He nis no better þan Iudas,
Þo he was to Iesu comen,
He kist him and made him nomen.
If any man þat liueþ in londe
Leueþ in ire and in onde
And nile a man his gilt forȝiue,
So may not his soule liue.
For holy writ sheweþ þus,
As þese clerkes tellen vs,
Þei a man go barfot euere
And were lynnen clothes neuere
And eche day faste watur and bred,
Þat not elles cōm in his hed,
And made a fyr for his sinne
And let his body þer inne brenne —
In nithe and onde if he were founde, [folio 158b]
Þe soule eode to hell gronde;
Wiþ outen loue and charite
May no man saued beo.
Þerfore eche man stonde
And putte fro him nythe and onde;
In his herte if it dwelle,
It wile drawe him to helle,
Doun into þe deppest pit,
Er elles lyeþ holy writ.
And who so is in helle pilt
For his trespas and his gilt,
Seint Poul bereþ witnes:
May help him no godenesse —
And wiþ seint Poul ywis
No lesing founde þer is.
Nou haue [ȝe] herd of glotonie,
Of pride and of lecherie,
Of coueitise and enuie
And of ire a partye,
Of nyþe and onde, þat is here broþer,
Nou shul ȝe here of an oþer,
Of sleuthe, whiche a shrewe it is,
Þat makeþ men to don amis.
Sleuthe is in many wise,
