'Now, sire,' quod he, 'han freres swich a grace
20 That noon of hem shal come to this place?'
       'Yis,' quod this angel, 'many a millioun!'
And unto Sathanas he ladde hym doun.
'And now hath Sathanas,' seith he, 'a tayl
Brodder than of a carryk is the sayl.
25 Hold up thy tayl, thou Sathanas!' quod he;
'Shewe forth thyn ers, and lat the frere se
Where is the nest of freres in this place!'
And er that half a furlong wey of space,
Right so as bees out swarmen from an hyve,
30 Out of the develes ers ther gonne dryve
Twenty thousand freres on a route,
And thurghout helle swarmed al aboute,
And comen agayn as faste as they may gon,
And in his ers they crepten everychon.
35 He clapte his tayl agayn and lay ful stille.
This frere, whan he looked hadde his fille
Upon the tormentz of this sory place,
His spirit God restored, of his grace,
Unto his body agayn, and he awook.
40 But natheles, for fere yet he quook,
So was the develes ers ay in his mynde,
That is his heritage of verray kynde.
God save yow alle, save this cursed frere!
My prologe wol I ende in this manere."


       'Now, sir,' said he, 'have friars such a grace
20 That none of them shall come into this place?'
'Nay,' said the angel, 'millions here are thrown!'
And unto Sathanas he led him down.
'And now has Sathanas,' said he, 'a tail
Broader than of a galleon is the sail.
25 Hold up thy tail, thou Sathanas!' said he,
'Show forth thine arse and let the friar see
Where is the nest of friars in this place!'
And before one might go half a furlong's space,
Just as the bees come swarming from a hive,
30 Out of the Devil's arse-hole there did drive
Full twenty thousand friars in a rout,
And through all Hell they swarmed and ran about.
And came again, as fast as they could run,
And in his arse they crept back, every one.
35 He clapped his tail to and then lay right still.
This friar, when he'd looked at length his fill
Upon the torments of that sorry place,
His spirit God restored, of His high grace,
Into his body, and he did awake;
40 Nevertheless for terror did he quake
So was the Devil's arse-hole in his mind,
Which is his future home, and like in kind.
God save all but this cursed friar here;
My prologue ends thus; to my tale give ear."

45        Lordynges, ther is in Yorkshire, as I gesse,
A mersshy contree called Holdernesse,
In which ther wente a lymytour aboute,
To preche, and eek to begge, it so no doute.
And so bifel that on a day this frere
50 Hadde preched at a chirche in his manere,
And specially, aboven every thyng,
Excited he the peple in his prechyng
To trentals, and to yeve, for Goddes sake,
Wherwith men myghte hooly houses make,
55 Ther as divine servyce is honoured,
Nat ther as it is wasted and devoured,
Ne ther it nedeth nat for to be yive,
As to possessioners, that mowen lyve,
Thanked be God, in wele and habundaunce.
60 "Trentals," seyde he, "deliveren fro penaunce
Hir freendes soules, as wel olde as yonge, -
Ye, whan that they been hastily ysonge,
Nat for to holde a preest holy and gay -
He syngeth nat but o masse in a day.
65 Delivereth out," quod he, "anon the soules!
Ful hard it is with flesshhook or with oules
To been yclawed, or to brenne or bake.
Now spede yow hastily, for Cristes sake!"
And whan this frere had seyd al his entente,
70 With qui cum patre forth his wey he wente.


45        Masters, there is in Yorkshire, as I guess,
A marshy region that's called Holderness,
Wherein there went a limiter about
To preach, and to beg too, beyond a doubt.
And so it happened that on a day this friar
50 Had preached in church in his own manner dire,
And specially, and above everything,
Incited he the people, by preaching,
To trentals, and to give, for God's own sake,
The means wherewith men might new churches make,
55 That there the services of God might flower,
And not to them who waste and wealth devour,
Nor where there's no necessity to give,
As to the monks, who easily may live -
Thanks be to God!- and need no wealth to gain.
60 "Trentals," said he, "deliver from their pain
The souls of friends who're dead, the old and young,
Yea, even when they have been hastily sung;
Not that I hold as frivolous and gay,
A priest who only sings one mass a day.
65 "Act quickly now," said he, "their souls redeem,
For hard it is, with spikes and hooks, I deem,
To be so torn, aye, or to burn or bake;
Now speed you all to this, for Christ's own sake!"
And when this friar had said all that he meant,
70 With cui cum patre on his way he went.


       Whan folk in chirche had yeve him what hem leste,
He wente his wey, no lenger wolde he reste,
With scrippe and tipped staf, ytukked hye,
In every hous he gan to poure and prye,
75 And beggeth mele and chese, or elles corn.
His felawe hadde a staf tipped with horn,
A peyre of tables al of yvory,
And a poyntel polysshed fetisly,
And wrooth the names alwey, as he stood,
80 Of alle folk that yaf hym any good,
Ascaunces that he wolde for hem preye.
"Yif us a busshel whete, malt, or reye,
A goddes kechyl, or a trype of chese,
Or elles what yow lyst, we may nat cheese;
85 A goddes halfpeny, or a masse peny,
Or yif us of youre brawn, if ye have eny;
A dagon of youre blanket, leeve dame,
Oure suster deere, - lo! Heere I write youre name, -
Bacon or beef, or swich thyng as ye fynde."


