First whan he wile begynne
To swere fals for worldes winne,
He forsakeþ his cristendam,
Atte fonston þat he nam,
And bind him in an oþer bond,
On bok whan he leiþ his hond;
Beo he lewed, beo he clerk,
He forsakeþ al þe werk,
Alle þe werkes of godenesse
Þat euere he dide more and lesse,
In al his liue þat he haþ wrought,
Of þat oth if he ought.
And whan he kissed þe bok,
His gode dedes all he forsok;
He forsakeþ his godes bedes
Þat he haþ seid in gode stedes,
Þat he haþ beden al his lyf,
Sithe þat he was boren of wif.
Þe seueneþ hest þat god het,
In paradys þo he Adam let,
Þat for mede ne for destresse
No man bere fals wittenesse
Of thing þat falsnesse is inne,
For no mede ne for no winne.
Of falsnes comeþ myche wo,
Wite eche man wel him þer fro!
Bere no fals witnes in lond
Aȝein him þat haþ right on honde!
Þ e eighteþ hest, as ȝe shal here:
Þat god þat bought vs alle deore
Comaundeþ alle þat beon him leof,
Þat no man shal be no theof;
For who so is nomen þer inne,
Theofte is a foul sinne.
Man þat haþ not þat him is leof
And þer fore becomeþ a theof
And steleþ trewe mennes goed,
To meyntenc his hie blod —
Þerfore þese fendes mette,
Thefte and coueitise togedere sette.
