Wynnere and Wastoure
By Unknown
Here begynnes a tretys and god schorte refreytebytwixe Wynnere and Wastoure
Sythen that Bretayne was biggede and Bruyttus it aughte,
Thurgh the takynge of Troye with tresone withinn,
There hathe selcouthes bene sene in seere kynges tymes,
Bot never so many as nowe by the nyne dele.
For nowe alle es witt and wyles that we with delyn,
Wyse wordes and slee, and icheon wryeth othere.
Dare never no westren wy while this werlde lasteth
Send his sone southewarde to see ne to here,
That he ne schall holden byhynde when he hore eldes.
Forthi sayde was a sawe of Salomon the wyse—
It hyeghte harde appone honde, hope I no nother—
When wawes waxen schall wilde and walles bene doun,
And hares appon herthe-stones schall hurcle in hire fourme,
And eke boyes of blode with boste and with pryde,
Schall wedde ladyes in londe and lede hem at will,
Thene dredfull Domesdaye it draweth neghe aftir.
Bot whoso sadly will see and the sothe telle,
Say it newely will neghe or es neghe here.
Whylome were lordes in londe that loved in thaire hertis
To here makers of myrthes that matirs couthe fynde,
And now es no frenchipe in fere bot fayntnesse of hert,
Wyse wordes withinn that wroghte were never,
Ne redde in no romance that ever renke herde.
Bot now a childe appon chere, withowtten chyn-wedys,
That never wroghte thurgh witt thies wordes togedire,
Fro he can jangle als a jaye and japes telle,
He schall be levede and lovede and lett of a while
Wele more than the man that made it hymselven.
Bot, never-the-lattere, at the laste when ledys bene knawen,
Werke wittnesse will bere who wirche kane beste.
[Fitt I]
Bot I schall tell yow a tale that me bytyde ones
Als I went in the weste, wandrynge myn one,
Bi a bonke of a bourne; bryghte was the sone
Undir a worthiliche wodde by a wale medewe:
Fele floures gan folde ther my fote steppede.
I layde myn hede one ane hill ane hawthorne besyde;
The throstills full throly they threpen togedire,
Hipped up heghwalles fro heselis tyll othire,
Bernacles with thayre billes one barkes thay roungen,
The jay janglede one heghe, jarmede the foles.
The bourne full bremly rane the bankes bytwene;
So ruyde were the roughe stremys and raughten so heghe
That it was neghande nyghte or I nappe myghte,
For dyn of the depe watir and dadillyng of fewllys.
Bot as I laye at the laste than lowked myn eghne,
And I was swythe in a sweven sweped belyve.
Me thoghte I was in the werlde, I ne wiste in whate ende,
One a loveliche lande that was ylike grene,
That laye loken by a lawe the lengthe of a myle.
In aythere holte was ane here in hawberkes full brighte,
Harde hattes appon hedes and helmys with crestys;
Brayden owte thaire baners, bown for to mete,
Schowen owte of the schawes, in schiltrons thay felle,
And bot the lengthe of a launde thies lordes bytwene.
And alle prayed for the pese till the prynce come,
For he was worthiere in witt than any wy ells
For to ridde and to rede and to rewlyn the wrothe
That aythere here appon hate had untill othere.
At the creste of a clyffe a caban was rerede,
Alle raylede with rede the rofe and the sydes,
With Ynglysse besantes full brighte, betyn of golde,
And ichone gayly umbygone with garters of inde,
And iche a gartare of golde gerede full riche.
Then were ther wordes in the webbe werped of he,
Payntted of plunket, and poyntes bytwene,
That were fourmed full fayre appon fresche lettres,
And alle was it one sawe appon Ynglysse tonge,
“Hethyng have the hathell that any harme thynkes.”
Now the kyng of this kythe kepe hym oure Lorde!
