And wheither he be saaf or noght The sothe woot no clergie,

[saaf

Ne of Sortes ne of Salomon
No scripture kan telle.
Ac God is so good, I hope,
That siththe he gaf hem wittes
To wissen us weyes therwith
That wissen us to be saved,

And the bettre for hir bokes
To bidden we ben holden,

That God for his grace

Gyve hir soules reste.

7976

For lettred men were lewed men yet, Ne were loore of hir bokes." "Alle thise clerkes," quod I tho, "That in Crist leven,

Seyen in hir sermons

That neither Sarsens ne Jewes
Ne no creature of Cristes liknesse
Withouten cristendom worth saved."

"Contra," quod Ymaginatif thoo, And comsed for to loure;

And seide" Salvabitur
Vix justus in die judicii.
Ergo salvabitur," quod he,
And seide na-moore Latyn.

7987

"Trojanus was a trewe knyght,
And took nevere Cristendom,
And he is saaf, so seith the book,
And his soule in hevene.

For ther is fullynge of font,
And fullynge in blood shedyng,
And thorugh fir is fullyng,
And that is ferme bileve.

7998

Advenit ignis divinus non comburens, sed illuminans, etc.

"Ac Truthe that trespased

nevere,

Ne traversed ayeins his lawe,
But lyveth as his lawe techeth,
And leveth ther be no bettre ;
And if ther were, he wolde amende,
And in swich wille deieth,
Ne wolde nevere trewe god,
But truthe were allowed, [worth,
And wheither it be worth or noght
The bileve is gret of truthe,
And an hope hangynge therinne
To have a mede for his truthe.
For Deus dicitur quasi dans vitam
eternam suis, hoc est fidelibus.
Et alibi: Si ambulavero in
medio umbræ mortis.

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"The glose graunteth upon that A greet mede to Truthe, [vers And wit and wisdom," quod that "Was som tyme tresor

Tokepe with a commune,
No catel was holde bettre,

[wye,

8021

And muche murthe and manhod;" And right with that he vanysshed.

Passus Decimus Tertius, etc.

A

ND I awaked therwith
Wit-lees ner-hande,

And as a freke that fre were

Forth gan I walke

In manere of a mendinaunt

Many a yer after,

And of this metyng many tyme

Muche thought I hadde.

First how Fortune me failed At my mooste nede;

8025

And how that Elde manaced me,

Myghte we evere mete ;

And how that freres folwede

Folk that was riche,

And folk that was povere

At litel pris thei sette;

And no corps in hir kirk-yerde
Nor in his kirk was buryed,
But quik he biquethe aught

To quyte with hir dettes;

8036

And how this Coveitise over-com

Clerkes and preestes;

And how that lewed men ben lad, But oure Lord hem helpe,

8048

Thorugh un-konnynge curatours,
To incurable peynes.

And how that Ymaginatif
In dremels me tolde

Of Kynde and of his konnynge, And how curteis he is to bestes, And how lovynge he is to briddes On londe and on watre.

Leneth he no lif

Lasse ne moore,

The creatures that crepen

Of kynde ben engendred.

8060

And sithen how Ymaginatif seide,

Vix salvabitur;

And whan he hadde seid so,
How sodeynliche he passed.

I lay doun longe in this thoght, And at the laste I slepte.

And as Crist wolde, ther com Con-
To conforte me that tyme, [science
And bad me come to his court,
With Clergie sholde I dyne;
And for Conscience of Clergie
I com wel the rather.

And there I seigh a maister,

What man he was I nyste,

That lowe louted

And loveliche to Scripture.
Conscience knew hym wel,
And welcomed hym faire.
Thei wesshen and wipeden,
And wenten to the dyner.

[spak,

And Pacience in the paleis stood In pilgrymes clothes,

8082

And preyde mete par charité
For a povere heremyte.
Conscience called hym in,
And curteisliche seide,

8083

"Welcome! wye; go and wasshe; Thow shalt sitte soone."

This maister was maad sitte, As for the mooste worthi.

And thanne Clergie and Conscience And Pacience cam after.

Pacience and I

Were put to be macches,
And seten bi ourselve
At the side borde.

Conscience called after mete;
And thanne cam Scripture,
And served hem thus soone

8094

Of sondry metes manye,
Of Austyn, of Ambrose,
And of the foure Euvangelistes,
Edentes et bibentes quæ apud eos

sunt.

Ac this maister nor his man 8105 No maner flesshe eten;

Ac thei eten mete of moore cost,
Mortrews and potages,

Of that men mys-wonne
Thei made hem wel at ese.

Ac hir sauce was over sour,

And unsavourly grounde
In a morter post mortem
Of many a bitter peyne,

But if thei synge for tho soules,
And wepe salte teris.

8116