"For-thi beth war, ye wise men, That with the world deleth, That riche ben and reson knoweth, Ruleth wel youre soule, Beth noght unkynde, I conseille yow, To youre evene cristene, For manye of yow riche men, 11890 By my soule! men telleth, Ye brenne, but ye blase noght, That is a blynd bekene. _Non omnis qui dicit Domine! Domine! intrabit, etc._
"Dives deyde dampned, For his unkyndenesse { 364} Of his mete and of his moneie To men that it nedede. Ech a riche I rede 11900 Reward at hym take, And gyveth youre good to that God That grace of ariseth; For thei that ben unkynde to hise, Hope I noon oother, But thei dwelle ther Dives is Dayes withouten ende.
"Thus is unkyndenesse the contrarie, That quencheth, as it were, The grace of the Holy Goost, 11910 Goddes owene kynde. For that kynde dooth, unkynde for-dooth; As thise corsede theves Unkynde cristene men, For coveitise and envye, Sleeth a man for hise moebles With mouth or with handes. For that the Holy Goost hath to kepe, The harlotes destruyeth, The which is lif and love, 11920 The leye of mannes body. For every manere good man May be likned to a torche, Or ellis to a tapur, To reverence the Trinité; And who morthereth a good man, Me thynketh by myn inwit, He for-dooth the levest light That oure Lord lovyeth.
"And yet in manye mo maneres 11930 Men offenden the Holy Goost. Ac this is the worste wise { 365} That any wight myghte Synnen ayein the Seint Spirit, Assenten to destruye For coveitise of any kynnes thyng That Crist deere boughte, That wikkedliche and wilfulliche Wolde mercy aniente.
"Innocence is next God, 11940 And nyght and day it crieth, 'Vengeaunce! vengeaunce! Forgyve be it nevere That shente us and shedde oure blood, For-shapte us, as it were!' _Vindica sanguinem justorum._
"Thus 'Vengeaunce! vengeaunce!' Verrey Charité asketh. And sith holy chirche and Charité Chargeth this so soore, 11950 Leve I nevere that oure Lord Wol love that charité lakketh, Ne have pité for any preiere Ther that he pleyneth."
"I pose I hadde synned so, And sholde now deye; And now I am sory that I so The Seint Spirit a-gulte, Confesse me and crye his grace, God that al made, 11960 And myldeliche his mercy aske, Myghte I noght be saved?"