Upon heghe one the holt ane hathell up stondes,
Wroghte als a wodwyse alle in wrethyn lokkes,
With ane helme one his hede, ane hatte appon lofte,
And one heghe one the hatte ane hattfull beste,
A lighte lebarde and a longe, lokande full kene,
Yarked alle of yalowe golde in full yape wyse.
Bot that that hillede the helme byhynde in the nekke
Was casten full clenly in quarters foure:
Two with flowres of Fraunce before and behynde,
And two out of Ynglonde with sex grym bestes,
Thre leberdes one lofte and thre on lowe undir;
At iche a cornere a knoppe of full clene perle,
Tasselde of tuly silke, tuttynge out fayre.
And by the cabane I knewe the knyghte that I see,
And thoghte to wiete or I went wondres ynewe.
And als I waytted withinn I was warre sone
Of a comliche kynge crowned with golde,
Sett one a silken bynche, with septure in honde,
One of the lovelyeste ledis, whoso loveth hym in hert,
That ever segge under sonn sawe with his eghne.
This kynge was comliche clade in kirtill and mantill—
Bery-brown was his berde-brouderde with fewlys,
Fawkons of fyne golde, flakerande with wynges,
And ichone bare in ble blewe als me thoghte
A grete gartare of ynde gerede full riche.
Full gayly was that grete lorde girde in the myddis:
A brighte belte of ble broudirde with fewles,
With drakes and with dukkes-daderande tham semede
For ferdnes of fawkons fete, lesse fawked thay were.
And ever I sayd to myselfe, “Full selly me thynke
Bot if this renke to the revere ryde umbestonde.”
The kyng biddith a beryn by hym that stondeth,
One of the ferlyeste frekes that faylede hym never:
“Thynke I dubbede the knyghte with dynttis to dele!
Wende wightly thy waye my willes to kythe.
Go, bidd thou yondere bolde batell that one the bent hoves,
That they never neghe nerre togedirs;
For if thay strike one stroke stynte thay ne thynken.”
“Yis, lorde,” said the lede, “while my life dures.”
He dothe hym doun one the bonke, and dwellys awhile
Whils he busked and bown was one his beste wyse.
He laped his legges in yren to the lawe bones,
With pysayne and with pawnce polischede full clene,
With brases of broun stele brauden full thikke,
With plates buklede at the bakke the body to yeme,
With a jupown full juste joynede by the sydes,
A brod chechun at the bakke; the breste had another,
Thre wynges inwith wroghte in the kynde,
Umbygon with a gold wyre. When I that gome knewe,
What! he was yongeste of yeris and yapeste of witt
That any wy in this werlde wiste of his age.
He brake a braunche in his hande, and caughte it swythe,
Trynes one a grete trotte and takes his waye
There bothe thies ferdes folke in the felde hoves.
Sayd, “Loo! the kyng of this kyth, ther kepe hym oure Lorde!
Send his erande by me, als hym beste lyketh,
That no beryn be so bolde, one bothe his two eghne,
Ones to strike one stroke, no stirre none nerre
To lede rowte in his rewme, so ryall to thynke
Pertly with youre powers his pese to disturbe.
For this es the usage here and ever schall worthe:
If any beryn be so bolde with banere for to ryde
Withinn the kyngdome riche bot the kynge one,
That he schall losse the londe and his lyfe aftir.
Bot sen ye knowe noghte this kythe ne the kynge ryche,
He will forgiffe yow this gilt of his grace one.
Full wyde hafe I walked amonges thies wyes one,
Bot sawe I never siche a syghte, segge, with myn eghne;
For here es all the folke of Fraunce ferdede besyde,
Of Lorreyne, of Lumbardye, and of Lawe Spayne;
Wyes of Westwale, that in were duellen;
Of Ynglonde, of Yrlonde, Estirlynges full many,
That are stuffede in stele, strokes to dele.
And yondere a banere of blake that one the bent hoves,
With thre bulles of ble white brouden withinn,
And iche one hase of henppe hynged a corde,
Seled with a sade lede; I say als me thynkes,
That hede es of holy kirke I hope he be there,
Alle ferse to the fighte with the folke that he ledis.
