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My mother's
maids, when they did sew and spin,
They sang sometime
a song of the field mouse,
That, for because her
livelood was but thin,
Would needs go seek her
townish sister's house.
She thought herself endurèd
too much pain;
The stormy blasts her cave so sore did
souse
That when the furrows swimmèd with the
rain,
She must lie cold and wet in sorry plight;
And worse than that, bare meat there did remain
To comfort her when she her house had dight;
Sometime
a barley corn; sometime a bean;
For which she
laboured hard both day and night
In harvest time
whilst she might go and glean;
And where store was
stroyèd with the flood,
Then well away! for she
undone was clean.
Then was she fain to take
instead of food
Sleep, if she might, her hunger to
beguile.
"My sister," quod she, "hath a living good,
And hence from me she dwelleth not a mile.
In
cold and storm she lieth warm and dry
In bed of down;
the dirt doth not defile
Her tender foot, she
laboureth not as I.
Richly she feedeth and at the
richman's cost,
And for her meat she needs not crave
nor cry.
By sea, by land, of the delicates, the
most
Her cater seeks, and spareth for no peril.
She feedeth on boiled bacon meet and roast,
And
hath thereof neither charge nor travail;
And when she
list, the liquor of the grape
Doth glad her heart
till that her belly swell."
And at this journey
she maketh but a jape;
So forth she goeth, trusting
of all this wealth
With her sister her part so for to
shape,
That if she might keep herself in health,
To live a lady while her life doth last.
And to the
door now is she come by stealth,
And with her
foot anon she scrapeth full fast.
Th' other for fear
durst not well scarce appear,
Of every noise so was
the wretch aghast.
At last she askèd softly who
was there.
And in her language, as well as she could,
"Peep!" quod the other. "Sister, I am here."
"Peace," quod the towny mouse, "why speakest thou so
loud?"
And by the hand she took her fair and well.
"Welcome," quod she, "my sister, by the Rood!"
She feasted her, that joy it was to tell
The fare
they had; they drank the wine so clear,
And as to
purpose now and then it fell,
She cheerèd her
with "How, sister, what cheer!"
Amids this joy befell
a sorry chance,
That, well away! the stranger bought
full dear
The fare she had, for, as she look
askance,
Under a stool she spied two steaming eyes
In a round head with sharp ears. In France
Was
never mouse so fear'd, for the unwise
Had not i-seen
such a beast before,
Yet had nature taught her after
her guise
To know her foe and dread him evermore.
The towny mouse fled, she know whither to go;
Th'
other had no shift, but wonders sore
Feard of her
life. At home she wished her tho,
And to the door,
alas! as she did skip,
The Heaven it would, lo! and
eke her chance was so,
At the threshold her silly
foot did trip;
And ere she might recover it again,
The traitor cat had caught her by the hip,
And
made her there against her will remain,
That had
forgotten her poor surety and rest
For seeming wealth
wherein she thought to reign.
Alas, my Poynz, how
men do seek the best
And find the worst, by error as
they stray!
And no marvail; when sight is so opprest.
And blind the guide; anon out of the way
Goeth
guide and all in seeking quiet life.
O wretched
minds, there is no gold that may
Grant that ye
seek; no war, no peace, no strife.
No, no, although
thy head were hooped with gold,
Sergeant with mace,
hawbert, sword, nor knife,
Cannot repulse the
care that follow should.
Each kind of life hath with
him his disease.
Live in delight even as thy lust
would,
And thou shalt find, when lust doth most
thee please,
It irketh straight and by itself doth
fade.
A small thing it is that may thy mind appease.
None of ye all there is that is so mad
To seek
grapes upon brambles or breres;
Nor none, I trow,
that hath his wit so bad
To set his hay for
conies over rivers,
Ne ye set not a drag-net for an
hare;
And yet the thing that most is your desire
Ye do mis-seek with more travail and care.
Make
plain thine heart, that it be not knotted
With hope
or dread, and see thy will be bare
From all
affects, whom vice hath ever spotted.
Thyself content
with that is thee assigned,
And use it well that is
to thee allotted.
Then seek no more out of
thyself to find
The thing that thou hast sought so
long before,
For thou shalt feel it sitting in thy
mind.
Mad, if ye list to continue your sore,
Let present pass and gape on time to come,
And deep
yourself in travail more and more.
Henceforth, my
Poynz, this shall be all and some,
These wretched
fools shall have nought else of me;
But to the great
God and to his high doom,
None other pain pray I
for them to be,
But when the rage doth lead them from
the right,
That, looking backward, Virtue they may
see,
Even as she is, so goodly fair and bright;
And whilst they clasp their lusts in arms across,
Grant them, good Lord, as Thou mayst of Thy might
To
fret inward for losing such a loss.
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