[The State]

   If I schal drawe into my mynde
The tyme passed, thanne I fynde
The world stod thanne in al his welthe.
Tho was the lif of man in helthe,
Tho was plenté, tho was richesse,
Tho was the fortune of prouesse,
Tho was knyhthode in pris be name,
Wherof the wyde worldes fame -
Write in cronique - is yit withholde.
Justice of lawe tho was holde,
The privilege of regalie
Was sauf, and al the baronie
Worschiped was in his astat;
The citees knewen no debat,
The poeple stod in obeissance
Under the reule of governance,
And pes, which ryhtwisnesse keste,
With charité tho stod in reste.
Of mannes herte the corage
Was schewed thanne in the visage;
The word was lich to the conceite
Withoute semblant of deceite.
Tho was ther unenvied love,
Tho was the vertu sett above
And vice was put under fote.
Now stant the crop under the rote.
The world is changed overal,
And therof most in special
That love is falle into discord.
And that I take to record
Of every lond, for his partie,
The comune vois which mai noght lie;
Noght upon on, bot upon alle
It is that men now clepe and calle,
And sein the regnes ben divided:
In stede of love is hate guided,
The werre wol no pes purchace,
And lawe hath take hire double face,
So that justice out of the weie
With ryhtwisnesse is gon aweie.
And thus to loke on every halve,
Men sen the sor withoute salve,
Which al the world hath overtake.
Ther is no regne of alle outtake,
For every climat hath his diel
After the tornynge of the whiel,
Which blinde Fortune overthroweth.
Wherof the certain no man knoweth.
The hevene wot what is to done,
Bot we that duelle under the mone
Stonde in this world upon a weer,
And namely bot the pouer
Of hem that ben the worldes guides -
With good consail on alle sides -
Be kept upriht in such a wyse,
That hate breke noght th'assise
Of love, whiche is al the chief
To kepe a regne out of meschief.
For alle resoun wolde this,
That unto him which the heved is
The membres buxom scholden bowe,
And he scholde ek her trowthe allowe,
With al his herte and make hem chiere,
For good consail is good to hiere.
Althogh a man be wys himselve,
Yit is the wisdom more of tuelve;
And if thei stoden bothe in on,
To hope it were thanne anon
That God his grace wolde sende
To make of thilke werre an ende,
Which everyday now groweth newe.
And that is gretly for to rewe
In special for Cristes sake,
Which wolde His oghne lif forsake
Among the men to geve pes.
But now men tellen natheles
That love is fro the world departed,
So stant the pes unevene parted
With hem that liven now adaies.
Bot for to loke, at alle assaies,
To him that wolde resoun seche
After the comun worldes speche
It is to wondre of thilke werre,
In which non wot who hath the werre.
For every lond himself deceyveth
And of desese his part receyveth,
And yet ne take men no kepe.
Bot thilke Lord which al may kepe,
To whom no consail may ben hid,
Upon the world which is betid,
Amende that wherof men pleigne
With trewe hertes and with pleine,
And reconcile love ageyn,
As He which is king sovereign
Of al the worldes governaunce,
And of His hyhe porveaunce
Afferme pes betwen the londes
And take her cause into Hise hondes,
So that the world may stonde appesed
And His Godhede also be plesed.

 [The Church]

   To thenke upon the daies olde,
The lif of clerkes to beholde,
Men sein how that thei weren tho
Ensample and reule of alle tho
Whiche of wisdom the vertu soughten.
Unto the God ferst thei besoughten
As to the substaunce of her scole,
That thei ne scholden noght befole
Her wit upon none erthly werkes,
Which were agein th'estat of clerkes,
And that thei myhten fle the vice
Which Simon hath in his office,
Wherof he takth the gold in honde.
For thilke tyme, I understonde,
The Lumbard made non eschange
The bisschopriches for to change,
Ne yet a lettre for to sende
For dignité ne for provende,
Or cured or withoute cure.
The cherche keye in aventure
Of armes and of brygantaille
Stod nothing thanne upon bataille;
To fyhte or for to make cheste
It thoghte hem thanne noght honeste.
Bot of simplesce and pacience
Thei maden thanne no defence.
The court of worldly regalie
To hem was thanne no baillie.