Another banere es upbrayde with a bende of grene,
With thre hedis white-herede with howes one lofte,
Croked full craftyly and kembid in the nekke:
Thies are ledis of this londe that schold oure lawes yeme,
That thynken to dele this daye with dynttis full many.
I holde hym bot a fole that fightis whils flyttynge may helpe,
When he hase founden his frende that fayled hym never.
The thirde banere one bent es of blee whitte,
With sexe galegs, I see, of sable withinn,
And iche one has a brown brase with bokels twayne.
Thies are Sayn Franceys folke, that sayen alle schall fey worthe;
They aren so ferse and so fresche, thay feghtyn bot seldom.
I wote wele for wynnynge thay wentten fro home;
His purse weghethe full wele that wanne thaym all hedire.
The fourte banere one the bent was brayde appon lofte,
With bothe the brerdes of blake, a balle in the myddes,
Reghte siche as the sone es in someris tyde,
When it hase moste of the mayne one Missomer Even.
That was Domynyke this daye with dynttis to dele;
With many a blesenande beryn his banere es stuffede.
And sythen the pope es so priste thies prechours to helpe,
And Fraunceys with his folke es forced besyde,
And alle the ledis of the lande ledith thurgh witt,
There es no man appon molde to machen thaym agayne,
Ne gete no grace appon grounde, undir God hymselven.
And yitt es the fyfte appon the felde the faireste of tham alle,
A brighte banere of blee whitte with three bore-hedis;
Be any crafte that I kan Carmes thaym semyde,
For thay are the ordire that loven oure Lady to serve.
If I scholde say the sothe, it semys no nothire
Bot that the freris with othere folke shall the felde wynn.
The sexte es of sendell, and so are thay alle,
Whitte als the whalles bone, whoso the sothe tellys,
With beltys of blake bocled togedir,
The poyntes pared off rownde, the pendant awaye,
And alle the lethire appon lofte that one lowe hengeth
Schynethe alle for scharpynynge of the schavynge iren:
The ordire of the Austyns, for oughte that I wene,
For by the blussche of the belte the banere I knewe.
And othere synes I seghe sett appon lofte,
Some wittnesse of wolle, and some of wyne tounnes,
Some of merchandes merke, so many and so thikke
That I ne wote in my witt for alle this werlde riche
Whatt segge under the sonne can the sowme rekken.
And sekere one that other syde are sadde men of armes,
Bolde sqwyeres of blode, bowmen many,
That if thay strike one stroke stynt thay ne thynkena
Till owthir here appon hethe be hewen to dethe.
Forthi I bid yow bothe that thaym hedir broghte
That ye wend with me, are any wrake falle,
To oure comely kyng that this kythe owethe;
And fro he wiete wittirly where the wronge ristyth,
Thare nowthir wye be wrothe to wirche als he demeth.“
Off ayther rowte ther rode owte a renke als me thoghte,
Knyghtis full comly one coursers attyred,
And sayden, “Sir sandisman, sele the betyde!
Wele knowe we the kyng; he clothes us bothe,
And hase us fosterde and fedde this fyve and twenty wyntere.
Now fare thou byfore and we schall folowe aftire.”
And now are thaire brydells upbrayde and bown one thairewayes.
Thay lighten doun at the launde and leved thaire stedis,
Kayren up at the clyffe and one knees fallyn.
The kynge henttis by the handes and hetys tham to ryse,
And sayde, “Welcomes, heres, as hyne of oure house bothen.”
The kynge waytted one wyde, and the wyne askes;
Beryns broghte it anone in bolles of silvere.
Me thoghte I sowpped so sadly it sowrede bothe myn eghne.
And he that wilnes of this werke to wete any forthire,
Full freschely and faste, for here a fitt endes.
[Fitt II]
Bot than kerpede the kynge, sayd, “Kythe what ye hatten,
And whi the hates aren so hote youre hertis bytwene.
If I schall deme yow this day, dothe me to here.”
