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A! Nay! Lat be; the philosophres stoon, |
| 310 | Elixer clept, we sechen faste echoon; |
| For hadde we hym, thanne were we siker ynow. |
| But unto God of hevene I make avow, |
| For al oure craft, whan we han al ydo, |
| And al oure sleighte, he wol nat come us to. |
| 315 | He hath ymaad us spenden muchel good, |
| For sorwe of which almoost we wexen wood, |
| But that good hope crepeth in oure herte, |
| Supposynge evere, though we sore smerte, |
| To be releeved by hym afterward. |
| 320 | Swich supposyng and hope is sharp and hard; |
| I warne yow wel, it is to seken evere. |
| That futur temps hath maad men to dissevere, |
| In trust therof, from al that evere they hadde. |
| Yet of that art they kan nat wexen sadde, |
| 325 | For unto hem it is a bitter sweete, - |
| So semeth it, - for nadde they but a sheete, |
| Which that they myghte wrappe hem inne a-nyght, |
| And a brat to walken inne by daylyght, |
| They wolde hem selle and spenden on this craft. |
| 330 | They kan nat stynte til no thyng be laft. |
| And everemoore, where that evere they goon |
| Men may hem knowe by smel of brymstoon. |
| For al the world they stynken as a goot; |
| Hir savour is so rammyssh and so hoot |
| 335 | That though a man from hem a mile be, |
| The savour wole infecte hym, trusteth me. |
| And thus by smel, and by threedbare array, |
| If that men liste, this folk they knowe may. |
| And if a man wole aske hem pryvely |
| 340 | Why they been clothed so unthriftily, |
| They right anon wol rownen is his ere, |
| And seyn that if that they espied were, |
| Men wolde hem slee by cause of hir science. |
| Lo, thus this folk bitrayen innocence! |
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Ah no! Let be; the old philosopher's stone |
| 310 | Is called elixir, which we seek, each one; |
| For had we that, then were we safe enow. |
| But unto God in Heaven do I vow, |
| For all our art, when we've done all things thus, |
| And all our tricks, it will not come to us. |
| 315 | The thing has caused us to spend all we had, |
| For grief of which almost we should go mad, |
| Save that good hope comes creeping in the heart, |
| Supposing ever, though we sorely smart, |
| The elixir will relieve us afterward; |
| 320 | The tension of such hope is sharp and hard; |
| I warn you well, it means go seeking ever; |
| That future time has made men to dissever, |
| Trusting that hope, from all that ever they had. |
| Yet of that art they cannot well grow sad, |
| 325 | For unto them it is a bitter-sweet; |
| So it appears; for had they but a sheet |
| With which to wrap themselves about by night, |
| And a coarse cloak to walk in by daylight, |
| They'd sell them both and spend it on this craft; |
| 330 | They can withhold naught till there's nothing left |
| And evermore, wherever they'll be gone, |
| Men know them by their smell of foul brimstone; |
| For all the world they stink as does a goat; |
| Their savour is so rammish and so hot |
| 335 | That, though a man a mile away may be, |
| The odour will infect him, trust to me! |
| Thus by their smell and their threadbare array, |
| If men but wish, these folk they'll know, I say. |
| And if a man but ask them privately |
| 340 | Why they do go clothed so unthriftily, |
| They right away will whisper in his ear |
| And say that if they should be noticed here, |
| Why, men would slay them, what of their science; |
| Lo, thus these folk impose on innocence! |
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