       When people in church had given and pleased him best,
He went his way, no longer would he rest,
With scrip and ferruled staff and skirts tucked high;
In every house he went to peer and pry,
75 And beg for flour and cheese, or else for corn.
His fellow had a staff was tipped with horn,
A set of tablets all of ivory,
And stylus that was polished elegantly,
And wrote the names down always as he stood,
80 Of those that gave him anything of good,
As if for them he later meant to pray.
"Give us of wheat or malt or rye," he'd say,
"A bushel; or a God's cake; or some cheese;
We may not choose, so give us what you please;
85 Give us God's halfpenny or a mass-penny,
Or give us of your brawn, if you have any;
A small piece of your blanket, my dear dame,
Our sister dear, lo, here I write your name;
Bacon or beef, or such thing as you find."


90        A sturdy harlot wente ay hem bihynde,
That was hir hostes man, and bar a sak,
And what men yaf hem, leyde it on his bak.
And whan that he was out at dore, anon
He planed awey the names everichon
95 That he biforn had writen in his tables;
He served hem with nyfles and with fables.


90        A sturdy menial went these two behind-
The servant of their host- and bore a sack,
And what men gave them, laid it on his back.
And when they'd left the house, why, then anon
He planed away the names of folk, each one,
95 That he before had written on his tables;
And thus he served them mockeries and fables.

这也有点儿太能坚持了吧，几个月了，丝毫不厌其烦一大堆一大堆地发……Sorry，俺还是都看不懂，请原谅表打偶哦……

       "Nay, ther thou lixt, thou Somonour!" quod the Frere.
       "Pees," quod oure Hoost, "for Cristes mooder deere!
Tel forth thy tale, and spare it nat at al."
100        "So thryve I," quod this Somonour, "so I shal!"


       "Nay, there you lie, you summoner!" cried the friar.
       "Peace, for Christ's Mother's sake, call no one liar!"
Our host said. "Tell your tale, nor spare at all."
100        "So thrive I," said this summoner, "that I shall."

       So longe he wente, hous by hous, til he
Cam til an hous ther he was wont to be
Refresshed moore than in an hundred placis.
Syk lay the goode man whos that the place is;
105 Bedrede upon a couche lowe he lay.
"Deus hic!" quod he, "O Thomas, freend, good day!"
Seyde this frere, curteisly and softe.
"Thomas," quod he, "God yelde yow! Ful ofte
Have I upon this bench faren ful weel;
110 Heere have I eten many a myrie meel."
And fro the bench he droof awey the cat,
And leyde adoun his potente and his hat,
And eek his scrippe, and sette hym softe adoun.
His felawe was go walked into toun
115 Forth with his knave, into that hostelrye
Where as he shoop hym thilke nyght to lye.


       Along he went from house to house, till he
Came to a house where he was wont to be
Refreshed more than in hundred places round.
And sick the goodman of the place he found;
105 Bedridden on a couch he prostrate lay.
"Deus hic," said he. "Thomas, my friend, good day,"
Said he, this friar, courteously and soft.
"Thomas," said he, "may God repay you! Oft
Have I sat on this bench and fared right well.
110 Here have I eaten many a merry meal."
And from the bench he drove away the cat,
And laid down there his steel-tipped staff and hat
And his scrip, too, and sat him softly down.
His fellow had gone walking into town,
115 With the said menial, to a hostelry
Wherein he thought that very night to lie.


       "O deere maister," quod this sike man,
"How han ye fare sith that March bigan?
I saugh yow noght this fourtenyght or moore."
120 "God woot," quod he, "laboured have I ful soore,
And specially, for thy savacion
Have I seyd many a precious orison,
And for oure othere freendes, God hem blesse!
I have to day been at youre chirche at messe,
125 And seyd a sermon after my symple wit,
Nat al after the text of hooly writ;
For it is hard to yow, as I suppose,
And therfore wol I teche yow al the glose.
Glosynge is a glorious thyng, certeyn,
130 For lettre sleeth, so as we clerkes seyn.
There have I taught hem to be charitable,
And spende hir good ther it is resonable;
And there I saugh oure dame. A! where is she?"
       "Yond in the yerd I trowe that she be,"
135 Seyde this man, "and she wol come anon."


       "O my dear master," whispered this sick man,
"How have you fared since this month March began?
"I've seen you not this fortnight, aye or more."
120 "God knows," said he, "that I have toiled full sore;
And very specially for your salvation
Have I said precious prayers, and at each station,
And for our other friends, whom may God bless!
I have today been to your church, at Mass,
125 And preached a sermon after my poor wit,
Not wholly from the text of holy writ,
For that is hard and baffling in the main;
And therefore all its meaning I'll explain.
Glosing's a glorious thing, and that's certain,
130 For letters kill, as scholars say with pain.
Thus have I taught them to be charitable,
And spend their money reasonably, as well.
And there I saw your dame- ah, where is she?"
       "Yonder within the yard I think she'll be,"
135 Said this sick man, "and she will come anon."

