Of armes and of brigantaille Stood no thing than upon bataille It thought hem thanne nought honeste. To And pride was a vice holde. The worldes fwerde on hond is take, And that is wonder netheles, Whan Crifte him felf hath bode pees How now that holy chirche is went Hath fet to make werre and strife For worldes good, which may nought last. Which is the propre duete Belongend unto the presthode. But as it thenketh to make manhode, Is torned, and the holy bede That fholde be the worldes hele As it is in the bokes write, He dothe us fomdele for to wite And nought for pride of thilke estate That he hath fet his conscience a Of pouerte and become grete, In the chaire on high ben fet, The trefor of the benefice, Wherof the pouer fhulden clothe For they no greine of pite fowe, And flouthe kepeth the librarie, Of that men feen hem fo devided. And yet the cause is nought decided, Bitwen two stoles is the fall, Whan that men wenen best to fitte. Is for to rewe unto us alle. God graunte it mote wel befalle Towardes him, which hath the trouth. But ofte is feen, that mochel flouth, cuppe, Doth mochel harme, whan fire is uppe, But if fomwho the flamme staunche And so to speke upon this braunche, That Crifte in erthe taught here, |