Piers Ploughman (Wright)/Passus 17
Passus Decimus Septimus, etc. et Secundus de Do-bet.
And spire after a knyght,
That took me a maundement
Upon the mount of Synay,
To rule alle reames with,
I bere the writ here."
"Is it enseled?" I seide,
"May men see thi lettres?"
"Nay," he seide, "seke hym
That hath the seel to kepe;
And that is cros and cristendom,
And Crist theron to honge. 11380
And whan it is enseled so,
I woot wel the sothe,
That Luciferis lordshipe
Laste shal no lenger."
"Lat se thi lettres," quod I,
"We myghte the lawe knowe."
Thanne plukkede he forth a patente,
A pece of an hard roche,
Wheron were writen two wordes
On this wise y-glosed. 11390
Dilige Deum et proximum tuum.
This was the tixte trewely,
I took ful good yeme;
The glose was gloriously writen,
With a gilt penne.
In his duobus mandatis tota lex
pendet et prophetia.
"Ben here alle thi lordes lawes?" quod I.
"Ye, leve me wel," he seide;
And who so wercheth after this writ, 11400
I wol undertaken
Shal nevere devel hym dere,
Ne deeth in soule greve.
For, though I seye it myself,
I have saved with this charme,
Of men and of wommen
Many score thousand.
"Ye seien sooth," seide this heraud;
"I have y-founde it ofte.
Lo! here in my lappe 11410
That leeved on that charme,
Josue and Judith,
And Judas Macabeus,
Ye, and sixti thousand biside forth,
That ben noght seyen here."
"Youre wordes arn wonderfulle," quod I tho,
"Which of yow is trewest,
And lelest to leve so,
For lif, and for soule?
Abraham seith 11420
That he seigh hoolly the Trinité,
Thre persones in parcelles
Departable fro oother,
And alle thre but o god;
Thus Abraham me taughte,
And hath saved that bileved so,
And sory for hir synnes.
He kan noght siggen the somme,
And some arn in his lappe.
What neded it thanne 11430
A newe lawe to bigynne,
Sith the firste suffiseth
To savacion and to blisse?
And now cometh Spes and speketh,
That aspied the lawe;
And telleth noght of the Trinité
That took hym hise lettres,
To bileeve and lovye
In o lord almyghty,
And siththe right as myself 11440
So lovye alle peple.
"The gome that gooth with o staf,
He semeth in gretter heele
Than he that gooth with two staves,
To sighte of us alle.
"And right so, bi the roode!
Reson me sheweth
That it is lighter to lewed men
O lesson to knowe,
Than for to techen hem two, 11450
And to hard to lerne to the leeste
It is ful hard for any man
On Abraham bileve;
And wel awey worse yit
For to love a sherewe.
It is lighter to leeve
In thre lovely persones,
Than for to lovye and leve
As wel lorels as lele."
"Go thi gate!" quod I to Spes, 11460
"So me God helpe!
Tho that lernen thi lawe,
Wol litel while usen it."
And as we wenten thus in the wey
Wordynge togideres,
Thanne seighe we a Samaritan
Sittynge on a mule,
Ridynge ful rapely
The righte wey we yeden,
Comynge from a contree 11470
That men called Jerico,
To a justes in Jerusalem
He chaced awey faste.
Bothe the heraud and Hope
And he mette at ones
Where a man was wounded,
And with theves taken;
He myghte neither steppe ne stande,
Ne stere foot ne handes,
Ne helpe hymself soothly, 11480
For semy-vif he semed,
And as naked as a nedle,
And noon help aboute hym.
Feith hadde first sighte of hym;
Ac he fleigh aside,
And nolde noght neghen hym
By nyne londes lengthe.
Hope cam hippynge after,
That hadde so y-bosted
How he with Moyses maundement 11490
Hadde many men y-holpe;
Ac whan he hadde sighte of that segge
Aside he gan hym drawe
Dredfully bi this day,
As doke dooth fram the faucon.
Ac so soone so the Samaritan
Hadde sighte of this leode,
He lighte a-down of lyard,
And ladde hym in his hande,
And to the wye he wente 11500
Hise woundes to biholde;
And perceyved bi his pous
He was in peril to dye,
And but he hadde recoverer the rapelier,
That rise sholde he nevere.
With wyn and with oille
Hise woundes he wasshed,
Enbawmed hym and bond his heed,
And in his lappe hym leide,
And ladde hym so forth on lyard 11510
Te lex Christi, a graunge
Wel sixe mile or sevene
Biside the newe market;
Herberwed hym at an hostrie,
And to the hostiler called,
And seide, "Have kepe this man
Til I come fro the justes;
And lo! here silver," he seide,
"For salve to hise woundes."
