"And alle that hoped it myghte be so, Noon hevene myghte hem holde, But fellen out in fendes liknesse Nyne dayes togideres, 700 Til God of his goodnesse Gan stablisse and stynte, And garte the hevene to stekie And stonden in quiete. "Whan thise wikkede wenten out, In wonder wise thei fellen; Somme in the eyr, somme in erthe, And somme in helle depe; Ac Lucifer lowest lith Yet of hem alle, 710 For pride that he putte out, His peyne hath noon ende. And alle that werchen with wrong, Wende thei shulle, After hir deth day And dwelle with that sherewe. "And tho that werche wel, As holy writ telleth, And enden as I er seide In truthe, that is the beste, 720 Mowe be siker that hire soules {23} Shul wende to hevene, Ther treuthe is in trinitee, And troneth hem alle. For-thi I seye, as I seyde er, By sighte of thise textes, Whan alle tresors arn tried, Truthe is the beste; Lereth it thise lewed men, For lettred men it knoweth, 730 That treuthe is tresor The trieste on erthe." "Yet have I no kynde knowyng." quod I, "Ye mote kenne me bettre, By what craft in my cors It comseth, and where." "Thow doted daffe," quod she, "Dulle are thi wittes; To litel Latyn thow lernedest, Leode, in thi youthe." 740 _Heu michi! quia sterilem duxi vitam juvenilem._ = "It is a kynde knowyng," quod she, "That kenneth in thyn herte, For to loven thi Lord Levere than thiselve, No dedly synne to do, Deye theigh thow sholdest; This I trowe be truthe. Who kan teche thee bettre, 750 Loke thow suffre hym to seye, And sithen lere it after; For truthe telleth that love Is triacle of hevene. May no synne be on hym seene, {24} That useth that spice, And alle hise werkes be wroughte With love as hym liste; And lered it Moyses for the leveste thyng, And moost lik to hevene, 760 And al so the plentee of pees Moost precious of vertues; For hevene myghte nat holden it, It was so hevy of hymself, Til it hadde of the erthe Eten his fille. "And whan it hadde of this fold Flesshe and blood taken, Was nevere leef upon lynde Lighter therafter, 770 And portatif and persaunt As the point of a nedle, That myghte noon armure it lette, Ne none heighe walles.