       "Ey, maister, welcome be ye, by Seint John!"
Seyde this wyf, "How fare ye, hertely?"
       The frere ariseth up ful curteisly,
And hire embraceth in his armes narwe,
140 And kiste hire sweete, and chirketh as a sparwe
With his lyppes: "Dame," quod he, "right weel,
As he that is youre servent every deel,
Thanked be God, that yow yaf soule and lyf!
Yet saugh I nat this day so fair a wyf
145 In al the chirche, God so save me!"


       "Eh, master! Welcome be you, by Saint John!"
Exclaimed the wife. "How fare you, heartily?"
       The friar arose, and that full courteously,
And her embraced within his two arms narrow,
140 And kissed her sweetly, chirping like a sparrow
With his two lips. "Ah, dame," said he, "right well
As one that is your servant, let me tell,
Thanks be to God Who gave you soul and life,
For saw I not this day so fair a wife
145 In all the congregation, God save me!"


       "Ye, God amende defautes, sire," quod she.
"Algates, welcome be ye, by my fey!"
       "Graunt mercy, dame, this have I founde alwey.
But of youre grete goodnesse, by youre leve,
150 I wolde prey yow that ye nat yow greve,
I wole with Thomas speke a litel throwe.
Thise curatz been ful necligent and slowe
To grope tendrely a conscience
In shrift; in prechyng is my diligence,
155 And studie in Petres wordes and in Poules.
I walke, and fisshe Cristen mennes soules,
To yelden Jhesu Crist his propre rente;
To sprede his word is set al myn entente."


       "Yea, God correct all faults, sir," answered she,
"But you are always welcome, by my fay!"
       "Many thanks, dame, this have I found alway.
But of your innate goodness, by your leave,
150 I'd beg of you, be cross or grieve
If I with Thomas speak a little now.
These curates are right negligent and slow
In searching tenderly into conscience.
To preach confession is my diligence,
155 And I do study Peter's words and Paul's.
I walk and fish for Christian persons' souls
To yield to Jesus Christ his increment;
To spread his gospel is my whole intent."


       "Now, by youre leve, o deere sire," quod she
160 "Chideth him weel, for seinte Trinitee!
He is as angry as a pissemyre,
Though that he have al that he kan desire,
Though I hym wrye a-nyght and make hym warm,
And over hym leye my leg outher myn arm,
165 He groneth lyk oure boor, lith in oure sty.
Oother desport right noon of hym have I;
I may nat plese hym in no maner cas."
       "O Thomas, je vous dy, Thomas! Thomas!
This maketh the feend; this moste ben amended.
170 Ire is a thyng that hye God defended,
And therof wol I speke a word or two."


       "Now, by your leave, O my dear sir," said she,
160 "Berate him well, for Holy Trinity.
He is as crabbed as an old pismire,
Though he has everything he can desire.
Though him I cover at night, and make him warm,
And lay my leg across him, or my arm,
165 He grunts and groans like our old boar in sty
And other sport- just none from him have I.
I cannot please him, no, in any case."
       "O Thomas, je vous dis, Thomas, Thomas!
This is the devil's work, this must be amended,
170 Anger's a thing that makes High God offended,
And thereof will I speak a word or two."

       "Now, maister," quod the wyf, er that I go,
What wol ye dyne? I wol go theraboute."


       "Now, master," said the wife, "before I go,
What will you eat? I will about it scoot."


       "Now dame," quod he," now je vous dy sanz doute,
175 Have I nat of a capon but the lyvere,
And of youre softe breed nat but a shyvere,
And after that a rosted pigges heed -
But that I nolde no beest for me were deed -
Thanne hadde I with yow hoomly suffisaunce.
180 I am a man of litel sustenaunce;
My spirit hath his fostryng in the bible.
The body is ay so redy and penyble
To wake, that my stomak is destroyed.
I prey yow, dame, ye be nat anoyed,
185 Though I so freendly yow my conseil shewe.
By god! I wolde nat telle it but a fewe."
       "Now, sire," quod she, "but o word er I go.
My child is deed withinne thise wykes two,
Soone after that ye wente out of this toun."


       "Now, dame," said he then, "je vous dis, sans doute,
175 Had I of a fat capon but the liver,
And of your soft white bread naught but a sliver,
And after that a pig's head well roasted
Except that I would no beast for me were dead,
Then had I with you plain sufficiency.
180 I am a man of little gluttony.
My spirit has its nourishment in the Bible.
My body is so inured and so pliable
To watching, that my appetite's destroyed.
I pray you, lady, be you not annoyed
185 Though I so intimately my secret show;
By God, I would reveal it to but few."
       "Now, sir," said she, "but one word before I go;
My child has died within this fortnight- oh,
Soon after you left town last, it did die."