And he took hym two pens, 11520
To liflod, as it weere;
And seide, "What he spendeth moore,
I make thee good herafter;
For I may noght lette," quod that leode;
And lyard he bistrideth,
And raped hym to Jerusalem-ward
The righte wey to ryde.
Feith folwede after faste,
And fondede to mete hym;
And Spes spakliche hym spedde, 11530
Spede if he myghte
To overtaken hym and talke to hym,
Er thei to towne coome.
And whan I seigh this, I sojourned noght,
But shoop me to renne,
And suwed that Samaritan
That was so ful of pité,
And graunted hym to ben his groom.
"Graunt mercy!" he seide;
"Ac thi frend and thi felawe," quod he, 11540
"Thow fyndest me at nede."
And I thanked hym tho,
And siththe I hym tolde
How that Feith fleigh awey,
And Spes his felawe bothe,
For sighte of that sorweful man
That robbed was with theves.
"Have hem excused," quod he,
"Hir help may litel availle;
May no medicyne on molde 11550
The man to heele brynge,
Neither feith ne fyn hope,
So festred be hise woundes,
Withouten the blood of a barn
Born of a mayde.
And he be bathed in that blood,
Baptised as it were,
And thanne plastred with penaunce
And passion of that baby,
He sholde stonde and steppe. 11560
Ac stalworthe worth he nevere.
Til he have eten al the barn,
And his blood y-dronke.
For wente nevere wye in this world
Thorugh that wildernesse,
That he ne was robbed or rifled,
Rood he there or yede,
Save Feith and his felawe,
Spes, and myselve,
And thiself now, 11570
And swiche as suwen oure werkes.
"For outlawes in the wode
And under bank lotieth,
And mowen ech man see,
And good mark take
Who is bihynde and who bifore,
And who ben on horse
For he halt hym hardier on horse
Than he that is foote.
For he seigh me that am Samaritan 11580
Suwen Feith and his felawe
On my capul that highte caro,
Of mankynde I took it;
He was unhardy that harlot,
And hidde hym in Inferno.
Ac er this day thre daies,
I dar undertaken,
That he worth fettred, that feloun,
Faste with cheynes,
And nevere eft greve gome 11590
That gooth this ilke gate.
"And thanne shal Feith be forster here,
And in this fryth walke,
And kennen out comune men
That knowen noght the contree
Which is the wey that I wente,
And wher forth to Jerusalem.
And Hope the hostilers man shal be,
Ther the man lith an helyng;
And alle that feble and feynte be, 11600
That Feith may noght teche,
Hope shal lede hem forth with love,
As his lettre telleth,
And hostele hem and heele
Thorugh holy chirche bileve,
Til I have salve for alle sike;
And thanne shal I turne,
And come ayein bi this contree,
And conforten alle sike
That craveth it and coveiteth it, 11610
Or crieth therafter.
For the barn was born in Bethleem,
That with his blood shal save
Alle that lyven in feith
And folwen his felawes techynge."
"A! swete sire," I seide tho,
"Wher I shal bileve,
As Feith and his felawe
Enformed me bothe,
In thre persones departable, 11620
That perpetuele were evere,
And alle thre but o God,
Thus Abraham me taughte.
"And Hope afterward
He bad me to lovye
O God with al my good,
And alle gomes after,
Lovye hem lik myselve,
Ac oure Lord aboven alle.
"After Abraham," quod he, 11630
"That heraud of armes,
Sette fully thi feith
And ferme bileve;
And as Hope highte thee,
I hote that thow lovye
Thyn evene cristene evere moore
Evene forth with thiselve.
And if Conscience carpe ther ayein,
Or kynde wit eyther,
Or eretikes with argumentz 11640
Thyn hond thow hem shewe;
For God is after an hand,
Y-heer now and knowe it.
"The fader was first as a fust,
With o fynger foldynge;
Til hym lovede and liste
To unlosen his fynger,
And profre it forth as with a pawme
To what place it sholde,
"The pawme is purely the hand, 11650
And profreth forth the fyngres,
To ministren and to make
That myght of hand knoweth;
And bitokneth trewely,
Telle who so liketh,
The Holy Goost of hevene
He is as the pawme.
"The fyngres that fre ben
To folde and to serve,
Bitoknen soothly the Sone 11660
That sent was til erthe,
That touched and tastede
At techynge of the pawme
Seinte Marie a mayde,
And mankynde laughte.
Qui conceptus est de Spiritu sancto, etc.[1]
"The Fader is pawme as a fust,
With fynger to touche,—
Quia omnia traham ad meipsum, etc.[1]
Al that the pawme perceyveth 11672
Profitable to feele.
"Thus are thei alle but oon,
As it an hand weere,
And thre sondry sightes
In oon shewynge,
The pawme for it putteth forth fyngres,
And the fust bothe;
Right so redily, 11680
Reson it sheweth
How he that is Holy Goost
Sire and Son preveth.