“Now certys, lorde,“ sayde that one, “the sothe for to telle,
I hatt Wynnere, a wy that alle this werlde helpis,
For I lordes cane lere thurgh ledyng of witt.
Thoo that spedfully will spare and spende not to grete,
Lyve appon littill-whattes, I lufe hym the bettir.
Witt wiendes me with, and wysses me faire;
Aye when gadir my gudes than glades myn hert.
Bot this felle false thefe that byfore yowe standes
Thynkes to strike or he styntt and stroye me for ever.
Alle that I wynn thurgh witt he wastes thurgh pryde;
I gedir, I glene, and he lattys goo sone;
I pryke and I pryne, and he the purse opynes.
Why hase this cayteffe no care how men corne sellen?
His londes liggen alle ley, his lomes aren solde,
Downn bene his dowfehowses, drye bene his poles;
The devyll wounder one the wele he weldys at home,
Bot hungere and heghe howses and howndes full kene.
Safe a sparthe and a spere sparrede in ane hyrne,
A bronde at his bede-hede, biddes he no nother
Bot a cuttede capill to cayre with to his frendes.
Then will he boste with his brande and braundesche hym ofte,
This wikkede weryed thefe that Wastoure men calles,
That if he life may longe this lande will he stroye.
Forthi deme us this daye for Drightyns love in heven
To fighte furthe with oure folke to owthire fey worthe.”
“Yee, Wynnere,” quod Wastoure, “thi wordes are hye:
Bot I schall tell the a tale that tene schall the better.
When thou haste waltered and went and wakede alle the nyghte,
And iche a wy in this werlde that wonnes the abowte,
And hase werpede thy wyde howses full of wolle sakkes-
The bemys benden at the rofe, siche bakone there hynges,
Stuffed are sterlynges undere stelen bowndes-
What scholde worthe of that wele if no waste come?
Some rote, some ruste, some ratons fede.
Let be thy cramynge of thi kystes for Cristis lufe of heven!
Late the peple and the pore hafe parte of thi silvere;
For if thou wydwhare scholde walke and waytten the sothe,
Thou scholdeste reme for rewthe, in siche ryfe bene the pore.
For and thou lengare thus lyfe, leve thou no nother,
Thou schall be hanged in helle for that thou here spareste;
For siche a synn haste thou solde thi soule into helle,
And there es ever wellande woo, worlde withowtten ende.”
“Late be thi worde, Wastoure,” quod Wynnere the riche;
“Thou melleste of a mater, thou madiste it thiselven.
With thi sturte and thi stryffe thou stroyeste up my gudes
In playinge and in wakynge in wynttres nyghttis,
In owttrage, in unthrifte, in angarte pryde.
There es no wele in this werlde to wasschen thyn handes
That ne es gyffen and grounden are thou it getyn have.
Thou ledis renkes in thy rowte wele rychely attyrede;
Some hafe girdills of golde that more gude coste
Than alle the faire fre londe that ye byfore haden.
Ye folowe noghte youre fadirs that fosterde yow alle
A kynde herveste to cache and cornes to wynn
For the colde wyntter and the kene with gleterand frostes,
Sythen dropeles drye in the dede monethe.
And thou wolle to the taverne, byfore the tonne-hede,
Iche beryne redy with a bolle to blerren thyn eghne,
Hete the whatte thou have schalte and whatt thyn hert lykes,
Wyfe, wedowe, or wenche that wonnes there aboute.
Then es there bott “fille in“ and “feche forthe,” florence toschewe,
“Wee hee,“ and “worthe up,“ wordes ynewe.
Bot when this wele es awaye, the wyne moste be payede fore;
Than lympis yowe weddis to laye or youre londe selle.
For siche wikked werkes wery the oure Lorde!
And forthi God laughte that he lovede and levede that other,
Iche freke one felde ogh the ferdere be to wirche.