The vein honour was noght desired,
Which hath the proude herte fyred;
Humilité was tho withholde,
And Pride was a vice holde.
Of holy cherche the largesse
Gaf thanne and dede gret almesse
To povere men that hadden nede;
Thei were ek chaste in word and dede,
Wherof the poeple ensample tok;
Her lust was al upon the bok,
Or for to preche or for to preie,
To wisse men the ryhte weie
Of suche as stode of trowthe unliered.
Lo, thus was Petres barge stiered
Of hem that thilke tyme were,
And thus cam ferst to mannes ere
The feith of Crist and alle goode
Thurgh hem that thanne weren goode
And sobre and chaste and large and wyse.
Bot now men sein is otherwise,
Simon the cause hath undertake,
The worldes swerd on honde is take;
And that is wonder natheles,
Whan Crist Himself hath bode pes
And set it in His Testament,
How now that holy cherche is went
Of that here lawe positif
Hath set, to make werre and strif
For worldes good, which may noght laste.
God wot the cause to the laste
Of every right and wrong also;
But whil the lawe is reuled so
That clerkes to the werre entende,
I not how that thei scholde amende
The woful world in othre thinges,
To make pes betwen the kynges
After the lawe of charité,
Which is the propre dueté
Belongende unto the presthode.
Bot as it thenkth to the manhode,
The hevene is ferr, the world is nyh,
And veine gloire is ek so slyh,
Which coveitise hath now withholde,
That thei non other thing beholde,
Bot only that thei myhten winne.
And thus the werres thei beginne,
Wherof the holi cherche is taxed,
That in the point as it is axed
The disme goth to the bataille,
As thogh Crist myhte noght availe
To don hem riht be other weie.
Into the swerd the cherche keie
Is torned, and the holy bede
Into cursinge, and every stede
Which scholde stonde upon the feith
And to this cause an ere leyth,
Astoned is of the querele.
That scholde be the worldes hele
Is now, men sein, the pestilence
Which hath exiled pacience
Fro the clergie in special.
And that is schewed overal,
In eny thing whan thei ben grieved.
Bot if Gregoire be believed,
As it is in the bokes write,
He doth ous somdel for to wite
The cause of thilke prelacie,
Wher God is noght of compaignie.
For every werk as it is founded
Schal stonde or elles be confounded;
Who that only for Cristes sake
Desireth cure for to take,
And noght for pride of thilke astat,
To bere a name of a prelat,
He schal be resoun do profit
In holy cherche upon the plit
That he hath set his conscience.
Bot in the worldes reverence
Ther ben of suche manie glade
Whan thei to thilke astat ben made,
Noght for the merite of the charge,
Bot for thei wolde hemself descharge
Of poverté and become grete.
And thus for pompe and for beyete
The Scribe and ek the Pharisee
Of Moises upon the See
In the chaiere on hyh ben set;
Wherof the feith is ofte let,
Which is betaken hem to kepe.
In Cristes cause alday thei slepe,
Bot of the world is noght forgete;
For wel is him that now may gete
Office in court to ben honoured.
The stronge coffre hath al devoured
Under the keye of avarice
The tresor of the benefice,
Wherof the povere schulden clothe
And ete and drinke and house bothe;
The charité goth al unknowe,
For thei no grein of pité sowe;
And slouthe kepeth the libraire
Which longeth to the saintuaire;
To studie upon the worldes lore
Sufficeth now withoute more;
Delicacie his swete toth
Hath fostred so that it fordoth
Of abstinence al that ther is.
And for to loken over this,
If Ethna brenne in the clergie
Al openly to mannes ÿe,
At Avynoun th'experience
Therof hath gove an evidence
Of that men sen hem so divided.
And yit the cause is noght decided.
Bot it is seid and evere schal,
Betwen tuo stoles lyth the fal
Whan that men wenen best to sitte.
In holy cherche of such a slitte
Is for to rewe unto ous alle;
God grante it mote wel befalle
Towardes him whiche hath the trowthe.
Bot ofte is sen that mochel slowthe,
Whan men ben drunken of the cuppe,
Doth mochel harm, whan fyr is uppe,
Bot if somwho the flamme stanche;
And so to speke upon this branche,
Which proude Envie hath mad to springe,
Of Scisme, causeth for to bringe
This newe secte of Lollardie,
And also many an heresie
Among the clerkes in hemselve.
