Than turned I ayen, Whan I hadde all y-toted, And fond in a freitoure A frere on a benche, A greet chorl and a grym, Growen as a tonne, 440 With a face so fat As a ful bleddere Blowen bretful of breth, And as a bagge honged On bothen his chekes, and his chyn With a chol lollede So greet as a gos ey, Growen al of grece; That al wagged his fleish As a quick myre. 450 His cope, that bi-clypped hym, Wel clene was it folden, Of double worstede y-dyght Doun to the hele. His kyrtel of clene whiit, Clenlyche y-sewed, Hit was good y-now of ground Greyn for to beren. I haylsede that hirdman, And hendlich I sayde, 460 "Gode sire, for Godes love! Canstou me graith tellen To any worthely wiight That wissen me couthe, Whow I shulde conne my Crede, Christ for to folwe, {465} That levede lelliche hymselfe And lyvede therafter, That feynede no falshede, But fully Chrise suwede? 470 For sich a certeyn man Syker wold I trosten, That he wolde telle me the trewthe, And turne to non other. And an Austyn this ender day Egged me faste, That he wolde techen me wel, He plyght me his treuthe, And seyde me "certeyn, Syghthen Christ deyed 480 Oure ordre was euelles And erst y-founde." "First, felawe," quath he, "Fy on his pilche! He is but abortiif, Eked with cloutes, He holdeth his ordynaunce With hores and theves, And purchaseth hem pryvyleges With penyes so rounde. 490 It is a pur pardoners craft, Prove and asay; For have they thy money, A moneth therafter Certes, theigh thou come agen, He wil the nought knowen. But, felawe, oure foundement Was first of the othere, And we ben founded fulliche Withouten fayntise, 500 {466} And we ben clerkes y-cnowen, Cunnyng in schole, Proved in processyon By processe of lawe. Of oure order ther beth Bichopes wel manye, Seyntes on sundri stedes That suffreden harde; And we ben proved the priis Of popes at Rome, 510 And of grettest degré, As godspelles telleth." "A! syre," quath I thanne, "Thou seyst a grete wonder; Sithen Christ sayd hymselfe To alle his diciples, 'Which of you that is most, Most shal he werche; And who is goere byforne, First shal he serven.' 520 And seyde he saugh Satan Sytten ful heyghe, And ful low ben y-leid. In lyknesse he tolde, That in povernesse of spyrit Is spedfullest hele; And hertes of heyne Harmeth the soule. And therefore, frere, farewel; Here fynd I but pride. 530 I preise nought thy prechyns, But as a pur myte."