Teche thy men for to tille and tynen thyn feldes;
Rayse up thi rent-howses, ryme up thi yerdes,
Owthere hafe as thou haste done and hope aftir werse -
That es firste the faylynge of fode, and than the fire aftir,
To brene the alle at a birre for thi bale dedis.
The more colde es to come, als me a clerke tolde.”
“Yee, Wynnere,” quod Wastoure, “thi wordes are vayne.
With oure festes and oure fare we feden the pore;
It es plesynge to the Prynce that Paradyse wroghte.
When Cristes peple hath parte Hym payes alle the better
Then here ben hodirde and hidde and happede in cofers,
That it no sonn may see thurgh seven wyntter ones,
Owthir freres it feche when thou fey worthes,
To payntten with thaire pelers or pergett with thaire walles.
Thi sone and thi sektours, ichone slees othere;
Maken dale aftir thi daye, for thou durste never.
Mawngery ne myndale ne never myrthe lovediste.
A dale aftir thi daye dose the no mare
Than a lighte lanterne late appone nyghte
When it es borne at thi bakke, beryn, be my trouthe.
Now wolde God that it were als I wisse couthe,
That thou, Wynnere, thou wriche, and Wanhope thi brothir,
And eke ymbryne dayes, and evenes of sayntes,
The Frydaye and his fere one the ferrere syde,
Were drownede in the depe see there never droghte come,
And dedly synn for thayre dede were endityde with twelve,
And thies beryns one the bynches with howes one lofte,
That bene knowen and kydde for clerkes of the beste,
Als gude als Arestotle or Austyn the wyse,
That alle schent were those schalkes and Scharshull itwiste,
That saide I prikkede with powere his pese to distourbe!
Forthi, comely kynge, that oure case heris,
Late us swythe with oure swerdes swyngen togedirs;
For nowe I se it es full sothe that sayde es full yore-
The richere of ranke wele, the rathere will drede:
The more havende that he hathe, the more of hert feble.”
Bot than this wrechede Wynnere full wrothely he lukes,
Sayse, “this es spedles speche to speken thies wordes.
Loo! this wrechide Wastoure, that wydewhare es knawenn,
Ne es nothir kaysser, ne kynge, ne knyghte that the folowes,
Barone, ne bachelere, ne beryn that thou loveste,
Bot foure felawes or fyve, that the fayth owthe;
And he schall dighte thaym to dyne with dayntethes so many
That iche a wy in this werlde may wepyn for sorowe.
The bores-hede schall be broghte with plontes appon lofte,
Buk-tayles full brode in brothes there besyde,
Venyson with the frumentee, and fesanttes full riche,
Baken mete therby one the burde sett,
Chewettes of choppede flesche, charbiande fewlis,
And iche a segge that I see has sexe mens doke.
If this were nedles note, anothir comes aftir,
Roste with the riche sewes and the ryalle spyces,
Kiddes cloven by the rigge, quarterd swannes,
Tartes of ten ynche, that tenys myn hert
To see the borde overbrade with blasande disches,
Als it were a rayled rode with rynges and stones.
The thirde mese to me were mervelle to rekken-
For alle es Martynmesse mete that I with most dele,
Noghte bot worttes with the flesche, withowt wilde fowle
Save ane hene to hym that the howse owethe-
And he will hafe birdes bownn one a broche riche,
Barnakes and buturs and many billed snyppes,
Larkes and lyngwhittes lapped in sogoure,
Wodcokkes and wodwales full wellande hote,
Teeles and titmoyses to take what him lykes;
[Caudel]s of conynges and custadis swete,
[Dario]ls and dische-metis that ful dere coste,
[Maw]mene that men stepen your mawes to fill,
[Ich]e a mese at a merke bytwen twa men,
[That s]othe bot brynneth for bale your bowells within.
[Me t]enyth at your trompers, thay tounen so heghe
[That ic]he a gome in the gate goullyng may here:
Then wil thay say to thamselfe, as thay samen ryden,
Ye hafe no myster of the helpe of the heven kyng.
