Som greet mischaunce, or greet disese.
No-thing may so moch hir plese
As mischef and misaventure;
Or whan she seeth discomfiture
On any worthy man to falle,
Than lyketh hir ful wel withalle.
She is ful glad in hir corage,
If she see any greet linage
Be brought to nought in shamful wyse.
And if a man in honour ryse,
Or by his witte, or by prowesse,
Of that hath she gret hevinesse ;
For, trusteth wel, she goth nigh wood
When any chaunce happeth good.
Envye is of swich crueltee,
That feith ne trouthe holdeth she
To freend ne felawe, bad or good.
Ne she hath kin noon of hir blood,
That she nis ful hir enemy;
She nolde, I dar seyn hardely,
Hir owne fader ferde wel.
And sore abyeth she everydel
Hir malice, and hir maltalent:
For she is in so greet turment
And hath such wo, whan folk doth good,
That nigh she melteth for pure wood;
Hir herte kerveth and to-breketh
That god the peple wel awreketh.
Envye, y-wis, shal never lette
Som blame upon the folk to sette.
I trowe that if Envye, y-wis,
Knewe the beste man that is
On this syde or biyond the see,
Yit somwhat lakken him wolde she.
And if he were so hende and wys,
That she ne mighte al abate his prys,
Yit wolde she blame his worthinesse,
Or by hir wordes make it lesse.
I saugh Envye, in that peynting,
Hadde a wonderful loking;
For she ne loked but awry,
Or overthwart, al baggingly.
And she hadde eek a foul usage;
She mighte loke in no visage
Of man or womman forth-right pleyn,
But shette oon yë for disdeyn;
So for envye brenned she
Whan she mighte any man y-see,
That fair, or worthy were, or wys,
Or elles stood in folkes prys.
SOROWE was peynted next Envye
Upon that walle of masonrye.
But wel was seen in hir colour
That she hadde lived in langour;
Hir semed have the Jaunyce.
Nought half so pale was Avaryce,
Nor no-thing lyk, as of lenesse;
For sorowe, thought, and greet distresse,
That she hadde suffred day and night
Made hir ful yelwe, and no-thing bright,
Ful fade, pale, and megre also.
Was never wight yit half so wo
As that hir semed for to be,
Nor so fulfilled of ire as she.
I trowe that no wight mighte hir plese,
Nor do that thing that mighte hir ese;
Nor she ne wolde hir sorowe slake,
Nor comfort noon unto hir take;
So depe was hir wo bigonnen,
And eek hir herte in angre ronnen,
A sorowful thing wel semed she.
Nor she hadde no-thing slowe be
For to forcracchen al hir face,
And for to rende in many place
Hir clothes, and for to tere hir swire,
And she that was fulfilled of ire;
And al to-torn lay eek hir here
Aboute hir shuldres, here and there,
As she that hadde it al to-rent
For angre and for maltalent.
And eek I telle you certeynly
How that she weep ful tenderly.
In world nis wight so hard of herte
That hadde seen hir sorowes smerte,
That nolde have had of hir pitee,
So wo-bigoon a thing was she.
She al to-dasshte hir-self for wo,
And smoot togider hir handes two.
To sorwe was she ful ententyf,
That woful recchelees caityf;
Hir roughte litel of pleying,
Or of clipping or of kissing;
For who-so sorweful is in herte
Him liste not to pleye ne sterte,
Nor for to daunsen, ne to singe,
Ne may his herte in temper bringe
To make joye on even or morowe;
For joye is contraire unto sorowe.
ELDE was peynted after this, That shorter was a foot, y-wis, Than she was wont in her yonghede. Unnethe hir-self she mighte fede; So feble and eek so old was she That faded was al hir beautee. Ful salowe was waxen hir colour, Hir heed for-hoor was, whyt as flour. Y-wis, gret qualm ne were it noon, Ne sinne, although hir lyf were gon. Al woxen was hir body unwelde, And drye, and dwyned al for elde. A foul forwelked thing was she That whylom round and softe had be. Hir eres shoken fast withalle, As from her heed they wolde falle. Hir face frounced and forpyned, And bothe hir hondes lorn, fordwyned.
So old she was that she ne wente
A foot, but it were by potente.
The TYME, that passeth night and day, And restelees travayleth ay,
And steleth from us so prively,
That to us semeth sikerly
That it in oon point dwelleth ever,
And certes, it ne resteth never,
But goth so faste, and passeth ay,
That ther nis man that thinke may
What tyme that now present is :
Asketh at these clerkes this;
For er men thinke it redily,
Three tymes been y-passed by.
The tyme, that may not sojourne,
But goth, and never may retourne,
As water that doun renneth ay,
But never drope retourne may;
Ther may no-thing as tyme endure,
Metal, nor erthely creature;
For alle thing it fret, and shal:
The tyme eek, that chaungeth al,
And al doth waxe and fostred be,
And alle thing distroyeth he:
The tyme, that eldeth our auncessours
And eldeth kinges and emperours,
And that us alle shal overcomen
Er that deeth us shal have nomen :
The tyme, that hath al in welde
To elden folk, had maad hir elde
So inly, that, to my witing,
She mighte helpe hir-self no-thing,
But turned ageyn unto childhede;
She had no-thing hir-self to lede,
Ne wit ne pith inwith hir holde
More than a child of two yeer olde.
But natheles, I trowe that she
Was fair sumtyme, and fresh to see,
Whan she was in hir rightful age:
But she was past al that passage
And was a doted thing bicomen.
A furred cope on had she nomen;
Wel had she clad hir-self and warm,
For cold mighte elles doon hir harm.
These olde folk have alwey colde,
Hir kind is swiche, whan they ben olde.
POPE-HOLY
Another thing was doon ther write,
That semede lyk an ipocrite,
And it was cleped POPE-HOLY.
That ilke is she that prively
Ne spareth never a wikked dede,
Whan men of hir taken non hede;
And maketh hir outward precious,
With pale visage and pitous,
And semeth a simple creature;
But ther nis no misaventure
That she ne thenketh in hir corage.
Ful lyk to hir was that image,
That maked was lyk hir semblaunce.
She was ful simple of countenance,
And she was clothed and eek shod,
As she were, for the love of god,
Yolden to religioun,
Swich semed hir devocioun.
A sauter held she faste in honde,
And bisily she gan to fonde
To make many a feynt prayere
To god, and to his seyntes dere.
Ne she was gay, fresh, ne jolyf,
But semed be ful ententyf
To gode werkes, and to faire,
And therto she had on an haire.
Ne certes, she was fat no-thing,
But semed wery for fasting;
Of colour pale and deed was she.
From hir the gate shal werned be
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