The Vision Of Piers Plowman - Part 01

What this mountaigne bymeneth and the merke dale
And the feld ful of folk, I shal yow faire shewe.
A lovely lady of leere in lynnen yclothed
Cam doun fom [the] castel and called me faire,
And seide, 'Sone, slepestow? Sestow this peple-
How bisie they ben aboute the maze?
The mooste partie of this peple that passeth on this erthe,
Have thei worship in this world, thei wilne no bettre;
Of oother hevene than here holde thei no tale'.-
I was afeed of hire face, theigh she faire weere,
And seide, ' Mercy, madame, what [may] this [be] to mene?'

'The tour upon the toft', quod she, 'Truthe is therinne,
And wolde that ye wroughte as his word techeth.
For he is fader of feith and formed yow alle
Bothe with fel and with face and yaf yow fyve wittes
For to worshipe hym therwith while that ye ben here.
And therfore he highte the erthe to helpe yow echone
Of woilene, of lynnen, of liflode at nede
In mesurable manere to make yow at ese;
And comaunded of his curteisie in commune three thynges:
Are none nedfulle but tho, and nempne hem I thynke,
And rekene hem by reson - reherce thow hem after.
'That oon is vesture from chele thee to save,
And mete at meel for mysese of thiselve,
And drynke whan thow driest - ac do noght out of reson,
That thow worthe the wers whan thow werche sholdest.
For Lot in hise lifdayes, for likynge of drynke,
Dide by hise doughtres that the devel liked:
Delited hym in drynke as the devel wolde,
And leccherie hym laughte, and lay by hem bothe -
And al he witte it the wyn, that wikked dede:
Inebriemus eum vino dormiamusque cum eo, ut
servare possimus de patre nostro semen.
Thorugh wyn and thorugh wommen ther was Loth acombred,
And there gat in glotonie gerles that were cherles.
Forthi dred delitable drynke and thow shalt do the bettre.
Mesure is medicine, though thow muchel yerne.
Al is nought good to the goost that the gut asketh,
Ne liflode to the likame that leef is to the soule.
Leve nought thi likame, for a liere hym techeth -
That is the wrecched world, wolde thee bitraye.

For the fend and thi flessh folwen togidere,
And that [shendeth] thi soule; set it in thin herte.
And for thow sholdest ben ywar, I wisse thee the beste.'
'A, madame, mercy,' quod I, ' me liketh wel youre wordes.
Ac the moneie of this molde that men so faste holdeth -
Telleth me to whom that tresour appendeth.'
Go to the Gospel,' quod she, 'that God seide hymselven,
Tho the poeple hym apposede with a peny in the Temple
Wheither thei sholde therwith worshipe the kyng Cesar.
And God asked of hem, of whom spak the lettre,
And the ymage ylike that therinne stondeth?
Cesares, thei seiden, 'we seen it wel echone.'
''Reddite Cesari,'' quod God, '' that Cesari bifalleth,
Et que sunt Dei Deo, or ellis ye don ille.'
- For rightfully Reson sholde rule yow alle,
And Kynde Wit be wardeyn youre welthe to kepe,
And tutour of youre tresor, and take it yow at nede,
For housbondrie and he holden togidres.'
Thanne I frayned hire faire, for Hym that hire made,
'That dongeon in the dale that dredful is of sighte -
What may it bemeene, madame, I yow biseche?'
'That is the castel of care - whoso comth therinne
May banne that he born was to bodi or to soule!
Therinne wonyeth a wight that Wrong is yhote,
Fader of falshede - and founded it hymselve.
Adam and Eve he egged to ille,
Counseilled Kaym to killen his brother,
Judas he japed with Jewen silver,
And sithen on an eller hanged hym after.
He is lettere of love and lieth hem alle:
That trusten on his tresour bitrayed arn sonnest.'

Thanne hadde I wonder in my wit what womman it weere
That swiche wise wordes of Holy Writ shewed,
And halsede hire on the heighe name, er she thennes yede,
What she were witterly that wissed me so faire.
'Holi Chirche I am,' quod she, thow oughtest me to knowe.
I underfeng thee first and the feith taughte.
Thow broughtest me borwes my biddyng to fulfille,
And to loven me leelly the while thi lif dureth.'
Thanne I courbed on my knees and cried hire of grace,
And preide hire pitously to preye for my synnes,
And also kenne me kyndely on Crist to bileve,
That I myghte werchen His wille that wroghte me to man:
'Teche me to no tresor, but tel me this ilke =
How I may save my soule, that seint art yholden.'
'Whan alle tresors arn tried,' quod she,-Treuthe is the beste.
I do it on Deus caritas to deme the sothe;
It is as dereworthe a drury as deere God hymselven.
Who is trewe of his tonge and telleth noon oother,
And dooth the werkes