There is a cloister fair and light, broad and long and beautiful. All the pillars of that cloister are of crystal, with bases and capitals of green jasper and red coral. In the meadow is a tree, most pleasing to the sight. The root is ginger and galingale; the shoots are all of zedoary; the finest maces are the flowers; the rind is sweet smelling cinnamon; and the fruit is clove of goodly taste. Cubebs are not lacking, either. There are roses red of hue, and lilies, also, fair to see. They never fade by day nor by night, this should be a pleasant sight. There are four wells in the abbey, made of triacle and aromatic plants, of balm and also of spiced wine, ever fed by underground streams. Precious stones and gold are there, sapphire, pearl, carbuncle, astrion, emerald, liguros and chrysoprase, beryl, onyx and topaz, amethyst and chrysolite, chalcedony and epetite. There are many birds,—the throstle, thrush, and nightingale, the lark and the woodpecker, and other birds without number, that never cease singing merrily day nor night. More, however, there is to tell you; geese roasted on the spit fly to that abbey and cry: "Geese, all hot, all hot." They bring plenty of garlick, the best you could ever look for. The larks, that are familiar food, light in a man's mouth, all stewed daintily and powdered with clove and cinnamon. There is never any question of drink, but every one takes enough, yet does not toil. When the monks go to mass, all the glass windows turn to bright crystal, to give the monks more light. When the masses are all said, the crystal turns again to glass, in the state that it was before.... [The rest of the poem satirizes the morals of the monks.] Translated by M. H. S. THE COMPLAINT OF THE HUSBANDMAN[53] I heard men upon earth make many a moan, Of how they were harried in their task of tilling: Good years and grain are both of them gone, We enjoy here no tales, and have no song to sing. Now we must work, no way else is known, I may no longer live by my gleaning. Yet even a bitterer demand has upgrown, For ever the fourth penny goes to the king. Thus we complain of the king and have cares that are cold; Though we dream of recovery we are ever downcast. He who has any goods which he hoped he could hold Learns that what we love most we must lose at the last. Loath are we to lose what little there is, And we have our henchmen who will for pay sue. The hayward[54] bodes harm if we have aught of his, The bailiff[55] with blows shows how well he can do, The woodward[56] awaits in the watched wilderness: Neither riches nor rest will arise for us few. Thus they pillage the poor, who have little of bliss, And must sweat at their toil and waste away too.