190        "His deeth saugh I by revelacioun,"
Seide this frere, "at hoom in oure dortour.
I dar wel seyn that, er that half an hour
After his deeth, I saugh hym born to blisse
In myn avision, so God me wisse!
195 So didde oure sexteyn and oure fermerer,
That han been trewe freres fifty yeer;
They may now - God be thanked of his loone! -
Maken hir jubilee and walke allone.
And up I roos, and al oure covent eke,
200 With many a teere trillyng on my cheke,
Withouten noyse or claterynge of belles;
Te Deum was oure song, and nothyng elles,
Save that to Crist I seyde an orison,
Thankynge hym of his revelacion.
205 For, sire and dame, trusteth me right weel,
Oure orisons been moore effectueel,
And moore we seen of Cristes secree thynges,
Than burel folk, although they weren kynges.
We lyve in poverte and in abstinence,
210 And burell folk in richesse and despence
Of mete and drynke, and in hir foul delit.
We han this worldes lust al in despit.
Lazar and Dives lyveden diversly,
And divers gerdon hadden they therby.
215 Whoso wol preye, he moot faste and be clene,
And fatte his soule, and make his body lene.
We fare as seith th'apostle; clooth and foode
Suffisen us, though they be nat ful goode.
The clennesse and the fastynge of us freres
220 Maketh that crist accepteth oure preyeres.


190        "His death saw I by revelation, aye,"
Replied this friar, "at home in dormitory
Less than an hour, I dare say, before to glory,
After his death, I saw him borne in bliss
In vision mine, may God me guide in this!
195 So did our sexton and infirmarian,
Who have been true friars fifty years, each man;
And may now, God be thanked for mercy shown,
Observe their jubilee and walk alone.
And I rose up and did my brothers seek,
200 With many a tear down trickling on my cheek,
And without noise or clashing of the bells;
Te deum was our song and nothing else,
Except that to Christ I said an orison,
And thanked him for the vision he had shown
205 For, sir and dame, trust me full well in all,
Our orisons are more effectual,
And more we see of Christ's own secret things
Than folk of the laity, though they were kings.
We live in poverty and abstinence
210 And laymen live in riches and expense
Of meat and drink, and in their gross delight.
This world's desires we hold in great despite.
Dives and Lazarus lived differently,
And different recompense they had thereby.
215 Whoso would pray, he must fast and be clean,
Fatten his soul and keep his body lean.
We fare as says the apostle; clothes and food
Suffice us, though they be not over-good.
The cleanness and the fasting of us friars
220 Result in Christ's accepting all our prayers.

       Lo, Moyses fourty dayes and fourty nyght
Fasted, er that the heighe God of myght
Spak with hym in the mountayne of Synay.
With empty wombe, fastynge many a day,
225 Receyved he the lawe that was writen
With Goddes fynger; and Elye, wel ye witen,
In mount Oreb, er he hadde any speche
With hye God, that is oure lyves leche,
He fasted longe, and was in contemplaunce.


       Lo, Moses forty days and forty nights
Fasted before the mightiest God of mights
Spoke with him on the Mountain of Sinai.
With empty belly, fasting long, say I,
225 Received he there the law that had been writ
By God's hand; and Elias, you know of it
On Mount Horeb, ere he had any speech
With the High God, Who is our spirits' leech,
He fasted long and deep his contemplation.

230        Aaron, that hadde the temple in governaunce,
And eek the othere preestes everichon,
Into the temple whan they sholde gon
To preye for the peple, and do servyse,
They nolden drynken in no maner wyse
235 No drynke which that myghte hem dronke make,
But there in abstinence preye and wake,
Lest that they deyden. Taak heede what I seye!
But they be sobre that for the peple preye,
War that - I seye namoore, for it suffiseth.


230        Aaron, who ruled the temple of his nation,
And all the other great priests, every one,
When they into the temple would be gone
To pray there for the folk and do their rites.
They would not drink of that which man excites
235 And makes him drunk or stirs in any way,
But there in abstinence they'd watch and pray
Lest they should die - to what I say take heed! -
Were they not sober when they prayed, indeed.
Beware my words. No more! for it suffices.

240        Oure Lord Jhesu, as hooly writ devyseth,
Yaf us ensample of fastynge and preyeres -
Therfore we mendynantz, we sely freres -
Been wedded to poverte and continence,
To charite, humblesse, and abstinence,
245 To persecucioun for rightwisnesse,
To wepynge, misericorde, and clennesse.
And therfore may ye se that oure preyeres -
I speke of us, we mendynantz, we freres -
Been to the hye God moore acceptable
250 Than youres, with youre feestes at the table.
Fro Paradys first, if I shal nat lye,
Was man out chaced for his glotonye;
And chaast was man in paradys, certeyn.


240        Our Lord Christ, as the holy writ apprises,
Gave us example of fasting and of prayers.
Therefore we mendicants, we simple friars,
Are married to poverty and continence,
To charity, meekness, and abstinence,
245 To persecution for our righteousness,
To weeping, pity, and to cleanliness.
And therefore may you see that all our prayers -
I speak of us, we mendicants, we friars -
Are to the High God far more acceptable
250 Than yours, with all the feasts you make at table.
From Paradise, if I am not to lie,
Was man chased out because of gluttony;
And chaste was man in Paradise, that's plain.

