Þat moche wynneþ, and no thyng wole haue,
But ȝeue it awey, to nedeles þat craue,
Aȝens conscience despit
Borwe moche, and neuere quyt:
Line 96
When god for þat gylt smyt,
What glosere can þat wounde saue?
(8)
¶ Þat freek may wel be holden a fool,
Þat wayueþ wit, and worcheþ by wille,
Line 100
And skippe into sclaundre scol,
And scorne hym þat telleþ hym skylle;
And lyue in Lenton as in ȝool,
His flesch in foly to fulfille.
Line 104
Þouȝ þe dotard deye in dool,
Þe ryȝtwys nel not rewe his ylle.
Who so wil not knowe his awen astat,
Ne deliuere chekkys, er þat he be mat,
Line 108
He shal haue worldis wondryng,
And his soule hyndryng,
And ay in paynes pondryng;
To mende þanne, is to late.
Line 112
(9)
¶ Of all folk vppon fold, y fynde but foure trewe,
Þat don here deuere dewely, and take no mede:
Syknes is oon, and sorw doþ sewe,
Þe thridde hat 'deþ,' and þe fierþe 'drede.'
Line 116
Þey clayme vs by custom, for þey oure kyn knewe, [Nota]
And endid wiþ oure aunsetres tyl þey to erþe ȝede.
Þey spare prynce ne pore, old ne newe,
For þey crepe in-to his cors, and cloþe hem in his wede.
Drede bryngeþ man to buxomnes;
Line 121
Sorwe of herte makeþ synnes les;
Syknes, breþe stekenyng,
And bowe to a bekenyng,
Line 124
And bryngeþ hem to rekenyng,
Tyl deþ all redresse.
