"Wyves and widewes, Wolle and flex spynneth; Maketh cloth, I counseille yow, 3820 And kenneth so youre doughtres; The nedy and the naked, Nymeth hede how thei liggeth, And casteth hem clothes, For so comaundeth Truthe. For I shal leven hem liflode, But if the lond faille, Flesshe and breed bothe To riche and to poore, As long as I lyve, 3830 For the Lordes love of hevene; And alle manere of men That thorugh mete and drynke libbeth, Helpeth hym to werche wightliche, That wynneth youre foode." "By Crist!" quod a knyght thoo, "He kenneth us the beste; Ac on the teme, trewely, Taught was I nevere; But kenne me," quod the knyght, 3840 "And by Crist I wole assaye!" "By seint Poul!" quod Perkyn, "Ye profre yow so faire, That I shal swynke and swete, And sowe for us bothe, And othere labours do for thi love Al my lif tyme, In covenaunt that thow kepe Holy kirke and myselve Fro wastours and fro wikked men 3850 That this world destruyeth. {119} And go hunte hardiliche To hares and to foxes, To bores and to brokkes That breken doun myne hegges; And so affaite thi faucons Wilde foweles to kille; For swiche cometh to my croft, And croppeth my whete." Curteisly the knyght thanne 3860 Comsed thise wordes; "By my power, Piers!" quod he, "I plighte thee my trouthe, To fulfille this forwarde, Though I fighte sholde; Als longe as I lyve I shal thee mayntene." "Ye, and yet a point," quod Piers, "I preye yow of moore, Loke ye tene no tenaunt, 3870 But Truthe wole assente; And though ye mowe amercy hem, Lat mercy be taxour, And mekenesse thi maister, Maugree Medes chekes. And though povere men profre yow Presentes and giftes, Nyme it noght, an aventure Ye mowe it noght deserve; For thow shalt yelde it ayein 3880 At one yeres tyme, In a ful perilous place, Purgatorie it hatte. "And mys-bede noght thi bonde-men, The bettre may thow spede; {120} Though he be thyn underlyng here, Wel may happe in hevene That he worth worthier set, And with moore blisse. _Amice, ascende superius._ 3890 For in charnel at chirche Cherles ben yvel to knowe, Or a knyght from a knave there, Knowe this in thyn herte. And that thow be trewe of thi tonge, And tales that thow hatie, But if thei ben of wisdom or of wit Thi werkmen to chaste. Hold with none harlotes, Ne here noght hir tales, 3900 And namely at the mete Swiche men eschuwe; For it ben the develes disours, I do the to understonde." "I assente, by seint Jame!" Seide the knyght thanne, "For to werche by thi wordes The while my lif dureth."