Wot no man, as ich wene, Who is worthy to have. The most needy aren oure neighebores, And we nyme good hede; As prisoners in puttes, And poore folke in cotes Charged with children And chef lordes rente, That thei spynnynge may spare, Spynen hit in hous hyre, Bothe in mylk and in mele. To maken with papelotes To aglotye with here gurles That greden after fode. Al so hemselve Suffren muche hunger, And wo in winter tyme; With wakyng a-nyghtes To ryse to the ruel, To rocke the cradel, Bothe to karde and to kembe, To clouten and to wasche, To rubbe and to rely, Russhes to pilie, That reuthe is to rede Othere in ryme shewe The wo that theese women That wonyeth in cotes, And of meny other men That muche wo suffren, Bothe a-fyngrede and a-furst, To turne the fayre outwarde; And beth abasshed for to begge, And wolle nat be y-knowe What hem needeth att here neihebores At non and at even. This Wit wot witerly, As the world techeth, What other byhoveth That hath meny children. And hath no catel bote hus crafte To clothy hem and to fede, And fele to fonge therto, And fewe pans taketh. Ther is payn and peny ale, As for a pytaunce y-take; Cold flesch and cold fyssh, For veneson y-bake. Frydays and fastyng-dayes Ferthyng worth of muscles Were a feste for suche a folke, Other so fele cockes. Theese were almes to helpe That han suche charges, And to comforte suche cotyers, And crokede men and blynde. Ac beggers with bagges, the wiche Brewhouses ben here churches, Bote thei be blynde other broke, Other elles syke, Thauh he falle for defaute, That faiteth for hus lyflode, Reicheth nevere, ye ryche, Thauh suche lorelles sterven; For all that han here hele And here eyen syghte, And lymes to laborye with, And lolleres lyf usen, Lyven ayens Godes lawe, And love of holy churche. And yut arn ther other beggers, In hele, as it semeth; Ac hem wanteth here witt, Men and women bothe, The wiche aren lunatik lollers And leperes aboute, And mad, as the mone sitt, More other lasse: Thei caren for no cold, Ne counteth of no hete, And are mevenge after the mone, Moneyles thei walke, With a good wil wit-lees, Meny wyde contreys, Ryght as Peter dude and Paul, Save that thei preche nat, Ne myracles maken; Ac meny tymes hem happeth To prophetien of the puple, Pleyninge, as hit were, And to oure sight, as hit semeth, Suththe God hath the myghte To yeven eche a whit wit, Welthe, and his hele, And suffreth suche so gon, Hit semeth to myn inwitt, Hit arn as hus aposteles suche puple, Other as his prevye disciples; For he sente hem forth selverles, In a somer garnement, Withoute bred and bagge, As the Bok telleth. _Quando misi vos sine pane et pera._ Bar fot and bred-les, Beggeth thei of no man; And thauh he mete with the meyere In mydest the strete,