Thus consaileth Crist In comun ous alle, 'Ho so coveyteth to come To my kynriche, He mot forsake hymself, Hus suster, and hus brother, And al that the worlde wolde, And my wil folwen.' _Nisi renunciaveritis omnia quæ possidetis, etc._ Meny proverbis ich myghte have Of meny holy seyntes, To testifie for treuthe The tale that ich shewe, And poetes to preoven hit, Porfirie and Plato, Aristotle, Ovidius, And ellevene hundred, Tullius, Tholomeus, Ich can nat telle here names, Preoven pacient poverte Pryns of alle vertues. And by greyn that groweth, God ous alle techeth. _Nisi granum frumenti cadens in terra, et mortuum fuit, ipsum solum manet._ Bot yf that sed that sowen is, In the sloh sterve, Shal nevere spir springen up, Ne spik on strawe curne; Sholde nevere wete wexe, Bote wete fyrste deyde; And other sedes also In the same wyse, That ben leide on louh eerthe, Y-lore as hit were, And thorw the grete grace of God, Of greyn ded in erthe Atte the laste launceth up Werby lyven alle. Ac sedes that ben sowen And mowe suffre wyntres, Aren tydyor and tower To mannes by-hofte, Than seedes that sowen beeth And mowe nouht with forste, With wyndes, ne with wederes, As in wynter tyme, As lynne-seed, and lik-seed, And Lente-seedes alle, Aren nouht so worthy as whete, Ne so wel mowen In the feld with the forst, And hit freese longe. Ryght so, for sothe, That suffre may penaunces Worth alowed of oure Lorde At here laste ende, And for here penaunce be preysed, As for puyre martir, Other for a confessour y-kud, That counteth nat a ruysshe Fere ne famyne, Ne false menne tonges; Bote as an hosebonde hopeth After an hard wynter, Yf God gyveth hym the lif To have a good hervest, So preoveth thees prophetes That pacientliche suffreth Myschiefs and myshappes, And menye tribulacions, Bytokneth ful triweliche In tyme comynge after Murthe for hus mornynge, And that muche plenté. For Crist seide to hus seyntes That for hus sake tholeden Poverte, penaunces, Persecution of body, Angeles in here angre On this wise hem grate, _Tristitia vestra vertetur in gaudium._ Youre sorwe into solas Shal turne atte laste, And out of wo into wele Youre wyrdes shul chaunge. Ac so redeth of riche, The revers he may fynde, How God, as the Godspel telleth, Geveth hem foul towname, And that hus gost shal go, And hus good byleve, And asketh hym after Ho shal hit have, The catel that he kepeth so In coffres and in hernes, And ert so loth to lene Thet leve shalt needes. _O stulte, ista nocte anima tua egrediatur, thesauriza et ignorat._ An unredy reve Thi residue shal spene, That menye moththe was ynne In a mynte while; Upholderes on the hul Shullen have hit to selle. Lo! lo! lordes, lo! And ladies taketh hede, Hit lasteth nat longe That is lycour swete,