"And as the hand halt harde,
And alle thyng faste,
Thorugh foure fyngres and a thombe
Forth with the pawme;
Right so the Fader and the Sone,
And Seint Spirit the thridde,
Al the wide world 11690
Withinne hem thre holden,
Bothe wolkne and the wynd,
Water and erthe,
Hevene and helle,
And al that is therinne.
"Thus it is, nedeth no man
Trowe noon oother,
That thre thynges bilongeth
In oure Lord of Hevene;
And aren serelopes by hemself, 11700
A-sondry were thei nevere,
Na-moore than myn hand may
Meve withoute my fyngres.
"And as my fust is ful hand
Y-holden togideres;
So is the Fader a ful God,
Formour and shappere.
Tu fabricator omnium, etc.
And al the myght myd hym is
In makynge of thynges. 11710
The fyngres formen a ful hand
To portreye or peynten,
Kervynge and compasynge,
As craft of the fyngres.
"Right so is the Sone
The science of the Fader,
And ful God as is the Fader,
No febler ne no bettre.
"The pawme is pureliche the hand,
And hath power by hymselve, 11720
Other wise than the writhen fust,
Or werkmanshipe of fyngres.
For he hath power
To putte out alle the joyntes,
And to unfolde the folden fust,
At the fyngres wille.
"So is the Holy Goost God,
Neither gretter ne lasse.
Than is the Sire and the Sone,
And in the same myghte. 11730
And alle are thei but o God;
As is myn hand and my fyngres,
Unfolden or folden,
My fust and my pawne,
Al is but an hand;
Evene in the myddes,
He may receyve right noght,
Reson it sheweth,
For the fyngres that folde sholde
And the fust make, 11740
For peyne of the pawme,
Power hem failleth
To clucche or to clawe,
To clippe or to holde.
"Were the myddel of myn hand
Y-maymed or y-perissed,
I sholde receyve right noght
Of that I reche myghte.
"Ac though my thombe and my fyngres
Bothe were to-shullen, 11750
And the myddel of myn hand
Withoute male-ese,
In many kynnes maneres
I myghte myself helpe,
Bothe mene and amende,
Though alle my fyngres oke.
"By this skile, me thynketh,
I se an evidence
That who so synneth in the Seint Spirit,
Assoilled worth he nevere, 11760
Neither here ne ellis where,
As I herde telle.
Qui peccat in Spiritu sancto, etc.
For he priketh God as in the pawme,
That peccat in Spiritu sancto.
For God the fader is as a fust,
The Sone is as a fynger,
The Holy Goost of hevene
Is as it were the pawme;
So who so synneth in the Seint Spirit, 11770
It semeth that he greveth
God, that he grypeth with,
And wolde his grace quenche.
"And to a torche or a tapur
The Trinité is likned;
As wex and a weke
Were twyned togideres,
And thanne a fir flawmynge
Forth out of bothe;
And as wex and weke 11780
And hoot fir togideres
Fostren forth a flawmbe
And a fair leye,
So dooth the Sire and the Sone
And also Spiritus sanctus,
That alle kynne cristene
Clenseth of synnes
And as thow seest som tyme
Sodeynliche a torche,
The blase therof y-blowe out, 11790
Yet brenneth the weke
Withouten leye or light
That the macche brenneth;
So is the Holy Goost God,
And grace withoute mercy
To alle unkynde creatures,
That coveite to destruye
Lele love or lif
That oure Lord shapte.
"And as glowynge gledes 11800
Gladeth noght thise werkmen,
That werchen and waken
In wyntres nyghtes,
As dooth a kex or a candle
That caught hath fir and blaseth;
Na-moore dooth Sire ne Sone
Ne Seint Spirit togidres
Graunte no grace
Ne forgifnesse of synnes,
Til the Holy Goost gynne 11810
To glowe and to blase.
So that the Holy Goost
Gloweth but as a glade,
Til that lele love
Ligge on hym and blowe,
And thanne flawmeth he as fir
On Fader and on Filius,
And melteth hire myght into mercy;
As men may se in wyntre
Ysekeles and evesynges 11820
Thorugh hete of the sonne
Melte in a minut while
To myst and to watre.
"So grace of the Holy Goost
The greet myght of the Trinité
Melteth to mercy,
To merciable and to othere;
And as wex withouten moore
On a warm glede
Wol brennen and blasen, 11830
Be thei togideres,
And solacen hem that mowe se,
That sitten in derknesse.
"So wol the Fader forgyve
Folk of mylde hertes,
That rufully repenten,
And restitucion make,
In as muche as thei mowen
Amenden and paien;
And if it suffise noght for assetz, 11840
That in swich a wille deyeth,
Mercy for his mekenesse
Wol maken good the remenaunt.
