"Trewely, frere," quath I tho, "To tellen the the sothe, There is no peny in my pakke To payen for my mete. I have no good, ne no golde, But go thus abouten, And travaile ful trewely To wynnen with my fode. But woldest thou for Godes love Lerne me my Crede, 800 I shulde don for the wil, Whan I wele hadde." "Trewely," quath the frere, "A fole I the holde:-- Thou woldest nought wetten thy fote, And woldest fich kachen. {475} Oure pardon and oure preieres So beth they nought parten, Oure power lasteth nought so feer, But we som peny fongen. 810 "Fare wel," quath the frere, "For I mot hethen fonden, And hyen to an house-wiif That hath us byquethen Ten pound in hir testament. To tellen the sothe, Ho draweth to the deth-ward; But yet I am in drede Leste ho turne hire testament, And therfore I hyghe 820 To haven hire to oure hous, And henten, gif I mighte, An anuel for myne owen use, To helpen to clothe." "Godys forbode!" quath his felawe, "But ho forth passe Whil ho is in purpos With us to departen! God let hir no lengere lyven! For letteres ben manye." 830 Thanne turnede I me forth, And talked to myselfe Of the falshede of this folke, Whow feythles thei weren. And as I wente by the way Wepynge for sorowe, I seigh a sely man me by, Opon the plough hongen. His cote was of a cloute That cary was y-called; 840 {476} His hod was ful of holes, And his heare oute; With his knoppede shon Clouted ful thykke; His ton toteden out, As he the lond tredede; His hosen over-hongen his hok-shynes On everich a syde, Al beslomered in fen, As he the plow folwede. 850 Tweye myteynes as meter Maad al of cloutes, The fyngres weren for-werd, And ful of fen honged. This whit waselede in the feen Almost to the ancle; Foure rotheren hym byforne, That feble were worthi; Men myghte reknen ich a ryb, So rentful they weren. 860 His wiif walked hym with, With a long gode, In a cuttede cote, Cutted ful heyghe, Wrapped in a wynwe shete To weren hire fro wederes, Bar-fot on the bare iis, That the blod folwede. And at the londes ende lath A little crom-bolle, 870 And theron lay a lytel chylde Lapped in cloutes, And tweyne of tweie yeres olde Opon another syde. {477} And al they songen o songe, That sorwe was to heren; They crieden alle o cry, A kareful note. The sely man sighed sore, And seyde, "Children, beth stille!" 880 This man lokede opon me, And leet the plough stonden; And seyde, "Sely man, Whi syghest thou so harde? Gif the lakke liiflode, Lene the ich wille