"And pride in richesse regneth Rather than in poverte; {287} Arst in the master than in the man Som mansion he haveth. Ac in poverte, ther pacience is, Pride hath no myghte, Ne none of the sevene synnes 9360 Sitten ne mowe ther longe, Ne have power in poverte, If pacience folwe. For the poore is ay prest To plese the riche, And buxom at hise biddynges, For his broke loves; And boxomnesse and boost Arn evere moore at werre, And either hateth oother 9370 In alle maner werkes. "If wrathe wrastle with the poore, He hath the worse ende; And if thei bothe pleyne, The poore is but feble; And if he chide or chatre, Hym cheveth the worse. "And if coveitise cacche the poore, Thei may noght come togideres; And by the nekke namely 9380 Hir noon may hente oother. For men knowen wel that coveitise Is of kene wille, And hath hondes and armes Of ful greet lengthe; And poverte nys but a petit thyng, Apereth noght to his navele; And lovely layk was it nevere Bitwene the longe and the shorte. {288} "And though avarice wolde angre the poore, 9390 He hath but litel myghte; For poverte hath but pokes To putten in hise goodes, Ther avarice hath almaries, And yren bounden cofres. And wheither be lighter to breke, And lasse boost maketh, A beggeris bagge Than an yren bounde cofre? "Lecherie loveth hym noght, 9400 For he gyveth but litel silver, Ne dooth hym noght dyne delicatly, Ne drynke wyn ofte. A straw for the stuwes! Thei stoode noght, I trowe, Hadde thei no thyng but of poore men, Hir houses stoode untyled. "And though sleuthe suwe poverte, And serve noght God to paie, Meschief is his maister, 9410 And maketh hym to thynke That God is his grettest help, And no gome ellis; And he is servaunt, as he seith, And of his sute bothe; And wheither he be or be noght, He bereth the signe of poverte, And in that secte oure Saveour Saved al mankynde. For-thi every poore that pacient is, 9420 May cleymen and asken After hir endynge here {289} Hevene riche blisse,