       But herkne now, Thomas, what I shal seyn.
255 I ne have no text of it, as I suppose,
But I shal fynde it in a maner glose,
That specially oure sweete Lord Jhesus
Spak this by freres, whan he seyde thus:
'Blessed be they that povere in spirit been.'
260 And so forth al the gospel may ye seen,
Wher it be likker oure professioun,
Or hirs that swymmen in possessioun.
Fy on hire pompe and on hire glotonye!
And for hir lewednesse I hem diffye.


       But listen now, Thomas, lest I speak in vain.
255 I have no text for it, I must admit,
But by analogy the words will fit,
That specially our sweet Lord Christ Jesus
Spoke of the begging friars when He said thus:
'Blest are the poor in spirit.' So said he,
260 And so through all the gospel may you see
Whether the Word fit better our profession
Or theirs, the monks', who swim in rich possession,
Fie on their pomp and on their gluttony!
And for their lewdness do I them defy.


265        My thynketh they been lyk Jovinyan,
Fat as a whale, and walkynge as a swan,
Al vinolent as botel in the spence.
Hir preyere is of ful greet reverence,
Whan they for soules seye the psalm of Davit;
270 Lo, 'buf!' they seye, 'cor meum eructavit!'
Who folweth Cristes gospel and his foore,
But we that humble been, and chaast, and poore,
Werkeris of Goddes word, nat auditours?
Therfore, right as an hauk up at a sours
275 Up springeth into th'eir, right so prayeres
Of charitable and chaste bisy freres
Maken hir sours to Goddes eres two.
Thomas! Thomas! So moote I ryde or go,
And by that lord that clepid is seint Yve,
280 Nere thou oure brother, sholdestou nat thryve.
In our chapitre prayer we day and nyght
To Crist, that he thee sende heele and myght
Thy body for to weelden hastily."


265        It seems to me they're like Jovinian,
Fat as a whale and waddling as a swan;
As full of wine as bottle in the spence.
Their prayers are always of great reverence,
When they for souls that psalm of David say:
270 Cor meum eructavit- bouf!'- that way!
Who follow Christ's Word going on before
But we who are so humble, chaste, and poor,
And doers of God's Word, not hearers, merely?
As falcons rise to heaven, just so clearly
275 Spring up into the air the holy prayers
Of charitable and chaste and toiling friars
Make their way upward into God's ears two.
Thomas, O Thomas! As I ride or go,
And by that lord whom all we call Saint Yve,
280 Were you not brother to us, you'd not thrive!
In our chapter we pray both day and night
To Christ, that He will send you health and might
To move about again, and speedily."

       "God woot," quod he, "nothyng therof feele I!
285 As help me Crist, as I in fewe yeres,
Have spent upon diverse manere freres
Ful many a pound; yet fare I never the bet.
Certeyn, my good have I almoost biset.
Farwel, my gold, for it is al ago!"


       "God knows," said he, "nothing thereof feel I;
285 So help me Christ as I, these last few years,
Have spent on divers friars, it appears,
Full many a pound; and I'm no better yet.
Truly my wealth have I almost upset.
Farewell my gold! for it has slipped away."

290        The frere answerde, "O Thomas, dostow so?
What nedeth yow diverse freres seche?
What nedeth hym that hath a parfit leche
To sechen othere leches in the toun?
Youre inconstance is youre confusioun.
295 Holde ye thanne me, or elles oure covent,
To praye for yow been insufficient?
Thomas, that jape nys nat worth a myte.
Youre maladye is for we han to lyte.
A! yif that covent half a quarter otes!
300 A! yif that covent foure and twenty grotes!
A! yif that frere a peny, and lat hym go!
Nay, nay, Thomas, it may no thyng be so!
What is a ferthyng worth parted in twelve?
Lo, ech thyng that is oned in himselve
305 Is moore strong than whan it is toscatered.
Thomas, of me thou shalt nat been yflatered;
Thou woldest han oure labour al for noght.
The hye god, that al this world hath wroght,
Seith that the werkman worthy is his hyre.
310 Thomas, noght of youre tresor I desire
As for myself, but that al oure covent
To preye for yow is ay so diligent,
And for to buylden Cristes owene chirche.
Thomas, if ye wol lernen for to wirche,
315 Of buyldynge up of chirches may ye fynde,
If it be good, in Thomas lyf of Inde.
Ye lye heere ful of anger and of ire,
With which the devel set youre herte afyre,
And chiden heere the sely innocent,
320 Youre wyf, that is so meke and pacient.
And therfore, Thomas, trowe me if thee leste,
Ne stryve nat with thy wyf, as for thy beste;
And ber this word awey now, by thy feith,
Touchynge swich thyng, lo, what the wise seith:
325 Withinne thyn hous ne be thou no leon;
To thy subgitz do noon oppression,
Ne make thyne aqueyntances nat to flee. -
And, Thomas, yet eft-soones I charge thee,
Be war from hire that in thy bosom slepeth;
330 War fro the serpent that so slily crepeth
Under the gras, and styngeth subtilly.
Be war, my sone, and herkne paciently,
That twenty thousand men han lost hir lyves
For stryvyng with hir lemmans and hir wyves.
335 Now sith ye han so hooly and meke a wyf,
What nedeth yow, Thomas, to maken stryf?
Ther nys, ywys, no serpent so cruel,
Whan man tret on his tayl, ne half so fel,
As womman is, whan she hath caught an ire;
340 Vengeance is thanne al that they desire.
Ire is a synne, oon of the grete of sevene,
Abhomynable unto the God of hevene;
And to hymself it is destruccion.
This every lewed viker or person
345 Kan seye, how ire engendreth homycide.
Ire is, in sooth, executour of pryde.
I koude of ire seye so muche sorwe,
My tale sholde laste til to-morwe.
And therfore preye I God, bothe day and nyght,
350 An irous man, God sende hym litel myght!
It is greet harm and certes greet pitee
To sette an irous man in heigh degree.