It were betre dike and delve
And stonde upon the ryhte feith,
Than knowe al that the Bible seith
And erre as somme clerkes do.
Upon the hond to were a schoo
And sette upon the fot a glove
Acordeth noght to the behove
Of resonable mannes us.
If men behielden the vertus
That Crist in erthe taghte here,
Thei scholden noght in such manere,
Among hem that ben holden wise,
The Papacie so desguise
Upon diverse eleccioun,
Which stant after th'affeccioun
Of sondry londes al aboute.
Bot whan God wole, it schal were oute,
For trowthe mot stonde ate laste.
Bot yet thei argumenten faste
Upon the Pope and his astat,
Wherof thei falle in gret debat;
This clerk seith yee, that other nay,
And thus thei dryve forth the day,
And ech of hem himself amendeth
Of worldes good, bot non entendeth
To that which comun profit were.
Thei sein that God is myhti there,
And schal ordeine what He wile,
Ther make thei non other skile
Where is the peril of the feith,
Bot every clerk his herte leith
To kepe his world in special,
And of the cause general,
Which unto holy cherche longeth,
Is non of hem that underfongeth
To schapen eny resistence.
And thus the riht hath no defence,
Bot ther I love, ther I holde.
Lo, thus tobroke is Cristes folde,
Wherof the flock withoute guide
Devoured is on every side,
In lacke of hem that ben unware
Schepherdes, whiche her wit beware
Upon the world in other halve.
The scharpe pricke in stede of salve
Thei usen now, wherof the hele
Thei hurte of that thei scholden hele;
And what schep that is full of wulle
Upon his back, thei toose and pulle,
Whil ther is eny thing to pile.
And thogh ther be non other skile
Bot only for thei wolden wynne,
Thei leve noght, whan thei begynne,
Upon her acte to procede,
Which is no good schepherdes dede.
And upon this also men sein,
That fro the leese which is plein
Into the breres thei forcacche
Her orf, for that thei wolden lacche
With such duresce, and so bereve
That schal upon the thornes leve
Of wulle, which the brere hath tore;
Wherof the schep ben al totore
Of that the hierdes make hem lese.
Lo, how thei feignen chalk for chese,
For though thei speke and teche wel,
Thei don hemself therof no del.
For if the wolf com in the weie,
Her gostly staf is thanne aweie,
Wherof thei scholde her flock defende;
Bot if the povere schep offende
In eny thing, thogh it be lyte,
They ben al redy for to smyte;
And thus, how evere that thei tale,
The strokes falle upon the smale,
And upon othre that ben grete
Hem lacketh herte for to bete.
So that under the clerkes lawe
Men sen the merel al mysdrawe
I wol noght seie in general,
For ther ben somme in special
In whom that alle vertu duelleth,
And tho ben, as th'apostel telleth,
That God of His eleccioun
Hath cleped to perfeccioun
In the manere as Aaron was.
Thei ben nothing in thilke cas
Of Simon, which the foldes gate
Hath lete, and goth in othergate,
Bot thei gon in the rihte weie.
Ther ben also somme, as men seie,
That folwen Simon at hieles,
Whos carte goth upon the whieles
Of coveitise and worldes Pride,
And holy cherche goth beside,
Which scheweth outward a visage
Of that is noght in the corage.
For if men loke in holy cherche,
Betwen the word and that thei werche
Ther is a full gret difference.
Thei prechen ous in audience
That no man schal his soule empeire,
For al is bot a chirie feire
This worldes good, so as thei telle;
Also thei sein ther is an helle,
Which unto mannes sinne is due,
And bidden ous therfore eschue
That wikkid is, and do the goode.
Who that here wordes understode,
It thenkth thei wolden do the same;
Bot yet betwen ernest and game
Ful ofte it torneth otherwise.
With holy tales thei devise
How meritoire is thilke dede
Of charité, to clothe and fede
The povere folk and for to parte
The worldes good, bot thei departe
Ne thenken noght fro that thei have.
Also thei sein, good is to save
With penance and with abstinence
Of chastité the continence;
Bot pleinly for to speke of that,
I not how thilke body fat,
Which thei with deynté metes kepe
And leyn it softe for to slepe,
Whan it hath elles al his wille,
With chastité schal stonde stille.
