The hihe god of his justice That ilke foule horrible vice Of homicide he hath forbede, Be Moises as it was bede. Whan goddes Sone also was bore, He sende hise anglis doun therfore, Whom the Schepherdes herden singe, Pes to the men of welwillinge In erthe be among ous here. So forto speke in this matiere 2260 After the lawe of charite, Ther schal no dedly werre be: And ek nature it hath defended And in hir lawe pes comended, Which is the chief of mannes welthe, Of mannes lif, of mannes helthe. Bot dedly werre hath his covine Of pestilence and of famine, Of poverte and of alle wo, Wherof this world we blamen so, 2270 Which now the werre hath under fote, Til god himself therof do bote. For alle thing which god hath wroght In Erthe, werre it bringth to noght: The cherche is brent, the priest is slain, The wif, the maide is ek forlain, The lawe is lore and god unserved: I not what mede he hath deserved That suche werres ledeth inne. If that he do it forto winne, 2280 Ferst to acompte his grete cost Forth with the folk that he hath lost, As to the wordes rekeninge Ther schal he finde no winnynge; And if he do it to pourchace The hevene mede, of such a grace I can noght speke, and natheles Crist hath comanded love and pes, And who that worcheth the revers, I trowe his mede is ful divers. 2290 And sithen thanne that we finde That werres in here oghne kinde Ben toward god of no decerte, And ek thei bringen in poverte Of worldes good, it is merveile Among the men what it mai eyle, That thei a pes ne conne sette. I trowe Senne be the lette, And every mede of Senne is deth; So wot I nevere hou that it geth: 2300 Bot we that ben of o believe Among ousself, this wolde I lieve, That betre it were pes to chese, Than so be double weie lese.