290        The friar replied: "Ah, Thomas, so you say!
But why need you to different friars reach?
Why should he need, who has a perfect leech,
To call in other leeches from the town?
Your trouble from your fickleness has grown.
295 Think you that I, or at least our convent,
Could not suffice to pray? That's what I meant.
Thomas, your feeble joke's not worth a tittle;
Your illness lasts because you've given too little.
Ah, give that convent bushels four of oats!
300 Ah, give that convent four and twenty groats!
Ah, give that friar a penny and let him go!
"Nay, nay, Thomas, the thing should not be so!
What is a farthing worth, when split twelve ways?
A thing in its integrity displays
305 Far greater strength than does a unit scattered.
Thomas, by me you shall not here be flattered;
You wished you had our labour all for naught.
But the High God, Who all this world has wrought,
Says that the workman's worthy of his hire.
310 Thomas! Naught of your treasure I desire
As for myself, but that all our convent
To pray for you is always diligent,
And also to build up Christ's holy church.
Thomas! If you will learn the way to work,
315 Of building up of churches you may find
If it be good in Thomas' life, of Inde.
You lie here, full of anger and of ire,
Wherewith the Devil set your heart afire,
And you chide here this hapless innocent,
320 Your wife, who is so meek and so patient.
And therefore, Thomas, trust me if you please,
Scold not your wife, who tries to give you ease;
And bear this word away now, by your faith,
Touching this thing, lo what the wise man saith:
325 Within thy house do not the lion play,
Oppress thy subjects in no kind of way,
Nor cause thine equals and thy friends to flee.
And Thomas, yet again I charge you, be
Wary of her that in your bosom sleeps;
330 Beware the serpent that so slyly creeps
Under the grass and stings so treacherously.
Beware, my son, and hear this patiently,
That twenty thousand men have lost their lives
For quarrelling with their sweet ones, and their wives.
335 Now, since you have so holy and meek a wife,
Why need you, Thomas, so to stir up strife?
There is, indeed, no serpent so cruel,
When man treads on his tail, nor half so fell,
As woman is when she is filled with ire;
340 Vengeance is then the whole of her desire.
Anger's a sin, one of the deadly seven,
Abominable unto the God of Heaven;
And it is sure destruction unto one.
This every vulgar vicar or parson
345 Can say, how anger leads to homicide.
Truth, anger's the executant of pride.
I could of anger tell you so much sorrow
My tale should last until it were tomorrow.
And therefore I pray God both day and night,
350 An ireful man, God send him little might!
It is great harm and truly great pity
To set an ireful man in high degree.

       Whilom ther was an irous potestat,
As seith Senek, that, durynge his estaat,
355 Upon a day out ryden knyghtes two,
And as Fortune wolde that it were so,
That oon of hem cam hoom, that oother noght.
Anon the knyght bifore the juge is broght,
That seyde thus, 'Thou hast thy felawe slayn,
360 For which I deme thee to the deeth, certayn.'
And to another knyght comanded he,
'Go lede hym to the deeth, I charge thee.'
And happed, as they wente by the weye
Toward the place ther he sholde deye,
365 The knyght cam which men wenden had be deed.
Thanne thoughte they it were the beste reed
To lede hem bothe to the juge agayn.
They seiden, 'Lord, the knyght ne hath nat slayn
His felawe; heere he standeth hool alyve.'
370 'Ye shul be deed,' quod he, 'so moot I thryve!
That is to seyn, bothe oon, and two, and thre!'
And to the firste knyght right thus spak he,
'I dampned thee; thou most algate be deed.
And thou also most nedes lese thyn heed,
375 For thou art cause why thy felawe deyth.'
And to the thridde knyght right thus he seith,
'Thou hast nat doon that I comanded thee.'
And thus he dide doon sleen hem alle thre.


       For once there was an ireful potentate,
As Seneca says and while he ruled the state,
355 Upon a day out riding went knights two,
And as Dame Fortune willed it, it was so
That one of them came home, and one did not.
Anon that knight before the judge was brought,
Who said thus: 'Sir, you have your fellow slain,
360 For which I doom you to the death, amain.'
And to another knight commanded he,
'Go lead him to his death, so I charge ye.'
It happened, as they went along their way,
Toward the place where he must die that day,
365 They met the knight that men had thought was dead
Then thought they, it were best not go ahead,
And so led both unto the judge again.
They said: 'O lord, this knight, he has not slain
His fellow; for he stands here sound, alive.'
370 'You shall die then,' he cried, 'so may I thrive!
That is to say, you shall all die, all three!'
And then to the first knight 'twas thus said he:
'I doomed you, and therefore you must be dead.
And you, also, must needs now lose your head,
375 Since you're the causing of your fellow's end.'
And then on the third knight did he descend:
'You have not done what I ordained should be!'
And thus he did away with all the three.

