At feyres and at full ales, And fyllen the cuppe; And precheth al of pardon, To plesen the puple. Her pacience is al pased, And put out to ferme; 150 And pride is in her povertie, That litel is to preisen. And at the lullyng of oure lady The wymmen to lyken, And miracles of mydwyves, And maken wymmen to wenen That the lace of oure Lady smok Lighteth hem of children. Thei ne prechen nought of Powel, Ne penaunce for synne; 160 {456} But al of merci and mensk, That Marie may helpen. With sterne staves and stronge Thei over lond straketh, Thider as here lemmans liggeth, And lurketh in townes, Grey grete-heded quenes With gold by the eighen, And seyne that her sustern thei ben, That sojurneth aboute. 170 And thus abouten the gon, And Godes folke betrayeth. It is the puple that Powel Preched of in his tyme; He seyde of swich folke That so aboute wente, Wepyng, I warne you Of walkers aboute, It beth enemyes of the cros That Christ upon tholede. 180 Swiche slomrers in slepe, Slaughte in her ende, And glotonye is her God, With gloppynge of drynk, And gladnesse in glees, And grete joye y-maked. In the shendyng of swiche Shal mychel folk lawghe; Therfore, frend, for thy feith Fond to don beter; 190 Leve nought on tho losels, Put let hem forth pasen, For thei ben fals in her faith, And feele mo other." {457} "Alas! frere," quath I tho, "My purpos is y-failed; Now is my comfort a-cast. Canstou no bote, Wher I myght meten with a man That myghte me wyssen 200 For to conne my Crede, Christ for to folwen?"