I kan noght parfitly my Paternoster as the preest it syngeth

Brewesters and baksters, bochiers and cokes – For thise are men on this molde that moost harm wercheth To the povere peple

For if hevene be on this erthe, and ese to any soule, It is in cloistre or in scole.

A fair feeld ful of folk fond I ther bitwene – Of alle manere of men, the meene and the riche, Werchynge and wandrynge as the world asketh.

In preieres and penaunce putten hem manye, Al for the love of Oure Lord lyveden ful streyte In hope to have heveneriche blisse

In a somer seson, whan softe was the sonne, I shoop me into shroudes as I a sheep were, In habite as an heremite unholy of werkes, Wente wide in this world wondres to here. Ac on a May morwenynge on Malverne hilles Me bifel a ferly, of …

Whan Costantyn of curteisie Holy Kirke dowed With londes and ledes, lordshipes and rentes, An aungel men herden an heigh at Rome crye, "Dos ecclesie this day hath ydronke venym, And tho that han Petres power arn apoisoned alle!"