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But shortly myn entente I wol devyse; I preche of no-thing but for coveityse. Therfor my theme is yet, and ever was— Radix malorum est cupiditas. Thus can I preche agayn that same vyce Which that I use, and that is avaryce. But, though my-self be gilty in that sinne, Yet can I maken other folk to twinne From avaryce, and sore to repente. But that is nat my principal entente. I preche no-thing but for coveityse; Of this matere it oughte y-nogh suffyse. But shortly myn entente I wol devyse; I preche of no-thing but for coveityse. Therfor my theme is yet, and ever was— Radix malorum est cupiditas. Thus can I preche agayn that same vyce Which that I use, and that is avaryce. But, though my-self be gilty in that sinne, Yet can I maken other folk to twinne From avaryce, and sore to repente. But that is nat my principal entente. I preche no-thing but for coveityse; Of this matere it oughte y-nogh suffyse.
Than telle I hem ensamples many oon Of olde stories, longe tyme agoon: For lewed peple loven tales olde; Swich thinges can they wel reporte and holde. What? trowe ye, the whyles I may preche, And winne gold and silver for I teche, That I wol live in povert wilfully? Nay, nay, I thoghte it never trewely! For I wol preche and begge in sondry londes; I wol not do no labour with myn hondes, Ne make baskettes, and live therby, Because I wol nat beggen ydelly. I wol non of the apostles counterfete; I wol have money, wolle, chese, and whete, Al were it yeven of the povrest page, Or of the povrest widwe in a village, Al sholde hir children sterve for famyne. Nay! I wol drinke licour of the vyne, And have a Ioly wenche in every toun. But herkneth, lordings, in conclusioun; Your lyking is that I shal telle a tale. Now, have I dronke a draughte of corny ale, By God, I hope I shal yow telle a thing That shal, by resoun, been at your lyking. For, though myself be a ful vicious man, A moral tale yet I yow telle can, Which I am wont to preche, for to winne. Now holde your pees, my tale I wol beginne. Than telle I hem ensamples many oon Of olde stories, longe tyme agoon: For lewed peple loven tales olde; Swich thinges can they wel reporte and holde. What? trowe ye, the whyles I may preche, And winne gold and silver for I teche, That I wol live in povert wilfully? Nay, nay, I thoghte it never trewely! For I wol preche and begge in sondry londes; I wol not do no labour with myn hondes, Ne make baskettes, and live therby, Because I wol nat beggen ydelly. I wol non of the apostles counterfete; I wol have money, wolle, chese, and whete, Al were it yeven of the povrest page, Or of the povrest widwe in a village, Al sholde hir children sterve for famyne. Nay! I wol drinke licour of the vyne, And have a Ioly wenche in every toun. But herkneth, lordings, in conclusioun; Your lyking is that I shal telle a tale. Now, have I dronke a draughte of corny ale, By God, I hope I shal yow telle a thing That shal, by resoun, been at your lyking. For, though myself be a ful vicious man, A moral tale yet I yow telle can, Which I am wont to preche, for to winne. Now holde your pees, my tale I wol beginne.

Original Text

Modern Text

But shortly myn entente I wol devyse; I preche of no-thing but for coveityse. Therfor my theme is yet, and ever was— Radix malorum est cupiditas. Thus can I preche agayn that same vyce Which that I use, and that is avaryce. But, though my-self be gilty in that sinne, Yet can I maken other folk to twinne From avaryce, and sore to repente. But that is nat my principal entente. I preche no-thing but for coveityse; Of this matere it oughte y-nogh suffyse. But shortly myn entente I wol devyse; I preche of no-thing but for coveityse. Therfor my theme is yet, and ever was— Radix malorum est cupiditas. Thus can I preche agayn that same vyce Which that I use, and that is avaryce. But, though my-self be gilty in that sinne, Yet can I maken other folk to twinne From avaryce, and sore to repente. But that is nat my principal entente. I preche no-thing but for coveityse; Of this matere it oughte y-nogh suffyse.
Than telle I hem ensamples many oon Of olde stories, longe tyme agoon: For lewed peple loven tales olde; Swich thinges can they wel reporte and holde. What? trowe ye, the whyles I may preche, And winne gold and silver for I teche, That I wol live in povert wilfully? Nay, nay, I thoghte it never trewely! For I wol preche and begge in sondry londes; I wol not do no labour with myn hondes, Ne make baskettes, and live therby, Because I wol nat beggen ydelly. I wol non of the apostles counterfete; I wol have money, wolle, chese, and whete, Al were it yeven of the povrest page, Or of the povrest widwe in a village, Al sholde hir children sterve for famyne. Nay! I wol drinke licour of the vyne, And have a Ioly wenche in every toun. But herkneth, lordings, in conclusioun; Your lyking is that I shal telle a tale. Now, have I dronke a draughte of corny ale, By God, I hope I shal yow telle a thing That shal, by resoun, been at your lyking. For, though myself be a ful vicious man, A moral tale yet I yow telle can, Which I am wont to preche, for to winne. Now holde your pees, my tale I wol beginne. Than telle I hem ensamples many oon Of olde stories, longe tyme agoon: For lewed peple loven tales olde; Swich thinges can they wel reporte and holde. What? trowe ye, the whyles I may preche, And winne gold and silver for I teche, That I wol live in povert wilfully? Nay, nay, I thoghte it never trewely! For I wol preche and begge in sondry londes; I wol not do no labour with myn hondes, Ne make baskettes, and live therby, Because I wol nat beggen ydelly. I wol non of the apostles counterfete; I wol have money, wolle, chese, and whete, Al were it yeven of the povrest page, Or of the povrest widwe in a village, Al sholde hir children sterve for famyne. Nay! I wol drinke licour of the vyne, And have a Ioly wenche in every toun. But herkneth, lordings, in conclusioun; Your lyking is that I shal telle a tale. Now, have I dronke a draughte of corny ale, By God, I hope I shal yow telle a thing That shal, by resoun, been at your lyking. For, though myself be a ful vicious man, A moral tale yet I yow telle can, Which I am wont to preche, for to winne. Now holde your pees, my tale I wol beginne.