       Irous Cambises was eek dronkelewe,
380 And ay delited hym to been a shrewe.
And so bifel, a lord of his meynee,
That loved vertuous moralitee,
Seyde on a day bitwix hem two right thus:
       'A lord is lost, if he be vicius;
385 And dronkenesse is eek a foul record
Of any man, and namely in a lord.
Ther is ful many an eye and many an ere
Awaityng on a lord, and he noot where.
For goddes love, drynk moore attemprely!
390 Wyn maketh man to lesen wrecchedly
His mynde and eek his lymes everichon.'


       Ireful Cambyses was a drunkard too,
380 And much delighted dirty deeds to do.
And so befell, a lord of his household,
Who loved all moral virtue, we are told,
Said on a day, when they were talking, thus:
       'A lord is lost if he be too vicious;
385 And drunkenness is foul thing to record
Of any man, and specially of a lord.
There is full many an eye and many an ear
Waiting upon a lord, nor knows he where.
For God's dear love, sir, drink more moderately;
390 Wine causes man to lose, and wretchedly,
His mind, and his limbs' usage, every one.'


       'The revers shaltou se,' quod he, 'anon,
And preve it by thyn owene experience,
That wyn ne dooth to folk no swich offence.
395 Ther is no wyn bireveth me my myght
Of hand ne foot, ne of myne eyen sight.'
And for despit he drank ful muchel moore,
An hondred part, than he hadde don bifoore;
And right anon this irous, cursed wrecche
400 Leet this knyghtes sone bifore hym fecche,
Comandynge hym he sholde bifore hym stonde.
And sodeynly he took his bowe in honde,
And up the streng he pulled to his ere,
And with an arwe he slow the child right there.
405 'Now wheither have I a siker hand or noon?'
Quod he; 'Is al my myght and mynde agon?
Hath wyn bireved me myn eyen sight?'
What sholde I telle th'answere of the knyght?
His sone was slayn, ther is namoore to seye.
410 Beth war, therfore, with lordes how ye pleye.
Syngeth Placebo, and 'I shal, if I kan,'
But if it be unto a povre man.
To a povre man men sholde his vices telle,
But nat to a lord, thogh he sholde go to helle.


       'The opposite you'll see,' said he, 'anon;
And you'll prove, by your own experience,
That wine does not to men such foul offence.
395 There is no wine can rob me of my might
Of hand or foot, nor yet of my eyesight!'
And for despite he drank much wine the more,
A hundred times, than he had drunk before;
And then anon this ireful wicked wretch
400 Sent one this knight's young son to go and fetch,
And ordered that before him he should stand.
And suddenly he took his bow in hand,
And drew the string thereof up to his ear,
And with an arrow slew the child right there.
405 'Now tell me whether I've sure hand, or none!'
He said, 'And are my might and mind all gone?
Has wine deprived me of my good eyesight?'
"How shall I tell the answer of the knight?
His son was slain, there is no more to say.
410 Beware, therefore, with lords look how you play.
But sing placebo, and 'I shall, if I can,'
Unless it be unto a helpless man.
To a poor man men should his vices tell,
But to a lord, no, though he go to hell.

415        Lo irous Cirus, thilke Percien,
How he destroyed the ryver of Gysen,
For that an hors of his was dreynt therinne,
Whan that he wente Babiloigne to wynne.
He made that the ryver was so smal
420 That wommen myghte wade it over al.
Lo, what seyde he that so wel teche kan?
'Ne be no felawe to an irous man,
Ne with no wood man walke by the weye,
Lest thee repente;' I wol no ferther seye.


415        Lo, ireful Cyrus, that great Persian king,
Destroyed the river Gyndes at its spring,
Because a horse of his was drowned therein
When he went forth old Babylon to win.
He caused the river to become so small
420 That women could go wading through it all.
"Lo, what said he whose teaching all commend?
'An angry man take never for a friend,
Nor with a madman walk along the way,
Lest you repent.' There is no more to say.

425        "Now, Thomas, leeve brother, lef thyn ire;
Thou shalt me fynde as just as is a squyre.
Hoold nat the develes knyf ay at thyn herte -
Thyn angre dooth thee al to soore smerte -
But shewe to me al thy confessioun."
430        "Nay," quod the sike man, "by Seint Symoun!
I have be shryven this day at my curat.
I have hym toold hoolly al myn estat;
Nedeth namoore to speken of it," seith he,
"But if me list, of myn humylitee."
435        "Yif me thanne of thy gold, to make oure cloystre,"
Quod he, "for many a muscle and many an oystre,
Whan othere men han ben ful wel at eyse,
Hath been oure foode, our cloystre for to reyse.
And yet, God woot, unnethe the fundement
440 Parfourned is, ne of our pavement
Nys nat a tyle yet withinne oure wones.
By God! we owen fourty pound for stones.


