In Beith once dwelt a worthy wife, Of whom brave Chaucer mention makes She lived a licentious life, And namely in venereal acts But death did come for all her cracks; When years were spent and days out driven. Then suddenly she sickness takes, Deceased forthwith, and went to heaven. But as she went upon the way, There followed her a certain guide, And kindly to her he did say, Where mean you, dame, for to abide? I know you are the wife of Beith, And would not then that you go wrong, For I’m your friend, and will be leath That you go through this narrow throng; This way is broader, go with me, And very pleasant is the way; I’ll bring you there, where you would be, Go with me friend, say me not nay. She looked on him, then did speer, I pray you, Sir, what is your name? Shew me the way how came you here? To tell to me it is no shame. Is that a favour ’bout your neck? And what is that upon your side? I knew you by your colours first, Is it a bag or silver sack? What are you then? where do you bide? I was a servant unto Christ, And Judas likewise is my name. Forsooth indeed you are to blame: Your Master did you not betray? And hang yourself when you had done? Where’er you bide I will not stay Go then, you knave, let me alone. Whatever I be, I’ll be your guide, Because you know not well the way. What would you me, where do you dwell? I have no will to go with thee: I fear it is some lower cell, I pray thee therefore let me be. I know your way it is to hell, For you are none of the eleven: Go haste you then unto your cell, My way is only unto heaven. That way is by the gates of hell, If you intend there for to go, Go, dame, I will not you compel, But I with you will go also, Where smoke and darkness did abound, And pitch and sulphur burned still, With yells and cries hills did rebound, The fiend himself came to the gate, And asked him where he had been? Do ye not know and have forgot, Seeking his wife could not be seen. Good dame, he said, would you be here, I pray you then tell me your name? The wife of Beith, since that you speer, But to come in I were to blame. I will not have you here good dame, For you were mistress of the flyting, If once within this gate you come, I will be troubled with your bitings Cummer, go back, and let me be, Here are too many of your rout, For women lewd like unto thee, I cannot turn my foot about. Sir, thief, I say I shall bide out, But gossip thou wast ne’er to me, For to come in, I’m not so stout, And of my biting thou’st be free: