“Now, Thomas, leve* brother, leave thine ire, *dear Thou shalt me find as just as is as squire; Hold not the devil’s knife aye at thine heaat; Thine anger doth thee all too sore smart;* *pain But shew to me all thy confession.” “Nay,” quoth the sicke man, “by Saint Simon I have been shriven* this day of my curate; *confessed I have him told all wholly mine estate. Needeth no more to speak of it, saith he, But if me list of mine humility.” “Give me then of thy good to make our cloister,” Quoth he, “for many a mussel and many an oyster, When other men have been full well at ease, Hath been our food, our cloister for to rese:* *raise, build And yet, God wot, unneth* the foundement** *scarcely **foundation Performed is, nor of our pavement Is not a tile yet within our wones:* *habitation By God, we owe forty pound for stones. Now help, Thomas, for *him that harrow’d hell,* *Christ <22> For elles must we oure bookes sell, And if ye lack our predication, Then goes this world all to destruction. For whoso from this world would us bereave, So God me save, Thomas, by your leave, He would bereave out of this world the sun For who can teach and worken as we conne?* *know how to do And that is not of little time (quoth he), But since Elijah was, and Elisee,* *Elisha Have friars been, that find I of record, In charity, y-thanked be our Lord. Now, Thomas, help for sainte charity.” And down anon he set him on his knee, The sick man waxed well-nigh wood* for ire, *mad He woulde that the friar had been a-fire With his false dissimulation. “Such thing as is in my possession,” Quoth he, “that may I give you and none other: Ye say me thus, how that I am your brother.” “Yea, certes,” quoth this friar, “yea, truste well; I took our Dame the letter of our seal”<23> “Now well,” quoth he, “and somewhat shall I give Unto your holy convent while I live; And in thine hand thou shalt it have anon, On this condition, and other none, That thou depart* it so, my deare brother, *divide That every friar have as much as other: This shalt thou swear on thy profession, Withoute fraud or cavillation.”* *quibbling “I swear it,” quoth the friar, “upon my faith.” And therewithal his hand in his he lay’th; “Lo here my faith, in me shall be no lack.” “Then put thine hand adown right by my back,” Saide this man, “and grope well behind, Beneath my buttock, there thou shalt find A thing, that I have hid in privity.” “Ah,” thought this friar, “that shall go with me.” And down his hand he launched to the clift,* *cleft In hope for to finde there a gift. And when this sicke man felte this frere About his taile groping there and here, Amid his hand he let the friar a fart;