It is worthy he smerte and be wo,
Þat of his owen skyn wole kerue a thong.
Þat chepen moche, and not han to paye,
And wiþ his lord to homly wole playe,
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Swere moche, and not be trowed;
Boste moche, and not allowed;
Threte alle men, and neuere on bowed:
All are folyes, þat y say.
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(3)
¶ He is a fool, þat werre wole wake,
Þat may not maynten it wiþ mede,
And so moche vndertake,
Þat wot wel he may not spede,
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And of his neyȝebour his enemy make
For a straunge mannys dede;
And he þat mesure wole forsake,
And nedles put hym-self in drede;
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Of mannys deþ haue no rouþe,
But hate hem þat tellen hym trouþe,
Loue hym þat cherische hym in synne,
And suche games bygynne
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Where þat he wot he may not wynne,
But besyen hym in slouþe.
(4)
¶ He is a fool, þat no good can,
Ne non wole lere, but slow in dede.
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A gret fool, y holde þat man
Þat of his enemys haþ no drede.
Þurgh suche foly, Flaundres be-gan;
Of after perile þey tok non hede.
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Hit is worthy, he ete bred of bran,
Þat wiþ floure his foo wil fede.
And truste al in gloser charmes,
In hyndryng in worschip of armes,
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And lette lawe it mot not syt,
And conscience away flyt,
May brynge a lord, er þat he wyt,
Emyddis grete harmes.
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