70va]
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71ra]
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71va]
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¶ Ne mai no lewed lued libben in londe
Be he never in hyrt so haver of honde
So lerede us biledes.
Yef Ich on molde mote with a mai,
Y shal falle hem byfore ant lurnen huere lay,
Ant rewen alle huere redes!
Ah bote Y be the furme day on folde hem byfore,
Ne shal Y nout so skere scapen of huere score —
So grimly he on me gredes!
That Y ne mot me lede ther with mi lawe
On alle maner othes that heo me wulleth awe
(Heore boc ase unbredes),
Heo wendeth bokes unbrad,
Ant maketh men a moneth amad!
Of scathe Y wol me skere,
Ant fleo from my fere.
Ne rohte hem whet yt were,
Boten heo hit had.
Furst ther sit an old cherl in a blake hure;
Of alle that ther sitteth, semeth best syre,
Ant leyth ys leg o lonke —
An heme in an herygoud with honginde sleven! —
Ant mo then fourti him byfore my bales to breven
In sunnes yef Y songe.
Heo pynkes with heore penne on heore parchemyn,
Ant sayen Y am breved ant ybroht yn
Of al my weole wlonke;
Alle heo bueth redy myn routhes to rede!
Ther Y mot "for menske munte sum mede"
(Ant thonkfulliche hem “thonke.”
Shal Y thonke hem ther er Y go?
Ye, the maister ant ys men, bo!
Yef Y am wreint in heore write,
Thenne am Y bacbite,
For moni mon heo maketh wyte
Of wymmene wo.
Yet ther sitteth somenours, syexe other sevene,
Mysmotinde men alle, by here evene,
Ant recheth forth heore rolle.
Hyrdmen hem hatieth, ant uch mones hyne,
For everuch a parosshe heo polketh in pyne,
Ant clastreth wyth heore colle.
Nou wol uch fol-clerc that is fayly
Wende to the bysshop ant bugge bayly
(Nys no wyt in is nolle!),
Come to countene court, couren in a cope,
Ant suggen he hath privilegie proud of the pope,
Swart ant al toswolle.
Aren heo toswolle forswore?
Ye, the hatred of helle beo heore:
For ther heo beodeth a Boke
To sugge ase Y folht toke;
Heo shulen in helle on an hoke,
Honge therefore!
Ther stont up a yeolumon (yeyeth with a yerde)
Ant hat out an heh (that al the hyrt herde),
Ant cleopeth “Magge!” ant “Malle!”
Ant heo cometh bymodered ase a morhen,
Ant scrynketh for shome ant shometh for men,
Uncomely under calle.
Heo biginneth to shryke ant scremeth anon,
Ant saith: “By my gabbyng, ne shal hit so gon!”
Ant “That beo on ou alle!
That thou shalt me wedde ant welde to wyf!”
Ah me were levere with lawe leose my lyf
Then so to fote hem falle!
Shal Y to fote falle for mi fo?
Ye, monie byswyketh heo swo
Of thralles Y am ther thrat
That sitteth swart ant forswat;
Ther Y mot hente me en hat
Er Ich hom go.
Such chaffare Y chepe at the chapitre
That maketh moni thryve mon unthenfol to be,
With thonkes ful thunne!
Ant seththe Y go coure at constory,
Ant falle to fote uch a fayly:
Heore is this worldes wynne!
Seththen Y pleide at bisshopes plee,
Ah me were levere be sonken y the see,
In sor, withouten synne.
At chirche ant thourh cheping ase dogge Y am dryve,
That me were levere of lyve then so forte lyve,
To care of al my kynne!
Atte constorie heo kenneth us care,
Ant whissheth us evele, ant worse to fare.
A pruest proud ase a po
Seththe weddeth us bo —
Wyde heo worcheth us wo
For wymmene ware!
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¶ No unlettered man may survive in the land
Unless he be always in court so craftily skilled
As the learned who lead us about.
If I should happen to lie on earth with a girl,
I must bow before them and learn their law,
And suffer all their decrees!
Unless I be before them on the first day in session,
I shall not entirely escape from their register —
So angrily do they cry out on me!
So that I may not testify for myself in my own defense
Against many sworn charges by which they’d subdue me
(As they censure with their book),
They turn over unclasped books,
And cause men to go mad for a month!
I will clear myself of the charge,
And flee from my mistress.
They don’t care what it was,
Except that she made it.
First there sits an old churl in a black cap;
Of all who sit there, he seems most magisterial,
And lays his leg stretched out —
A yokel in a cloak with hanging sleeves! —
And more than forty sit before him to record my penalty
Should I sink in sins.
They stab with their pens on their parchment,
And say I’m arraigned and brought in
Despite all my rich respectability;
All of them are ready to declare my punishments!
I could “pay there some money for a favor”
And gratefully “thank” them.
Shall I “thank” them there before I go?
Yes, it’s the master and his men, both!
If I’m written into their record,
Then am I in disrepute,
For they lay blame on many a man
For women’s woe.
In addition, there sit summoners, six or seven,
False accusers all, by their appearance,
And they stretch out their rolls.
Retainers hate them, as does each man’s servant,
For in every parish they make painful exactions,
And ensnare with their nets.
Now will every fool-clerk who’s a loser
Go to the bishop and buy off a court bailiff
(There’s no wit in his head!),
Come to the shire court, squat in a church robe,
And say he’s got exalted privileges of the pope,
Threatening and all puffed up.
Are they puffed up in perjury?
Yes, hell's hatred is theirs:
For there they ask for a Bible
To swear that I took a filthy girl;
They shall go to hell on a hook,
And hang there for that!
There stands up a court-crier (goes with a stick)
And shouts out on high (so all the court heard),
And calls “Maggie!” and “Moll!”
And she comes covered with mud like a moorhen,
And shrinks for shame and is ashamed before men,
Unbecoming under hairnet.
She begins at once to shriek and scream,
And says: “By my gabbing, it shall not go so!”
And “It's all your fault!
You must wed me and make me a wife!”
But I'd rather by law lose my life
Than bow so at their feet!
Shall I bow at the foot of my foe?
Yes, she deceives so many
That I’m threatened there with thralldom,
By those who sit dark and sweaty;
There I’m sentenced by force
Before I go home.
Such merchandise do I buy at the chapter
As causes many a thriving man to come to grief,
With very thin gratitude!
And ever after I go cower at the consistory,
And bow at the foot of every loser:
Here is the reward of this world!
At that time I played in the bishop’s game,
But I'd rather have been sunk in the sea,
In grief, without sin.
At church and through market I’m driven like a dog,
And I’d rather be dead than live such a way,
To the sorrow of all my kin!
At consistory they teach us grief,
And wish us evil, and worse to have.
A priest proud as a peacock
Afterwards married us both —
Far and wide they give us woe
For the ware of women!
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