"Sire," I seide myself, "Thou semest to blamen. Why dispisest thou thus Thise sely pore freres, 1340 None other men so mychel, Monkes ne prestes, Chanons ne charthous That in chirche serveth? It semeth that thise sely men Han somewhat the greved, Other with word, or with werk, And therfore thou wilnest To shenden other shamen hem With the sharp speche, 1350 { 491} And bannen holliche, And her hous greven."
"I prey the," quath Peres, "Put that out of thy mynde; Certeyn for soule hele I say the this wordes. I preise nought pocessioneres But pur lytel; For falshed of freres Hath fulliche encombred 1360 Manye of this maner men, And maad hem to leven Her charité and chasteté, And shosen hem to lustes, And waxen to werly, And wayven the trewethe, And leven the love of her God, And the werld serven. But for falshed of freres I fele in my soule, 1370 Seyng the synful liif, That sorweth myn herte, Hou they ben clothed in cloth That clennest sheweth, For angeles and archangeles Alle they whiit useth, And al aldremen That ben _ante thronum_. Thise toknes haven freres taken; But I trowe that a fewe 1380 Folwen fully that cloth, But falslyche that useth. For whiit, in trowthe, bytokeneth Clennes in soule:-- { 492} Gif he have undernethen whiit, Thanne he above wereth Black, that betokeneth Bale for oure synne, And mournyng for mis-dede Of hem that this useth, 1390 And sorwe for synful liif, So that cloth asketh. I trowe there ben nought ten freres That for synne wepen. For that liif is her lust, And therby thei libben, In fraytour and in fermori Her fostryng is synne; It is her mete at ich a mel, Her most sustinaunce. 1400 Herkne opon Hildegare Hou homlich he telleth How her sustinaunce is synne; And syker, as I trowe, Weren her confessiones Clenly destrued, Hy shoulde nought beren hem so brag, Ne belden so heyghe. For the fallyng of synne Socoreth the foles, 1410 And begileth the grete With glaverynge wordes; With glosyng of godspels Thei Godes word turneth, And passen al the pryvylege That Peter after used. The power of the apostles Thie pasen in speche, { 493} For to sellen the synnes For selver other mede. 1420 And purliche _a poena_ The puple asoyleth, And _a culpa_ also, That they may kachen Money other money-worth, And mede to fonge; And ben at lone and at bode, As burgeises useth. Thus they serven Sathanas, And soules bygyleth, 1430 Marchaunes of malisones, Mansede wrecches. Thei usen russet also Some of this freres, That bitokeneth travaile And treuth upon erthe, But loke whou this lorels Laboren the erthe. But freten the fruyt that the folke Ful lellich beswynketh; 1440 With travail of trewe men Thei tymbren her houses, And of the curiouse cloth Her copes they beggen; And als his gettyng is grete He shal ben good holden. And right as dranes doth nought But drynketh up the huny, Whan been with her busynes Han brought it to hepe, 1450 Right so fareth freres With folk opon erthe; { 494} They freten up the firste froyt, And falsliche lybbeth. But alle freres eten nought Y-liche good mete, But after that his wynnyng is Is his wel-fare, And after that he bringeth hom His bed shal ben graythed, 1460 And after that his richesse is raught He shal ben redy served. But se thiself in thi sight Whou somme of hem walketh With clouted shon, And clothes ful feble, Wel neigh for-werd, And the wlon offe; And his felawe in a frok Worth swhich fiftene, 1470 Arayd in rede stone, And elles were reuthe: And sexe copes or seven In his celle hongeth; Though for fayling of good His felawe shulde sterve, He wolde nought lenen hym a peny His liif for to holden. I myght tymen tho troiflardes To toylen with the erthe, 1480 Tylyen, and trewlich lyven, And her flesh tempren. Now mot ich soutere hys sone Seten to schole, And ich a beggeres brol On the book lerne. { 495} And worth to a writere And with a lorde dwelle; Other falsly to a frere The fend for to serven; 1490 So of that beggares brol An abbot shal worthen, Among the peres of the lond Prese to sytten, And lordes sones lowly To tho losels aloute, Knyghtes crouketh hem to And cruccheth ful lowe; And his syre a soutere Y-suled in grees, 1500 His teeth with toylyng of lether Tatered as a sawe. Alaas! that lordes of the londe Leveth swiche wrechen, And leveth swych lorels For her lowe wordes. They shulden maken abbots Her owen bretheren childre, Other of som gentil blod, And so yt best semed, 1510 And fostre none forytoures, Ne swich false freres, To maken fat and fulle And her flesh combren. For her kynde were more To y-clense diches, Than ben to sopers y-set first, And served with sylver.