And ȝut, man, þou art me so lef,
Wiþ mercy and ruþe y bowe to þe.
Ȝif y byd þe my lawe to fulfille,
Þou hauntest þy synne, and wonest þeryn stille.
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Þou hatest all þat loue my name.
Þou wost þou seruest so gret blame:
How darst þou byd me, for shame,
To bowe to þe or worche þy wille?
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(7)
¶ Man, þou to my lawe art knyt;
Why ho[l]ddest þou werre agaynes me,
My worldis goodis in hord to pyt
Fro pore þat þy breþeren be?
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Art þou not warned by holy writ?
I made, and bouȝte hem as dere as þe.
Hit is wanhope goþ byfore ȝoure wit.
Þat ȝe hyde, ful bryȝt y se.
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ffor þe pyne y dede for ȝow dryȝe,
Ȝeue þyn herte, wiþ teres of þyn eyȝe.
Repente sore for þy trespas!
So lyȝtly myȝt þou come to gras,
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To heuene, to þat worþy plas,
To byȝe to þe, on rode gan dyȝe.
(8)
¶ Man, how darst þou my lawe preche,
And telle þe articles of þe fay?
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My wit word, wiþ þy mouþ teche,
And in þy werkis þou seyst hit nay?
Wiþ theues and wiþ spouse breche
Þou delest and rennest nyȝt and day.
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In pyne þou sechest þyn owen wreche.
Thow temptest me to be wraþþeful ay.
I mad þe wys and fayre, angels pere,
Þou makest þe fool, and foul fendis fere.
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Þy lyȝtnes þou spendest in harlotrye;
Þy strengþe, in wraþþe and tyrauntrye;
Þy fayrenesse, in pryde and lecherye.
Þou settest at nouȝt, y bouȝt so dere.
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