Or hers that swymmen in possessionFye on her pompe, and on her glotonyeAnd in her leudnesse, I hem defyeMe thynketh they be lyke IouinianFatte as a whale, and walkynge as a swanAs vinolent as botel in the speneHer prayers is of ful lytel reuerencewhen they for soules say ye psalme of DauidLo bouffe they sayn (Cor meum eructauit)who foloweth Christes gospel & hys loeBut we that humble be, chaste, and poorewerkers of goddes worde, & not auditoursTherfore ryght as an hauke at a soursVp spryngeth into the eyre, so prayeresOf charitable and chast busy freresMaken her sours to goddes eeres twoThomas Thomas, so mote I ryde or goAnd by that lorde that cleped is saynt YueNe yu our brother were, yu shuldest not thryueFor in our chapiter pray we daye and nyghtTo Christ that he the sende helth & myghtThy body for to welden hastely.¶God wore {quod} he, nothynge therof fele IAs helpe me Christ, as in fewe yeresHaue I spended vpon dyuers maner frereswel many a poūde, yet fare I neuer the betteCertayne my good haue I almost besetteFare wel my good, for it is almoste ago.The frere answered, o Thomas dost yu so?what nedeth the dyuers freres seche?what nedeth him that hath a parfyte lecheTo sechen other leches in the toun?Your inconstaunce is your confusiounHolde ye me then, or els our couentTo prayen for you insufficient?Thomas, that tape nys not worth a myteYour maladye is for we haue to lyteA, yeue that couent halfe a quarter otesAnd yeue that couent foure & twenty grotesAnd yeue that frere a penny, and let hym goNay nay Thomas, it may nothynge be sowhat is a ferthyng worth parted in twelue?Lo, eche thynge that is oned in hym selueIs more stronge then when it is so scateredThomas, of me thou shalt not ben yflateredThou wolst haue al our labour for noughtThe hye god yt al thys world hath wroughtSayeth, yt the workman is worthy his hyreThomas, nought of your treasoure I desyreAs for my selfe, but that al our couentTo praye for you is aye so dyligentAnd for to buylden Christes owne chyrcheThomas, yf ye wol lerne for to wyrcheOf buyldynge vp of chyrches may ye fyndeYf it be good, in Thomas lyfe of Inde.Ye lyggen here ful of anger and of yrewith which ye deuel setteth your hert on fyreAnd chyden here thys holy innocentYour wyfe, that is so meke and pacientAnd therfore trowe me Thomas if you lesteNe chyde not wyth thy wyfe, as for the besteAnd beare thys worde awaye by thy faythTouchinge such thing, lo what ye wyse saythwythin thy house be thou no lyonTo thy subiectes do thou none oppressionNe make not thyne acquayntaunce to eAnd yet Thomas, eftsones charge I theBeware of her that in thy bosome slepethware the of the serpent, that so slyly crepethVnder the grasse, and styngeth ful subtellyBeware my sonne, and herken pacientlyThat twēty thousāde mē han lost her lyuesFor stryuinge with her lēmans & her wyuesNowe sens ye haue so holy and meke a wyfewhat nebeth you Thomas to make stryfe?There nys ywysse no serpent so cruel(when mē treden on his tayle) ne halfe so fellAs a womā is, whē she hath caught an yreVengeaunce is then al her desyre.¶Ire is a synne, one of the greatest of seuenAbhominable vnto the hygh god of heuenAnd to hym selfe it is a dystructionThys euery leude vycare and prsonCan saye, how yre engendreth homecydeIre is in soth the executour of prydeI coulde of yre say so muche soroweThat my tale shulde last tyl to moroweAnd therfore I pray god both daye & nyghtThat to an yrous man he sende lytell myghtIt is great harme, and eke great pyteTo set an yrous man in hye degreWhylom there was an yrous potestateAs sayeth Seneke, that durynge hys estateVpon a daye out rydden knyghtes twoAnd as fortune wolde it shulde be soThat one of hem cam home, yt other noughtAnone the knyght before ye iudge is broughtThat said thus: thou hast thy felowe slayneFor whych I deme the to the death certayneAnd to another knyght cōmaunded heGo lede hym to the death I charge theAnd it hapned as they went by the weyTowarde the place where he shulde dey0