Thus are ye scorned by skyll, and schathed theraftir,
That rechen for a repaste a rawnsom of silver.
Bot ones I herd in a haule of a herdmans tong:
“Better were meles many than a mery nyghte.“
And he that wilnes of this werke for to wete forthe,
Full freschely and faste, for here a fit endes.
[Fitt III]
“Yee, Wynnere,“ quod Wastour,” I wote well myselven
What sall lympe of the, lede, within fewe yeris.
Thurgh the poure plenté of corne that the peple sowes,
That God will graunte of his grace to growe on the erthe,
Ay to appaire the pris, and it passe nott to hye,
Schal make the to waxe wod for wanhope in erthe,
To hope aftir an harde yere to honge thiselven.
Woldeste thou hafe lordis to lyfe as laddes on fote?
Prelates als prestes that the parischen yemes?
Prowde marchandes of pris as pedders in towne?
Late lordes lyfe als tham liste, laddes as tham falles;
Thay the bacon and beefe, thay botours and swannes,
Thay the roughe of the rye, thay the rede whete,
Thay the grewell gray, and thay the gude sewes;
And then may the peple hafe parte in povert that standes,
Sum gud morsell of mete to mend with thair chere.
If fewlis flye schold forthe and fongen be never,
And wild bestis in the wodde wone al thaire lyve,
And fisches flete in the flode, and ichone ete other,
Ane henne at ane halpeny by halfe yeris ende,
Schold not a ladde be in londe a lorde for to serve.
This wate thou full wele witterly thiselven,
Whoso wele schal wyn, a wastour moste he fynde,
For if it greves one gome, it gladdes another.”
“Now,” quod Wynner to Wastour, “me wondirs in hert
Of thies poure penyles men that peloure will by,
Sadills of sendale, with sercles full riche.
Lesse and ye wrethe your wifes, thaire willes to folowe,
Ye sellyn wodd aftir wodde in a wale tyme,
Bothe the oke and the assche and all that ther growes;
The spyres and the yonge sprynge ye spare to your children,
And sayne God wil graunt it his grace to grow at the last,
For to save to your sones: bot the schame es your ownn.
Nedeles save ye the soyle, for sell it ye thynken.
Your forfadirs were fayne, when any frende come,
For to schake to the schawe and schewe hym the estres,
In iche holt that thay had ane hare for to fynde,
Bryng to the brod lande bukkes ynewe
To lache and to late goo, to lightten thaire hertis.
Now es it sett and solde, my sorowe es the more,
Wastes alle wilfully, your wyfes to paye.
That are had lordes in londe and ladyes riche,
Now are thay nysottes of the new gett, so nysely attyred,
With side slabbande sleves, sleght to the grounde,
Ourlede all umbtourne with ermyn aboute,
That es as harde, as I hope, to handil in the derne,
Als a cely symple wenche that never silke wroghte.
Bot whoso lukes on hir lyre, oure Lady of Heven,
How scho fled for ferd ferre out of hir kythe,
Appon ane amblande asse, withowtten more pride,
Safe a barne in hir barme, and a broken heltre
That Joseph held in hys hande, that hend for to yeme,
Allthofe scho walt al this werlde, hir wedes wer pore
For to gyf ensample of siche, for to schewe other
For to leve pompe and pride, that poverté ofte schewes.”
Than the Wastour wrothly castes up his eghne,
And said, “Thou Wynnere, thou wriche, me wondirs in hert
What hafe oure clothes coste the, caytef, to by,
That thou schal birdes upbrayd of thair bright wedis,
Sythen that we vouchesafe that the silver payen.
It lyes wele for a lede his leman to fynde,
Aftir hir faire chere to forthir hir herte.
Then will scho love hym lelely as hir lyfe one,
Make hym bolde and bown with brandes to smytte,
To schonn schenchipe and schame ther schalkes ere gadird;
And if my peple ben prode, me payes alle the better
To see tham faire and free tofore with myn eghne.