And natheles I can noght seie,
In aunter if that I misseye.
Touchende of this, how evere it stonde,
I here and wol noght understonde,
For therof have I noght to done.
Bot He that made ferst the Mone,
The hyhe God, of His goodnesse,
If ther be cause, He it redresce.
Bot what as eny man accuse,
This mai reson of trowthe excuse;
The vice of hem that ben ungoode,
Is no reproef unto the goode.
For every man hise oghne werkes
Schal bere, and thus as of the clerkes
The goode men ben to comende,
And alle these othre God amende.
For thei ben to the worldes ÿe
The Mirour of ensamplerie,
To reulen and to taken hiede
Betwen the men and the Godhiede.

[The Commons]

   Now for to speke of the comune,
It is to drede of that fortune
Which hath befalle in sondri londes.
Bot often for defalte of bondes
Al sodeinliche, er it be wist,
A tonne, whanne his lye arist,
Tobrekth and renneth al aboute,
Which elles scholde noght gon oute;
And ek fulofte a litel skar
Upon a banke, er men be war,
Let in the strem, which with gret peine,
If evere man it schal restreigne.
Wher lawe lacketh, errour groweth,
He is noght wys who that ne troweth,
For it hath proeved ofte er this.
And thus the comun clamour is
In every lond wher poeple dwelleth,
And eche in his compleignte telleth
How that the world is al miswent,
And ther upon his jugement
Gifth every man in sondry wise.
Bot what man wolde himself avise,
His conscience and noght misuse,
He may wel ate ferste excuse.
His God, which evere stant in on,
In Him ther is defalte non,
So moste it stonde upon ousselve
Nought only upon ten ne twelve,
Bot plenerliche upon ous alle,
For man is cause of that schal falle.
   And natheles yet som men wryte
And sein that fortune is to wyte,
And som men holde oppinion
That it is constellacion,
Which causeth al that a man doth.
God wot of bothe which is soth.
The world as of his propre kynde
Was evere untrewe, and as the blynde
Improprelich he demeth fame,
He blameth that is noght to blame
And preiseth that is noght to preise.
Thus whan he schal the thinges peise,
Ther is deceipte in his balance,
And al is that the variance
Of ous, that schold ous betre avise.
For after that we falle and rise,
The world arist and falth withal,
So that the man is overal
His oghne cause of wel and wo.
What we fortune clepe so
Out of the man himself it groweth
And who that otherwise troweth,
Behold the poeple of Irael:
For evere whil thei deden wel,
Fortune was hem debonaire,
And whan thei deden the contraire,
Fortune was contrariende.
So that it proeveth wel at ende
Why that the world is wonderfull
And may no while stonde full,
Though that it seme wel besein;
For every worldes thing is vein,
And evere goth the whiel aboute,
And evere stant a man in doute,
Fortune stant no while stille,
So hath ther no man al his wille.
Als fer as evere a man may knowe,
Ther lasteth nothing bot a throwe;
The world stant evere upon debat,
So may be seker non astat,
Now hier now ther, now to now fro,
Now up now doun, this world goth so,
And evere hath don and evere schal.
Wherof I finde in special
A tale writen in the Bible,
Which moste nedes be credible;
And that as in conclusioun
Seith that upon divisioun
Stant, why no worldes thing mai laste,
Til it be drive to the laste.
And fro the ferste regne of alle
Into this day, hou so befalle,
Of that the regnes be muable
The man himself hath be coupable,
Which of his propre governance
Fortuneth al the worldes chance.

   The hyhe almyhti pourveance,
In whos eterne remembrance
Fro ferst was every thing present,
He hath his prophecie sent,
In such a wise as thou schalt hiere,
To Daniel of this matiere,
Hou that this world schal torne and wende.
Til it befalle to his ende;
Wherof the tale telle I schal,
In which it is betokned al.
   As Nabugodonosor slept,
A swevene him tok, the which he kepte
Til on the morwe he was arise,
For he therof was sore agrise.
To Daniel his drem he tolde,
And preide him faire that he wolde
Arede what it tokne may;
And seide, "Abedde wher I lay,
Me thoghte I syh upon a stage
Wher stod a wonder strange ymage.
