Then tell I them examples many a one, Of oldë stories longë timë gone; For lewëd people lovë talës old; Such thingës can they well report and hold. What? trowë ye, that whilës I may preach And winnë gold and silver for I teach, That I will live in povert’ wilfully? Nay, nay, I thought it never truëly. For I will preach and beg in sundry lands; I will not do no labour with mine hands, Nor makë baskets for to live thereby, Because I will not beggen idlely. I will none of the apostles counterfeit; I will have money, wool, and cheese, and wheat, All were it given of the poorest page, Or of the poorest widow in a villáge: All should her children stervë for famíne. Nay, I will drink the liquor of the vine, And have a jolly wench in every town. But hearken, lordings, in conclusioún; Your liking is, that I shall tell a tale Now I have drunk a draught of corny ale, By God, I hope I shall you tell a thing That shall by reason be to your likíng; For though myself be a full vicious man, A moral tale yet I you tellë can, Which I am wont to preachë, for to win. Now hold your peace, my tale I will begin.
In Flanders whilom was a company Of youngë folkës, that hauntéd follý, As riot, hazard, stewës, and tavérns; Where as with lutës, harpës, and gitérns, They dance and play at dice both day and night, And eat also, and drink over their might; Through which they do the devil sacrifice Within the devil’s temple, in cursed wise, By superfluity abomináble. Their oathës be so great and so damnáble, That it is grisly for to hear them swear. Our blissful Lordë’s body they to-tear; Them thought the Jewës rent him not enough; And each of them at other’s sinnë lough. And right anon in comë tombesteres Fetis and small, and youngë fruitesteres. Singers with harpës, baudës, waferers, Which be the very devil’s officers, To kindle and blow the fire of lechery, That is annexed unto gluttony. The Holy Writ take I to my witnéss, That luxury is in wine and drunkenness. Lo, how that drunken Lot unkindëly Lay by his daughters two unwittingly, So drunk he was he knew not what he wrought. Heródes, who so well the stories sought, When he of wine replete was at his feast, Right at his owen table gave his hest To slay the