"Ther parfit truthe and poore herte is, And pacience of tonge, Ther is Charité the chief chaumbrere For God hymselve." "Wheither paciente poverte," quod Haukyn, "Be moore plesaunt to our Drighte Than richesse rightfulliche wonne, And resonably despended?" "Ye, _quis est ille_?" quod Pacience; 9120 "Quik _laudabimus eum_. {280} Though men rede of richesse Right to the worldes ende, I wiste nevere renk that riche was, That whan he rekene sholde, Whan he drogh to his deeth day, That he ne dredde hym soore, And that at the rekenyng in arrerage fel Rather than out of dette. Ther the poore dar plede, 9130 And preve by pure reson, To have allowance of his lord, By the lawe he it cleymeth; Joye, that nevere joye hadde, Of rightful jugge he asketh, And seith 'Lo! briddes and beestes That no blisse ne knoweth, And wilde wormes in wodes, Thorugh wyntres thow hem grevest; And makest hem wel neigh meke, 9140 And mylde for defaute; And after thow sendest hem somer, That is hir sovereyn joye, And blisse to alle that ben, Bothe wilde and tame.' "Thanne may beggeris as beestes After boote waiten, That al hir lif han lyved In langour and in defaute, But God sente hem som tyme 9150 Som manere joye Outher here or ellis where, Kynde wolde it nevere; For to wrotherhele was he wroght That nevere was joye shapen. {281} Aungeles that in helle now ben Hadden joye som tyme; And Dives in the deyntees lyvede, And in _douce vie_. Right so reson sheweth 9160 That the men that were riche, And hir makes also, Lyvede hir lif in murthe. "Ac God is of wonder wille, By that kynde wit sheweth, To gyve many man his mede Er he it have deserved. Right so fareth God by some riche, Ruthe me it thynketh; For thei han hir hire heer, 9170 And hevene, as it were, And greet likynge to lyve Withouten labour of bodye: And whan he dyeth, ben disalowed, As David seith in the Sauter: _Dormierunt, et nihil invenerunt._ And in another stede also: _Velut somnium surgentium, Domine, in civitate tua, et ad nihilum rediges, etc._ 9180 "Allas! that richesse shal reve And robbe mannes soule From the love of oure Lord, At his laste ende. "Hewen, that han hir hire afore, Arn evere moore nedy; And selden deyeth he out of dette, That dyneth er he deserve it, And til he have doon his devoir {282} And his dayes journée. 9190 For whan a werkman hath wroght, Than many men se the sothe What he were worthi for his werk, And what he hath deserved; And noght to fonge bifore, For drede of disalowyng.