His hed with al the necke also
Thei were of fin gold bothe tuo;
His brest, his schuldres, and his armes
Were al of selver, bot the tharmes,
The wombe and al doun to the kne,
Of bras thei were upon to se;
The legges were al mad of stiel,
So were his feet also somdiel,
And somdiel part to hem was take
Of erthe which men pottes make;
The fieble meynd was with the stronge,
So myhte it wel noght stonde long.
And tho me thoghte that I sih
A gret ston from an hull on hyh
Fel doun of sodein aventure
Upon the feet of this figure,
With which ston al tobroke was
Gold, selver, erthe, stiel, and bras,
That al was into pouldre broght,
And so forth torned into noght.”
   This was the swevene which he hadde,
That Daniel anon aradde,
And seide him that figure strange
Betokneth how the world schal change
And waxe lasse worth and lasse,
Til it to noght al overpasse.
The necke and hed, that weren golde,
He seide how that betokne scholde
A worthi world, a noble, a riche,
To which non after schal be liche.
Of selver that was overforth
Schal ben a world of lasse worth;
And after that the wombe of bras
Tokne of a werse world it was.
The stiel which he syh afterward,
A world betokneth more hard.
Bot yet the werste of everydel
Is last, whan that of erthe and stiel
He syh the feet departed so,
For that betokneth mochel wo.
Whan that the world divided is,
It moste algate fare amis,
For erthe which is meynd with stiel
Togedre may noght laste wiel,
Bot if that on that other waste;
So mot it nedes faile in haste.
The ston, which fro the hully stage
He syh doun falle on that ymage,
And hath it into pouldre broke,
That swevene hath Daniel unloke,
And seide how that is Goddes myht,
Which whan men wene most upryht
To stonde, schal hem overcaste.
And that is of this world the laste,
And thanne a newe schal beginne,
Fro which a man schal nevere twinne;
Or al to peine or al to pes
That world schal lasten endeles.
   Lo thus expondeth Daniel
The kynges swevene faire and wel
In Babiloyne the cité,
Wher that the wiseste of Caldee
Ne cowthen wite what it mente;
Bot he tolde al the hol entente,
As in partie it is befalle.
Of gold the ferste regne of alle
Was in that kinges time tho,
And last manye daies so,
Therwhiles that the monarchie
Of al the world in that partie
To Babiloyne was soubgit;
And hield him stille in such a plit,
Til that the world began diverse.
And that was whan the king of Perse,
Which Cirus hyhte, agein the pes
Forth with his sone Cambises
Of Babiloine al that empire,
Ryht as thei wolde hemself desire,
Put under in subjeccioun
And tok it in possessioun,
And slayn was Baltazar the king,
Which loste his regne and al his thing.
And thus whan thei it hadde wonne,
The world of selver was begonne
And that of gold was passed oute.
And in this wise it goth aboute
Into the regne of Darius;
And thanne it fell to Perse thus,
That Alisaundre put hem under,
Which wroghte of armes many a wonder,
So that the monarchie lefte
With Grecs, and here astat uplefte,
And Persiens gon under fote,
So soffre thei that nedes mote.
And tho the world began of bras,
And that of selver ended was;
Bot for the time thus it laste,
Til it befell that ate laste
This king, whan that his day was come,
With strengthe of deth was overcome.
And natheles yet er he dyde,
He schop his regnes to divide
To knyhtes whiche him hadde served,
And after that thei have deserved
Gaf the conquestes that he wan;
Wherof gret were tho began
Among hem that the regnes hadde,
Thurgh proud Envie which hem ladde,
Til it befell agein hem thus.
The noble Cesar Julius,
Which tho was king of Rome lond,
With gret bataille and with strong hond
Al Grece, Perse, and ek Caldee
Wan and put under, so that he
Noght al only of th’orient
Bot al the marche of th’occident
Governeth under his empire,
As he that was hol lord and sire,
And hield thurgh his chivalrie
Of al this world the monarchie,
And was the ferste of that honour
Which tok the name of Emperour.
   Wher Rome thanne wolde assaille,
Ther myhte nothing contrevaille,
Bot every contré moste obeie.
Tho goth the regne of bras aweie,
And comen in the world of stiel,
And stod above upon the whiel.
