What nedeth you diverse freres to seche?
What nedeth him that hath a parfit leche,
To sechen other leches in the toun?
Your inconstance is your confusion.
Hold ye than me, or elles our covent,
To pray for you ben insufficient?
Thomas, that jape n'is not worth a mite;
Your maladie is for we han to lite.
A, yeve that covent half a quarter otes;
And yeve that covent four and twenty grotes;
And yeve that frere a peny, and let him go:
Nay, nay, Thomas, it may no thing be so.
What is a ferthing worth parted on twelve?
Lo, eche thing that is oned in himselve
Is more strong than whan it is yscatered.
Thomas, of me thou shalt not ben yflatered,
Thou woldest han our labour al for nought.
The highe God, that all this world hath wrought,
Saith, that the workman worthy is his hire.
Thomas, nought of your tresor I desire
As for myself, but that all our covent
To pray for you is ay so diligent:
And for to bilden Cristes owen chirche.
Thomas, if ye wol lernen for to wirche,
Of bilding up of chirches may ye finde
If it be good, in Thomas lif of Inde.
Ye liggen here ful of anger and of ire,
With which the devil set your herte on fire,
And chiden here this holy innocent
Your wif, that is so good and patient.
And therfore trow me, Thomas, if thee lest,
Ne strive not with thy wif, as for the best.
And bere this word away now by thy faith,
Touching swiche thing, lo, what the wise saith:
Within thy hous ne be thou no leon; To thy suggets do non oppression; Ne make thou not thin acquaintance to flee. And yet, Thomas, eftsones charge I thee, Beware from ire that in thy bosom slepeth, Ware fro the serpent, that so slily crepeth Under the gras, and stingeth subtilly. Beware, my sone, and herken patiently, That twenty thousand men han lost hir lives For striving with hir lemmans and hir wives. Now sith ye han so holy and meek a wif, What nedeth you, Thomas, to maken strif? Ther n'is ywis no serpent so cruel,
Whan man tredeth on his tail, ne half so fel, As woman is, whan she hath caught an ire; Veray vengeance is than all hire desire.
Ire is a sinne, on of the grete seven, Abhominable unto the God of heven, And to himself it is destruction.
lewed vicar and parson Can say, how ire engendreth homicide; Ire is in soth executour of pride.
I coud of ire say so mochel sorwe, My tale shulde lasten til to-morwe. And therfore pray I God both day and night, An irous man God send him litel might. It is gret harm, and certes gret pitee To sette an irous man in high degree.
Whilom ther was an irous potestat, As saith Senek, that during his estat Upon a day out riden knightes two. And, as fortune wold that it were so, That on of hem came home, that other nought. Anon the knight before the juge is brought,
That saide thus; thou hast thy felaw slain,
For which I deme thee to the deth certain.
And to another knight commanded he;
Go, lede him to the deth, I charge thee.
And happed, as they wenten by the wey
Toward the place ther as he shulde dey,
The knight came, which men wenden had be dede.
Than thoughten they it was the beste rede
To lede hem bothe to the juge again.
They saiden, lord, the knight ne hath not slain
His felaw, here he stondeth hol alive.
Ye shull be ded, quod he, so mot I thrive, That is to say, both on, and two, and three. And to the firste knight right thus spake he.
I damned thee, thou must algate be ded:
And thou also must nedes lese thyn hed,
For thou art cause why thy felaw deyeth.
And to the thridde knight right thus he seyeth,
Thou hast not don that I commanded thee.
And thus he did do slen hem alle three.
Irous Cambises was eke dronkelew,
And ay delighted him to ben a shrew.
And so befell, a lord of his meinie,
That loved vertuous moralitee,
Sayd on a day betwix hem two right thus:
A lord is lost, if he be vicious;
And dronkennesse is eke a foule record
Of any man, and namely of a lord.
Ther is ful many an eye and many an ere
Awaiting on a lord, and he n'ot wher.
For Goddes love drinke more attemprely:
Win maketh man to lesen wretchedly
His mind, and eke his limmes everich on.
The revers shalt thou see, quod he, anon,
And preve it by thyn owen experience,
That win ne doth to folk no swiche offence.
Ther is no win bereveth me my might
Of hond, ne foot, ne of min eyen sight.
And for despit he dranke mochel more
An hundred part than he had don before,
And right anon, this cursed irous wretche
This knightes sone let before him fetche,
Commanding him he shuld before him stond:
And sodenly he took his bow in hond,
And up the streng he pulled to his ere,
And with an arwe he slow the child right ther.
Now whether have I a siker hond or non?
Quod he, Is all my might and minde agon?
Hath win bereved me min eyen sight?
What shuld I tell the answer of the knight?
His son was slain, ther is no more to say.
Beth ware therfore with lordes for to play,
Singeth Placebo, and I shal if I can,
But if it be unto a poure man:
To a poure man men shuld his vices telle,
But not to a lord, though he shuld go to helle.
Lo, irous Cirus, thilke Persien,
How he destroyed the river of Gisen,
For that an hors of his was dreint therin,
Whan that he wente Babilon to win:
He made that the river was so smal,
That wimmen might it waden over al.
Lo, what said he, that so wel techen can?
Ne be no felaw to non irous man,
Ne with no wood man walke by the way,
Lest thee repent; I wol no forther say.
Now, Thomas, leve brother, leve thin ire, Thou shalt me find as just, as is a squire;
Hold not the devils knif ay to thin herte,
Thin anger doth thee all to sore smerte,
But shew to me all thy confession.
Nay, quod the sike man, by Seint Simon
I have ben shriven this day of my curat;
I have him told al holly min estat.
Nedeth no mo to speke of it, sayth he,
But if me list of min humilitee.
Yeve me than of thy gold to make our cloistre, Quod he, for many a muscle and many an oistre, Whan other men han ben ful wel at ese,
Hath been our food, our cloistre for to rese:
And yet, God wot, uneth the fundament
Parfourmed is, ne of our pavement
N'is not a tile yet within our wones:
By God we owen fourty pound for stones.
Now help, Thomas, for him that harwed helle,
For elles mote we oure bokes selle,
And if ye lacke oure predication,
Than goth this world all to destruction.
For who so fro this world wold us bereve,
So God me save, Thomas, by your leve,
He wold bereve out of this world the sonne.
For who can teche and worken as we conne?
And that is not of litel time, (quod he)
But sithen Elie was, and Elisee,
Han freres ben, that find I of record,
In charitee, ythonked be our Lord.
Now, Thomas, help for Seinte Charitee.
And doun anon he sette him on his knee.
This sike man woxe wel neigh wood for ire, He wolde that the frere had ben a-fire With his false dissimulation.
Swiche thing as is in my possession,
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