And as the weke and fir
Wol maken a warm flaumbe,
For to murthen men myd
That in the derke sitten;
So wole Crist of his curteisie,
And men crye hym mercy,
Bothe forgyve and foryete, 11850
And yit bidde for us
To the Fader of hevene
Forgifnesse to have.
"Ac hewe fir at a flynt
Foure hundred wynter,
But thow have tow to take it with,
Tonder or broches,
Al thi labour is lost,
And al thi long travaille;
For may no fir flaumbe make, 11860
Faille it is kynde.
"So is the Holi Goost God,
And grace withouten mercy
To alle unkynde creatures,
Crist hymself witnesseth.
Amen dico vobis, nescio vos, etc.
"Be unkynde to thyn evene cristene,
And al that thow kanst bidde,
Delen and do penaunce
Day and nyght evere, 11870
And purchace al the pardon
Of Pampilon and Rome,
And indulgences y-nowe,
And be ingratus to thi kynde,
The Holy Goost hereth thee noght,
Ne helpe may thee by reson;
For unkyndenesse quencheth hym,
That he kan noght shyne,
Ne brenne ne blase clere
For blowynge of unkyndenesse. 11880
Poul the apostel
Preveth wheither I lye.
Si linguis hominum loquar, etc.
"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
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
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?"
"Yis," seide the Samaritan,
"So wel thow myght repente,
That rightwisnesse thorugh repentaunce,
To ruthe myghte turne.
Ac it is but selden y-seighe
Ther soothnesse bereth witnesse,
Any creature that is coupable
Afore a kynges justice, 11970
Be raunsoned for his repentaunce,
Ther alle reson hym dampneth.
For ther that partie pursueth,
The peple is so huge,
That the kyng may do no mercy
Til bothe men acorde,
And eyther have equité,
As holy writ telleth.
Nunquam dimittitur peccatum, etc.
"Thus it fareth by swich folk 11980
That falsly al hire lyves
Yvele lyven, and leten noght
Til lif hem forsake.
Good hope, that helpe sholde,
To wanhope torneth,
Noght of the noun power of God,
That he ne is myghtful
To amende al that amys is,
And his mercy gretter
Than alle oure wikkede werkes, 11990
As holy writ telleth.
Misericordia ejus super omnia opera ejus.[1]
Ac er his rightwisnesse to ruthe torne,
Som restitucion bihoveth.
His sorwe is satisfaccion,
For hym that may noght paie.
"Thre thynges ther ben
That doon a man by strengthe
For to fleen his owene, 12000
As holy writ sheweth.
"That oon is a wikkede wif,
That wol noght be chastised;
Hir feere fleeth fro hire,
For feere of hir tonge.
"And if his hous be un-hiled,
And reyne on his bedde,
He seketh and seketh
Til he slepe drye.
"And whan smoke and smolder 12010
Smyt in his sighte,
It dooth hym worse than his wif
Or wete to slepe.
For smoke and smolder
Smyteth in hise eighen,
Til he be bler-eighed, or blynd,
And hoors in the throte,
Cogheth, and curseth
That Crist gyve hem sorwe
That sholde brynge in bettre wode, 12020
Or blowe it til it brende.
"Thise thre that I telle of
Ben thus to understonde;
The wif is oure wikked flessh,
That wol noght be chastised;
For kynde clyveth on hym evere
To contrarie the soule.
And though it falle, it fynt skiles
That freleté it made,
And that is lightly forgyven 12030
And forgeten bothe,
To man that mercy asketh,
And amende thenketh.
"The reyn that reyneth
Ther we reste sholde,
Ben siknesse and sorwes
That we suffren ofte;
As Poul the apostle
To the people taughte.
Virtus infirmitate perficitur, etc. 12040
"And though that men make
Muche doel in hir angre,
And ben inpacient in hir penaunce,
Pure reson knoweth
That thei han cause to contrarie
By kynde of hir siknesse;
And lightliche oure Lord
At hir lyves ende
Hath mercy on swiche men,
That so yvele may suffre. 12050
"Ac the smoke and the smolder
That smyt in oure eighen,
That is coveitise and unkyndenesse,
That quencheth Goddes mercy.
For unkyndenesse is the contrarie
Of alle kynnes reson.
For ther nys sik ne sory,
Ne noon so muche wrecche,
That he ne may lovye, and hym like,
And lene of his herte 12060
Good wille and good word,
And wisshen and willen
Alle manere men
Mercy and forgifnesse,
And lovye hem lik hymself,
And his lif amende.
"I may no lenger lette," quod he;
And lyard he prikede,
And went awey as wynd;
And therwith I awakede. 12070