Thus ich awaked, God wot! Wanne ich wonede on Cornhulle, Kytte and ich in a cote, Clothede as a lollere: And a lytel ich let by, Leyve me, for sothe, Among lolleres of London, And lewede heremytes. For ich made of tho men, As Reson me tauhte. For as ich cam by Conscience, Wit Reson ich mette, In an hote hervest, Wenne ich hadde myn hele, And lymes to labore with, And lovede wel fare, And no dede to do Bote drynke and to slepe, In hele and in unité, On me aposede, Romynge in remembraunce. Thus Reson me arated: 'Canstow serven,' he seide, 'Other syngen in a churche? Other loke for my cokers? Other to the carte picche? Mowe, other mowen, Other make bond to sheves? Repe, other be a repe-reyve And arise erliche? Other have an horne and be hay-warde, And liggen out a nyghtes, And kepe my corn in my croft From pykers and theeves? Other shap shoon other clothes? Other shep other kyne kepe? Eggen, other harwen, Other swyne other gees dryve? Other eny kyne craft That to the comune nudeth, Hem that bed-reden be Bylyve to fynde?' 'Certes,' ich seyde, 'And so me God helpe! Ich am to waik to worche With sykel other with sythe; And to long, leyf me, Lowe for to stoupe, To worchen as workeman Eny wyle to dure.' 'Then havest thow londes to lyve by,' Quath Reson, 'other lynage ryche That fynden the thy fode? For an hydel man thow semest, A spendour that spende mot, Other a spille-tyme; Other beggest thy lyve Aboute ate menne hatches; Other faitest upon Fridays Other feste dayes in churches; The wiche is lollerene lyf, That lytel is preysed Ther ryghtfulnesse rewardeth Ryght as men deserveth. _Reddit unicuique juxta opera sua._ Ether thow ert broke, so may be, In body other in membre, Other y-maymed thorow som myshap. Werby thow myght be excusede.' 'Wanne ich yong was,' quath ich, 'Many yer hennes, My fader and my frendes Founden me to scole, Tyl ich wiste wyterliche Wat holy wryt menede, And wat is best for the body, As the bok telleth, And sykerest for the soule, By so ich wolle continue. And yut fond ich never in faith, Sytthen my frendes deyden, Lyf that me lyked, Bote in thes long clothes. Hyf ich by laboure sholde lyf, And lyflode deserven, That labour that ich lerned best Therwhit lyve ich sholde. _In eadem vocatione qua vocati estis._ And ich lyve in Londene And on Londen bothe. The lomes that ich laboure with And lyflode deserve, Ys paternoster and my prymer, _Placebo et dirige_, And my sauter some tyme, And my sevene psalmes. Thus ich synge for hure soules Of suche as me helpen. And tho that fynden me my fode Vochen saf, ich trowe, To be wolcome wan ich come Other wyle in a monthe, Now with hym, and now with hure, And thus gate ich begge Withoute bagge other botel, Bote my wombe one. And also, moreover, Me thynketh, syre Reson,