"And ye that seke seynt James, And seyntes of Rome, Seketh seynt Truthe, For he may save yow alle; 2590 _Qui cum patre et filio_, That faire hem bi-falle That seweth my sermon." And thus seyde Reson.
Thanne ran Repentaunce, And reherced his teme: And garte Wille to wepe Water with hise eighen. { 81}
Pernele Proud-herte Platte hire to the erthe, 2600 And lay longe er she loked, And "Lord, mercy!" cryde, And bi-highte to hym That us alle made, She sholde unsowen hir serk, And sette there an heyre, To affaiten hire flesshe That fiers was to synne. "Shal nevere heigh herte me hente, But holde I wole me lowe 2610 And suffre to be mys-seyd, And so dide I nevere; And now I wole meke me, And mercy biseche, For al this I have Hated in myn herte."
Thanne Lechour seide, "Allas!" And on oure Lady he cryde, To maken mercy for hise mys-dedes Bitwene God and his soule; 2620 With that he sholde the Saterday, Seven yer therafter, Drynke but myd the doke, And dyne but ones.
Envye with hevy herte Asked after shrifte, And carefully _mea culpa_ He comsed to shewe. He was as pale as a pelet, In the palsy he semed; 2630 And clothed in a kaurymaury, I kouthe it nought discryve, { 82} In kirtel and courtepy, And a knyf by his syde; Of a freres frokke Were the fore-sleves; And as a leek that hadde y-leye Longe in the sonne, So loked he with lene chekes Lourynge foule. 2640
His body was to-bollen for wrathe, That he boot hise lippes; And wryngynge he yede with the fust, To wreke hymself he thoughte With werkes or with wordes, Whan he seyghe his tyme. Ech a word that he warpe Was of a neddres tonge; Of chidynge and of chalangynge Was his chief liflode, 2650 With bakbitynge and bismere, And berynge of fals witnesse.
"I wolde ben y-shryve," quod this sherewe, "And I for shame dorste; I wolde be gladder, by God! That Gybbe hadde meschaunce, Than though I hadde this wouke y-wonne A weye of Essex chese.
"I have a neghebore by me, I have anoyed hym ofte, 2660 And lowen on hym to lordes To doon hym lese his silver, And maad his frendes be his foon Thorugh my false tonge; His grace and his goode happes Greven me ful soore. { 83}
"Bitwene manye and manye I make debate ofte, That bothe lif and lyme Is lost thorugh my speche. 2670 And whan I mete hym in market That I moost hate, I hailse hym hendely, As I his frend were; For he is doughtier than I, I dar do noon oother; Ac hadde I maistrie and myght, God woot my wille!