it, as I suppose, But I shall find it in a manner glose; That speciálly our sweet Lord Jesus Spake this of friars, when he saidë thus, ‘Blessed be they that poor in spirit be.’ And so forth all the gospel may ye see, Whether it be liker our professión, Or theirs that swimmen in possessión; Fy on their pomp, and on their gluttony, And on their lewëdness! I them defy. Me thinketh they be like Jovinian, Fat as a whale, and walking as a swan; All vinolent as bottle in the spence; Their prayer is of full great reverence; When they for soulës say the Psalm of David, Lo, ‘Buf’ they say, Cor meum eructavit . Who follow Christë’s gospel and his lore But we, that humble be, and chaste, and pore, Workers of Goddë’s word, not auditoúrs? Therefore right as a hawk upon a sours Up springs into the air, right so prayéres Of charitable and chaste busy freres Makë their sours to Goddë’s earës two. Thomas, Thomas, so may I ride or go, And by that lord that callëd is Saint Ive, N’ere thou our brother, shouldest thou not thrive; In our chapíter pray we day and night To Christ, that he thee sendë health and might, Thy body for to wieldë hastily.”
“God wot,” quoth he, “nothing thereof feel I; So help me Christ, as I in fewë years Have spended upon divers manner freres Full many a pound, yet fare I ne’er the bet; Certain my good have I almost beset: Farewell my gold, for it is all ago.”
The friar answér’d, “O Thomas, dost thou so? What needest thou diversë friars to seech? What needeth him that hath a perfect leech, To seeken other leeches in the town? Your inconstánce is your confusioún. Hold ye then me, or ellës our convént, To prayë for you insufficiént? Thomas, that jape it is not worth a mite; Your malady is for we have too lite. Ah, give that convent half a quarter oats; And give that convent four and twenty groats; And give that friar a penny, and let him go! Nay, nay, Thomas, it may no thing be so. What is a farthing worth parted on twelve? Lo, each thing that is oned in himselve Is morë strong than when it is y-scatter’d. Thomas, of me thou shalt not be y-flatter’d, Thou wouldest have our labour all for nought. The highë God, that all this