As stiel is hardest in his kynde,
Above alle othre that men finde
Of metals, such was Rome tho
The myhtieste, and laste so
Long time amonges the Romeins
Til thei becomen so vileins,
That the fals Emperour Leo
With Constantin his sone also
The patrimoine and the richesse,
Which to Silvestre in pure almesse
The ferste Constantinus lefte,
Fro holy cherche thei berefte.
Bot Adrian, which Pope was,
And syh the meschief of this cas,
Goth in to France for to pleigne,
And preith the grete Charlemeine,
For Cristes sake and soule hele
That he wol take the querele
Of holy cherche in his defence.
And Charles for the reverence
Of God the cause hath undertake,
And with his host the weie take
Over the montz of Lombardie;
Of Rome and al the tirandie
With blodi swerd he overcom
And the cité with strengthe nom
In such a wise; and there he wroghte
That holy cherche agein he broghte
Into franchise, and doth restore
The Popes lost, and gaf him more.
And thus whan he his God hath served,
He tok, as he wel hath deserved,
The diademe and was coroned.
Of Rome and thus was abandoned
Th’empire, which cam nevere agein
Into the hond of no Romein;
Bot a long time it stod so stille
Under the Frensche kynges wille,
Til that fortune hir whiel so ladde,
That afterward Lombardz it hadde,
Noght be the swerd, bot by soffrance
Of him that tho was kyng of France,
Which Karle Calvus cleped was;
And he resigneth in this cas
Th’empire of Rome unto Lowis
His cousin, which a Lombard is.
And so hit laste into the yeer
Of Albert and of Berenger;
Bot thanne upon dissencioun
Thei felle, and in divisioun
Among hemself that were grete,
So that thei loste the beyete
Of worschipe and of worldes pes,
Bot in proverbe natheles
Men sein, ful selden is that welthe
Can soffre his oghne astat in helthe,
And that was on the Lombardz sene;
Such comun strif was hem betwene
Thurgh coveitise and thurgh Envie,
That every man drowh his partie,
Which myhte leden eny route,
Withinne burgh and ek withoute.
The comun ryht hath no felawe,
So that the governance of lawe
Was lost, and for necessité,
Of that thei stode in such degré
Al only thurgh divisioun,
Hem nedeth in conclusioun
Of strange londes help beside.
   And thus for thei hemself divide
And stonden out of reule unevene,
Of Alemaine princes sevene
Thei chose in this condicioun,
That upon here eleccioun
Th’empire of Rome scholde stonde.
And thus thei lefte it out of honde
For lacke of grace, and it forsoke,
That Alemans upon hem toke.
And to confermen here astat,
Of that thei founden in debat
Thei token the possessioun
After the composicioun
Among hemself, and therupon
Thei made an emperour anon,
Whos name as the cronique telleth
Was Othes; and so forth it duelleth,
Fro thilke day yit unto this,
Th’empire of Rome hath ben and is
To th’Alemans. And in this wise,
As ye tofore have herd divise
How Daniel the swevene expondeth
Of that ymage, on whom he foundeth
The world which after scholde falle,
Come is the laste tokne of alle;
Upon the feet of erthe and stiel
So stant this world now everydiel
Departed; which began riht tho,
Whan Rome was divided so.
And that is for to rewe sore,
For always siththe more and more
The world empeireth every day.
Wherof the sothe schewe may,
At Rome ferst if we beginne.
The wall and al the cit withinne
Stant in ruine and in decas,
The feld is wher the paleis was,
The toun is wast; and overthat,
If we beholde thilke astat
Which whilom was of the Romeins,
Of knyhthode and of citezeins,
To peise now with that beforn,
The chaf is take for the corn,
As for to speke of Romes myht.
Unethes stant ther oght upryht
Of worschipe or of worldes good,
As it before tyme stod.
And why the worschipe is aweie,
If that a man the sothe seie,
The cause hath ben divisioun,
Which moder of confusioun
Is wher sche cometh overal,
Noght only of the temporal
Bot of the spirital also.
The dede proeveth it is so,
And hath do many day er this,
Thurgh venym which that medled is
In holy cherche of erthly thing.
For Crist Himself makth knowleching
That no man may togedre serve