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The apostel weping seith ful pitously, ‘Ther walken many of whiche yow told have I, I seye it now weping with pitous voys, That they been enemys of Cristes croys, Of whiche the ende is deeth, wombe is her God.’ O wombe! O bely! O stinking cod, Fulfild of donge and of corrupcioun! At either ende of thee foul is the soun. How greet labour and cost is thee to finde! Thise cokes, how they stampe, and streyne, and grinde, And turnen substaunce in-to accident, To fulfille al thy likerous talent! Out of the harde bones knokke they The mary, for they caste noght a-wey That may go thurgh the golet softe and swote; Of spicerye, of leef, and bark, and rote Shal been his sauce y-maked by delyt, To make him yet a newer appetyt. But certes, he that haunteth swich delyces Is deed, whyl that he liveth in tho vyces. The apostel weping seith ful pitously, ‘Ther walken many of whiche yow told have I, I seye it now weping with pitous voys, That they been enemys of Cristes croys, Of whiche the ende is deeth, wombe is her God.’ O wombe! O bely! O stinking cod, Fulfild of donge and of corrupcioun! At either ende of thee foul is the soun. How greet labour and cost is thee to finde! Thise cokes, how they stampe, and streyne, and grinde, And turnen substaunce in-to accident, To fulfille al thy likerous talent! Out of the harde bones knokke they The mary, for they caste noght a-wey That may go thurgh the golet softe and swote; Of spicerye, of leef, and bark, and rote Shal been his sauce y-maked by delyt, To make him yet a newer appetyt. But certes, he that haunteth swich delyces Is deed, whyl that he liveth in tho vyces.
A lecherous thing is wyn, and dronkenesse Is ful of stryving and of wrecchednesse. O dronke man, disfigured is thy face, Sour is thy breeth, foul artow to embrace, And thurgh thy dronke nose semeth the soun As though thou seydest ay ‘Sampsoun, Sampsoun’; And yet, God wot, Sampsoun drank never no wyn. Thou fallest, as it were a stiked swyn; Thy tonge is lost, and al thyn honest cure; For dronkenesse is verray sepulture Of mannes wit and his discrecioun. In whom that drinke hath dominacioun, He can no conseil kepe, it is no drede. Now kepe yow fro the whyte and fro the rede, And namely fro the whyte wyn of Lepe, That is to selle in Fish-strete or in Chepe. This wyn of Spayne crepeth subtilly In othere wynes, growing faste by, Of which ther ryseth swich fumositee, That whan a man hath dronken draughtes three, And weneth that he be at hoom in Chepe, He is in Spayne, right at the toune of Lepe, Nat at the Rochel, ne at Burdeux toun; And thanne wol he seye, ‘Sampsoun, Sampsoun.’ A lecherous thing is wyn, and dronkenesse Is ful of stryving and of wrecchednesse. O dronke man, disfigured is thy face, Sour is thy breeth, foul artow to embrace, And thurgh thy dronke nose semeth the soun As though thou seydest ay ‘Sampsoun, Sampsoun’; And yet, God wot, Sampsoun drank never no wyn. Thou fallest, as it were a stiked swyn; Thy tonge is lost, and al thyn honest cure; For dronkenesse is verray sepulture Of mannes wit and his discrecioun. In whom that drinke hath dominacioun, He can no conseil kepe, it is no drede. Now kepe yow fro the whyte and fro the rede, And namely fro the whyte wyn of Lepe, That is to selle in Fish-strete or in Chepe. This wyn of Spayne crepeth subtilly In othere wynes, growing faste by, Of which ther ryseth swich fumositee, That whan a man hath dronken draughtes three, And weneth that he be at hoom in Chepe, He is in Spayne, right at the toune of Lepe, Nat at the Rochel, ne at Burdeux toun; And thanne wol he seye, ‘Sampsoun, Sampsoun.’

Original Text

Modern Text

The apostel weping seith ful pitously, ‘Ther walken many of whiche yow told have I, I seye it now weping with pitous voys, That they been enemys of Cristes croys, Of whiche the ende is deeth, wombe is her God.’ O wombe! O bely! O stinking cod, Fulfild of donge and of corrupcioun! At either ende of thee foul is the soun. How greet labour and cost is thee to finde! Thise cokes, how they stampe, and streyne, and grinde, And turnen substaunce in-to accident, To fulfille al thy likerous talent! Out of the harde bones knokke they The mary, for they caste noght a-wey That may go thurgh the golet softe and swote; Of spicerye, of leef, and bark, and rote Shal been his sauce y-maked by delyt, To make him yet a newer appetyt. But certes, he that haunteth swich delyces Is deed, whyl that he liveth in tho vyces. The apostel weping seith ful pitously, ‘Ther walken many of whiche yow told have I, I seye it now weping with pitous voys, That they been enemys of Cristes croys, Of whiche the ende is deeth, wombe is her God.’ O wombe! O bely! O stinking cod, Fulfild of donge and of corrupcioun! At either ende of thee foul is the soun. How greet labour and cost is thee to finde! Thise cokes, how they stampe, and streyne, and grinde, And turnen substaunce in-to accident, To fulfille al thy likerous talent! Out of the harde bones knokke they The mary, for they caste noght a-wey That may go thurgh the golet softe and swote; Of spicerye, of leef, and bark, and rote Shal been his sauce y-maked by delyt, To make him yet a newer appetyt. But certes, he that haunteth swich delyces Is deed, whyl that he liveth in tho vyces.
A lecherous thing is wyn, and dronkenesse Is ful of stryving and of wrecchednesse. O dronke man, disfigured is thy face, Sour is thy breeth, foul artow to embrace, And thurgh thy dronke nose semeth the soun As though thou seydest ay ‘Sampsoun, Sampsoun’; And yet, God wot, Sampsoun drank never no wyn. Thou fallest, as it were a stiked swyn; Thy tonge is lost, and al thyn honest cure; For dronkenesse is verray sepulture Of mannes wit and his discrecioun. In whom that drinke hath dominacioun, He can no conseil kepe, it is no drede. Now kepe yow fro the whyte and fro the rede, And namely fro the whyte wyn of Lepe, That is to selle in Fish-strete or in Chepe. This wyn of Spayne crepeth subtilly In othere wynes, growing faste by, Of which ther ryseth swich fumositee, That whan a man hath dronken draughtes three, And weneth that he be at hoom in Chepe, He is in Spayne, right at the toune of Lepe, Nat at the Rochel, ne at Burdeux toun; And thanne wol he seye, ‘Sampsoun, Sampsoun.’ A lecherous thing is wyn, and dronkenesse Is ful of stryving and of wrecchednesse. O dronke man, disfigured is thy face, Sour is thy breeth, foul artow to embrace, And thurgh thy dronke nose semeth the soun As though thou seydest ay ‘Sampsoun, Sampsoun’; And yet, God wot, Sampsoun drank never no wyn. Thou fallest, as it were a stiked swyn; Thy tonge is lost, and al thyn honest cure; For dronkenesse is verray sepulture Of mannes wit and his discrecioun. In whom that drinke hath dominacioun, He can no conseil kepe, it is no drede. Now kepe yow fro the whyte and fro the rede, And namely fro the whyte wyn of Lepe, That is to selle in Fish-strete or in Chepe. This wyn of Spayne crepeth subtilly In othere wynes, growing faste by, Of which ther ryseth swich fumositee, That whan a man hath dronken draughtes three, And weneth that he be at hoom in Chepe, He is in Spayne, right at the toune of Lepe, Nat at the Rochel, ne at Burdeux toun; And thanne wol he seye, ‘Sampsoun, Sampsoun.’