"Curatours of holy kirke, 9890 As clerkes that ben avarouse, Lightliche that thei leven, Losels it habbeth, Or deieth intestate, And thanne the bisshope entreth And maketh murthe thermyd, And hise men bothe, And seyen he was a nygard That no good myghte aspare To frend ne to fremmed, 9900 The fend have his soule! For a wrecchede hous held he Al his lif tyme; And that he spared and bisperede, Dispende we in murthe; By lered, by lewed, That looth is to despende. Thus goon hire goodes. Be the goost faren. Ac for goode men, God woot! 9910 Greet doel men maken, And bymeneth goode mete gyveres, {304} And in mynde haveth, In preieres and in penaunces, And in parfit charité." "What is charité?" quod I tho. "A childisshe thyng," he seide. "_Nisi efficiamini parvuli, non intrabitis in regnum cælorum._ Withouten fauntelté or folie, 9920 A fre liberal wille." "Where sholde men fynde swich a frend, With so fre an herte?" "I have lyved in londe," quod he, "My name is Longe-wille; And fond I nevere ful charité Byfore ne bihynde. Men beth merciable To mendinauntz and to poore, And wollen lene ther thei leve 9930 Lelly to ben paied. Ac charité that Poul preiseth best, And moost plesaunt to oure Lord, Is _Non inflatur, non est ambitiosa, non quærit quæ sua sunt, etc_. "I seigh nevere swich a man, So me God helpe! That he ne wolde aske after his, And outher while coveite Thyng that neded hym noght, 9940 And nyme it, if he myghte. "Clerkes kenne me That Crist is in alle places; Ac I seigh hym nevere soothly, But as myself in a mirour: _In ænigmate tunc facie ad faciem._ {305} And so I trowe trewely, By that men telleth of charité, It is noght chaumpions fight, Ne chaffare, as I trowe, 9950 "Charité," quod he, "ne chaffareth noght, Ne chalangeth, ne craveth; As proud of a peny, As of a pound of golde; And is as glad of a gowne Of a gray russet, As of a tunycle of Tarse, Or of trie scarlet. He is glad with alle glade, And good til alle wikkede, 9960 And leveth and loveth alle That oure Lord made. Corseth he no creature, Ne he kan bere no wrathe, Ne no likynge hath to lye, Ne laughe men to scorne; Al that men seyn, he leet it sooth, And in solace taketh, And alle manere meschiefs In myldenesse he suffreth. 9970 Coveiteth he noon erthely good, But hevene riche blisse, Hath he anye rentes or richesse, Or anye riche frendes.