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,

Quod he, that may I yeve you and non other:
Ye sain me thus, how that I am your brother.
Ye certes, quod this frere, ye, trusteth wel;
I took our dame the letter of our sele.

Now wel, quod he, and somwhat shal I yeve
Unto your holy covent while I live;
And in thin hond thou shalt it have anon,
On this condition, and other non,

That thou depart it so, my dere brother,
That every frere have as moche as other:
This shalt thou swere on thy profession
Withouten fraud or cavilation.

I swere it, quod the frere, upon my faith.
And therwithall his hond in his he layth;
Lo here my faith, in me shal be no lak.
Than put thin hond adoun right by my bak,
Saide this man, and grope wel behind,
Benethe my buttok, ther thou shalte find
A thing, that I have hid in privetee.

A, thought this frere, that shal go with me.
And doun his hond he launcheth to the clifte,
In hope for to finden ther a gifte.

And whan this sike man felte this frere
About his towel gropen ther and here,
Amid his hond he let the frere a fart;
Ther n'is no capel drawing in a cart,
That might han let a fart of swiche a soun.

The frere up sterte, as doth a wood leoun: A, false cherl, quod he, for Goddes bones, This hast thou in despit don for the nones: Thou shalt abie this fart, if that I may.

His meinie, which that herden this affray, Came leping in, and chased out the frere, And forth he goth with a ful angry chere,

And fet his felaw, ther as lay his store:
He loked as it were a wilde bore,

And grinte with his teeth, so was he wroth.
A sturdy pas doun to the court he goth,
Wher as ther woned a man of gret honour,
To whom that he was alway confessour:
This worthy man was lord of that village.
This frere came, as he were in a rage,
Wher as this lord sat eting at his bord:
Unnethes might the frere speke o word,
Til atte last he saide, God you see.

This lord gan loke, and saide, Benedicite! What? frere John, what maner world is this? I see wel that som thing ther is amis;

Ye loken as the wood were ful of theves.
Sit doun anon, and tell me what your greve is,
And it shal ben amended, if I may.

I have, quod he, had a despit to day,
God yelde you, adoun in your village,
That in this world ther n'is so poure a page,
That he n'olde have abhominatioun

Of that I have received in youre toun:
And yet ne greveth me nothing so sore,
As that the olde cherl, with lokkes hore,
Blasphemed hath oure holy covent eke.

Now, maister, quod this lord, I you beseke.
No maister, sire, quod he, but servitour,
Though I have had in scole that honour.
God liketh not, that men us Rabi call,
Neither in market, ne in your large hall.

No force, quod he, but tell me all your grefe.
Sire, quod this Frere, an odious meschefe

This day betid is to min ordre, and me,

And so per consequens to eche degree

Of holy chirche, God amende it sone.

Sire, quod the lord, ye wot what is to don: Distempre you not, ye ben my confessour. Ye ben the salt of the erthe, and the savour; For Goddes love your patience now hold; Telle me your grefe. And he anon him told As ye han herd before, ye wot wel what. The lady of the hous ay stille sat, Til she had herde what the Frere said.

Ey, goddes moder, quod she, blisful maid, Is ther ought elles? tell me faithfully. Madame, quod he, how thinketh you therby? How that me thinketh? quod she; soGod me spede, I say, a cherle hath don a cherles dede. What shuld I say? God let him never the; His sike hed is ful of vanitee;

I hold him in a maner frenesie.

Madame, quod he, by God I shal not lie,
But I in other wise may ben awreke,
I shal diffame him over all, ther I speke;
This false blasphemour, that charged me
To parten that wol not departed be,
To every man ylike, with meschance.

The lord sat stille, as he were in a trance,
And in his herte he rolled up and doun,
How had this cherl imaginatioun

To shewen swiche a probleme to the frere.
Never erst or now ne herd I swiche matere;
I trow the Devil put it in his mind.
In all Arsmetrike shal ther no man find
Beforn this day of swiche a question.
Who shulde make a demonstration,
That every man shuld han ylike his part
As of a soun or savour of a fart?

O nice proude cherl, I shrewe his face.

Lo, sires, quod the lord, with harde grace,
Who ever herd of swiche a thing or now?
To every man ylike? tell me how.

It is an impossible, it may not be.
Ey, nice cherl, God let him never the.
The rombling of a fart, and every soun,
N'is but of aire reverberatioun,

And ever it wasteth lite and lite away;
Ther n'is no man can demen, by my fay,
If that it were departed equally.
What? lo my cherl, lo yet how shrewedly
Unto my confessour to-day he spake;

I hold him certain a demoniake.

Now ete your mete, and let the cherl go play,
Let him go honge himself a devil way.

Now stood the lordes squier atte bord,
That carf his mete, and herde word by word
Of all this thing, of which I have you sayd.
My lord, quod he, be ye not evil apaid,
I coude telle for a goune-cloth

To you, sire frere, so that ye be not wroth,
How that this fart shuld even ydeled be
Amonge your covent, if it liked thee.

Tell, quod the lord, and thou shalt have anon A goune-cloth, by God and by seint John.

My lord, quod he, whan that the weder is faire, Withouten winde, or pertourbing of aire, Let bring a cart-whele here into this hall, But loke that it have his spokes all; Twelf spokes hath a cart-whele communly; And bring me than twelf freres, wete ye why? For threttene is a covent as I gesse:

Your confessour here for his worthinesse