| 425 |
"Now, Thomas, leeve brother, lef thyn ire; |
| Thou shalt me fynde as just as is a squyre. |
| Hoold nat the develes knyf ay at thyn herte - |
| Thyn angre dooth thee al to soore smerte - |
| But shewe to me al thy confessioun." |
| 430 | "Nay," quod the sike man, "by Seint Symoun! |
| I have be shryven this day at my curat. |
| I have hym toold hoolly al myn estat; |
| Nedeth namoore to speken of it," seith he, |
| "But if me list, of myn humylitee." |
| 435 | "Yif me thanne of thy gold, to make oure cloystre," |
| Quod he, "for many a muscle and many an oystre, |
| Whan othere men han ben ful wel at eyse, |
| Hath been oure foode, our cloystre for to reyse. |
| And yet, God woot, unnethe the fundement |
| 440 | Parfourned is, ne of our pavement |
| Nys nat a tyle yet withinne oure wones. |
| By God! we owen fourty pound for stones. |
|
| 425 | "Now, Thomas, my dear brother, leave your ire; |
| You shall find me as just as is a squire. |
| Hold not the Devil's knife against your heart; |
| Your anger does too sorely burn and smart; |
| But show me all, now, in confession, son." |
| 430 | "Nay," said the sick man, "by Saint Simeon! |
| I have confessed today by my curate; |
| I have him told the whole truth of my state; |
| There's no more need to speak of it," said he, |
| "Save as I please, of my humility." |
| 435 | "Then give me of your gold to build our cloister," |
| Said he, "for many a mussel and an oyster, |
| When other men have been well at their ease, |
| Have been our food, that building should not cease, |
| And yet, God knows, is finished nothing more |
| 440 | Than the foundation, while of all the floor |
| There's not a tile yet laid to call our own; |
| By God, we owe full forty pounds for stone! |
|