425        "Now, Thomas, my dear brother, leave your ire;
You shall find me as just as is a squire.
Hold not the Devil's knife against your heart;
Your anger does too sorely burn and smart;
But show me all, now, in confession, son."
430        "Nay," said the sick man, "by Saint Simeon!
I have confessed today by my curate;
I have him told the whole truth of my state;
There's no more need to speak of it," said he,
"Save as I please, of my humility."
435        "Then give me of your gold to build our cloister,"
Said he, "for many a mussel and an oyster,
When other men have been well at their ease,
Have been our food, that building should not cease,
And yet, God knows, is finished nothing more
440 Than the foundation, while of all the floor
There's not a tile yet laid to call our own;
By God, we owe full forty pounds for stone!


       Now help, Thomas, for hym that harwed helle!
For elles moste we oure bookes selle.
445 And if yow lakke oure predicacioun,
Thanne goth the world al to destruccioun.
For whoso wolde us fro this world bireve,
So God me save, Thomas, by youre leve,
He wolde bireve out of this world the sonne.
450 For who kan teche and werchen as we konne?
And that is nat of litel tyme," quod he,
"But syn Elye was, or Elise,
Han freres been - that fynde I of record -
In charitee, ythanked be oure Lord!
455 Now Thomas, help, for seinte charitee!"
And doun anon he sette hym on his knee.


       Now help, Thomas, for Him that harried Hell!
Else must we turn about and our books sell.
445 And if you laymen lack our high instruction,
Then will the world go all to its destruction.
For whoso shall deny us right to live,
So may God save me, Thomas, by your leave,
He'll have deprived the whole world of the sun.
450 For who can teach and work as we have done?
And that's not been for little time," said he;
"Elias and Elisha used to be
Friars, you'll find the scriptures do record,
And beggars too, thanks be to the good Lord!
455 Now, Thomas, help for holy charity!"
And down he went then, kneeling on one knee.

       This sike man wax wel ny wood for ire;
He wolde that the frere had been on-fire,
With his false dissymulacioun.
460 "Swich thyng as is in my possessioun,"
Quod he, "that may I yeve yow, and noon oother.
Ye sey me thus, how that I am youre brother?"


       This sick man, he went well-nigh mad for ire;
He would have had that friar set afire
For the hypocrisy that he had shown.
460 "Such things as I possess and are my own,"
Said he, "those may I give you and no other.
You tell me that I am as your own brother?"


       "Ye, certes," quod the frere, "trusteth weel.
I took oure dame oure lettre with oure seel."
465        "Now wel," quod he, "and somwhat shal I yive
Unto youre hooly covent whil I lyve;
And in thyn hand thou shalt it have anon,
On this condicion, and oother noon,
That thou departe it so, my deere brother,
470 That every frere have also muche as oother.
This shaltou swere on thy professioun,
Withouten fraude or cavillacioun."
       "I swere it," quod this frere, "by my feith!"
And therwithal his hand in his he leith,
475 "Lo, heer my feith; in me shal be no lak."
       "Now thanne, put in thyn hand doun by my bak,"
Seyde this man, "and grope wel bihynde.
Bynethe my buttok there shaltow fynde
A thyng that I have hyd in pryvetee."


       "Yea, truly," said the friar, "trust me well;
I gave your wife a letter with our seal."
465        "That's well," said he, "and something will I give
Unto your holy convent while I live,
And right anon you'll have it in your hand,
       On this condition only, understand,
That you divide it so, my own dear brother,
470 That every friar shall have as much as other.
This shall you swear upon the faith you own,
And without fraud or cavil, be it known."
       "I swear it," said this friar, "on my faith!"
And on the sick man's laid his hand therewith.
475 "Lo, hear my oath! In me shall truth not lack."
"Now then, come put your hand right down my back,"
Replied this man, "and grope you well behind;
For underneath my buttocks shall you find
A thing that I have hid in privity."

480        "A!" thoghte this frere, "That shal go with me!"
And doun his hand he launcheth to the clifte,
In hope for to fynde there a yifte.
And whan this sike man felte this frere
Aboute his tuwel grope there and heere,
485 Amydde his hand he leet the frere a fart,
Ther nys no capul, drawynge in a cart,
That myghte have lete a fart of swich a soun.
The frere up stirte as dooth a wood leoun, -
"A! false cherl," quod he, "for Goddes bones!
490 This hastow for despit doon for the nones.
Thou shalt abye this fart, if that I may!"


480        "Ah," thought the friar, "this shall go with me!"
And down he thrust his hand right to the cleft,
In hope that he should find there some good gift.
And when the sick man felt the friar here
Groping about his hole and all his rear,
485 Into his hand he let the friar a fart.
There is no stallion drawing loaded cart
That might have let a fart of such a sound.
The friar leaped up as with wild lion's bound:
"Ah, treacherous churl," he cried, "by God's own bones,
490 I'll see that he who scorns me thus atones;
You'll suffer for this fart- I'll find a way!"