Baptist John full guiltëless. Seneca saith a good word, doubtëless: He saith he can no differencë find Betwixt a man that is out of his mind, And a man whichë that is drunkelew: But that woodnéss, y-fallen in a shrew, Persevereth longer than drunkenness.
O gluttony, full of all cursedness; O cause first of our confusión, Original of our damnatión, Till Christ had bought us with his blood again! Lookë, how dearë, shortly for to sayn, Abought was first this cursed villainy: Corrupt was all this world for gluttony. Adam our father, and his wife also, From Paradise, to labour and to woe, Were driven for that vice, it is no dread. For while that Adam fasted, as I read, He was in Paradise; and when that he Ate of the fruit defended of the tree, Anon he was cast out to woe and pain. O gluttony! well ought us on thee plain. Oh! wist a man how many maladies Follow of éxcess and of gluttonies, He wouldë be the morë measuráble Of his dietë, sitting at his table. Alas! the shortë throat, the tender mouth, Maketh that east and west, and north and south, In earth, in air, in water, men do swink To get a glutton dainty meat and drink. Of this mattére, O Paul! well canst thou treat Meat unto womb, and womb eke unto meat, Shall God destroyë both, as Paulus saith. Alas! a foul thing is it, by my faith, To say this word, and fouler is the deed, When man so drinketh of the white and red, That of his throat he maketh his privý Through thilkë cursed superfluity The apostle saith, weeping full piteously, There walk many, of which you told have I— I say it now weeping with piteous voice— That they be enemies of Christë’s crois; Of which the end is death; womb is their God. O womb, O belly, stinking is thy cod, Full fill’d of dung and of corruptioún; At either end of thee foul is the soun’. How great laboúr and cost is thee to find! These cookës how they stamp, and strain, and grind, And turnë substance into accident, To fúlfil all thy likerous talent! Out of the hardë bonës knockë they The marrow, for they castë naught away That may go through the gullet soft and swoot Of spicery and leaves, of bark and root, Shall be his sauce y-maked by delight, To make him have a newer appetite. But, certes, he that haunteth such delices Is dead while that he liveth in those vices.