe as hertely as his own lyve.
The preest that put yew out of chirch shall lede
you in ageyne,
[main
And helpe to yeur mariage with al his might and
This is the sweven al and som Kit; how likith the "
"Be my trowith wondir wele, blessid mut thou we
be?"

Then toke he leve at that tyme, tyll he come efft.
And went to his feleship (as it was to doon) [sone,
Thought it be no grete holynes to prech this ilk
matere,

And that som list to her it, yit sirs, uer the latter
Endurith for a while and suffrith them that woll,
And ye shull her how the Tapster made the Par-
doner pull

Garlik all the long nyghte til it was ner end day;
For the more chere she made of love the falsir was
her lay;
[while,
But litil charge gaff she therof, tho she acquit his
For ethir is thought and tent was othir to begile,
As ye shul here hereaftir, when tyme comith and
spase

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To wait more feleship it were but work in waste.
Whi make ye so dull chere? for your love at
home?"
[aloon."
Nay, forsooth, myne own herte, it is for you
"For me? alas! what sey ye? that wer a simple
prey."
[yewe sey." To meve such matere.-But now a litil spase
"Trewlich yit," quod the Pardonere, "it is as II wol return me ageyn to the company, [to ly
"Ye, etith and beth mery; we wol speke therofsone; The Knyghte and al the feleship, and nothing for
Brennyd cut dredith feir: it is mery to be a loon; Whan they wer al yloggit, as skil wold and reson,
For by our lady Mary, that bare Jesus on hir arm, Everich aftir his degre, to chirch then was seson
I coud nevir love yit but it did me harm,
To pas and to wend to make their offringis,
For evir my manere hath be to love ovirmuch." Righte as their devocioune was, of silver broch and
"Now Crist's blessing," quod the Pardonere, “ go
rynges;
with al such.
[his mach,
Lo! how the clowdis worchyn ech man to mete
For trewly, gentil Cristian, 1 use the same tach,
And have ydo many a yer: I may it nat forbere,
For Kynd woll have his cours though men the con-
trary swere:"

And therwith he sterte up smertly and cast down
a grote.

"What shal this do, gentil sir? Nay, sir, for my
In'old ye payd a peny her and so sone pas." [cote
The Pardoner swore his grette othe he wold pay
no las.

"I wis, sir, it is ovir do, but sith it is yowr will
I woll putt it in my purse lest yee it take in ill
To refuse your curtesy:" and therwith she gan to
bowe.

"Now trewly," quod the Pandoner, "yeur maners
been to lowe,

For had ye countid streytly, and nothing left behind,
I might have wele ydemed that ye be unkind,
And eke untrewe of herte, and sooner me forgete,
But ye list be my tresorer, for we shall offter mete."
"Now certen," quod the Tapster, “ye have a rede

ful even,

As wold to God ye couth as wele undo my sweven
That I my self did mete this nyght that is ypassid,
How I was in a chirch when it was all ymassid,
And was in my devocioune tyl service was al doon,
Tyl the preest and the clerk boystly bad me goon,

Then at chirch dorr the curtesy gan to ryse
Tyl the Knyght, of gentilnes that knewe right wele
the guyse,

Put forth the prelatis, the Parson, and his fere,
A Monk that took the spryngill with a manly chere,
And did as the manere is, moilid al their patis
Everich aftir othir, righte as they were of statis:
The Frer feynyd fetously the spryngill for to hold
To spryng oppon the remnaunt, that for his cope.
he n'old

Have laft that occupacioune in that holy plase,
So longid his holy conscience to se the Nonn'is safe.
The Knyght went with his compers toward the
holy shryne

To do that they wer com for, and aftir for to dyne:
The Pardoner and the Miller, and othir lewde sotes,
Sought 'hem self in the chirch right as lewd gotes,
Pyrid fast and pourid high upon the glase,
Counterfetyng gentilmen the armies for to blase,
Diskynering fast the peyntur, and for the story
mournid,

And a red al so right as raminys hornyd.
"He berith a balstaff," quod the toon, and els a
rakid end;

"Thow failest," quod the Miller, "thow hast nat
wel thy mynd;

It is a spere, yf thow canst se, with a prik tofore, To push a down his enmy, and through the shoulder bore."

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