And ye negardes appon nyghte ye nappen so harde,
Routten at your raxillyng, raysen your hurdes;
Ye beden wayte one the wedir, then wery ye the while
That ye nade hightilde up your houses and your hyne raysed.
Forthi, Wynnere, with wronge thou wastes thi tyme;
For gode day ne glade getys thou never.
The devyll at thi dede-day schal delyn thi gudis;
Tho thou woldest that it were, wyn thay it never;
Thi skathill sectours schal sever tham aboute,
And thou hafe helle full hotte for that thou here saved.
Thou tast tent one a tale that tolde was full yore:
I hold hym madde that mournes his make for to wyn
Hent hir that hir haf schal, and hold hir his while,
Take the coppe as it comes, the case as it falles,
For whoso lyfe may lengeste lympes to feche
Woodd that he waste schall to warmen his helys,
Ferrere than his fadir dide by fyvetene myle.
Now kan I carpe no more; bot, Sir Kyng, by thi trouthe,
Deme us where we duell schall: me thynke the day hyes.
Yit harde sore es myn hert and harmes me more
Ever to see in my syghte that I in soule hate.”
The kynge lovely lokes on the ledis twayne,
Says, “Blynnes, beryns, of youre brethe and of youre brode worde,
And I schal deme yow this day where ye duelle schall,
Aythere lede in a lond ther he es loved moste.
Wende, Wynnere, thi waye over the wale stremys,
Passe forthe by Paris to the Pope of Rome;
The cardynalls ken the wele, will kepe the ful faire,
And make thi sydes in silken schetys to lygge,
And fede the and foster the and forthir thyn hert,
As leefe to worthen wode as the to wrethe ones.
Bot loke, lede, be thi lyfe, when I lettres sende,
That thou hy the to me home on horse or one fote;
And when I knowe thou will co[me], he schall cayre uttire,
And lenge with another lede, til thou thi lefe [take];
For thofe thou bide in this burgh to thi be[ryinge-daye],
With hym happyns the never a fote for [to holde].
And thou, Wastoure, I will that thou wonn[e scholde]
Ther moste waste es of wele, and wyng [ther until].
Chese the forthe into the Chepe, a chambre thou rere,
Loke thi wyndowe be wyde, and wayte the aboute,
Where any potet beryn thurgh the burgh passe;
Teche hym to the taverne till he tayte worthe;
Doo hym drynk al nyghte that he dry be at morow,
Sythen ken hym to the crete to comforth his vaynes,
Brynge hym to Bred Strete, bikken thi fynger,
Schew hym of fatt chepe scholdirs ynewe,
“Hotte for the hungry,” a hen other twayne,
Sett hym softe one a sege, and sythen send after,
Bryng out of the burgh the best thou may fynde,
And luke thi knave hafe a knoke bot he the clothe sprede.
Bot late hym paye or he passe, and pik hym so clene
That fynd a peny in his purse and put owte his eghe.
When that es dronken and don, duell ther no lenger,
Bot teche hym owt of the townn to trotte aftir more.
Then passe to the Pultrie, the peple the knowes,
And ken wele thi katour to knawen thi fode,
The herons, the hasteletez, the henne wele serve,
The pertrikes, the plovers, the other pulled byrddes,
The albus, this other foules, the egretes dere;
The more thou wastis thi wele, the better the Wynner lykes.
And wayte to me, thou Wynnere, if thou wilt wele chefe,
When I wende appon werre my wyes to lede;
For at the proude pales of Parys the riche
I thynk to do it in ded, and dub the to knyghte,
And giff giftes full grete of golde and of silver,
To ledis of my legyance that lufen me in hert.
And sythen kayre as I come, with knyghtes that me foloen,
To the kirk of Colayne ther the kynges ligges. . . .
Notes:
Original text dates c. 1350, by an unknown medieval author. Source language text is public domain.
“Wynnere and Wastoure.” from Wynnere and Wastoure and the Parlement of the Thre Ages, edited by Warren Ginsberg. Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, 1992.