Thenne awakede Wrathe, with two whyte eyes
And with a nivilynge nose, nippynge his lippes.
 ‘I am Wroth,’ quod that weye, ‘wol gladliche smyte
Bothe with stoon and with staf, and stele uppon myn enemye;
To sle hym sleyliche sleythes ich bythenke.
Thogh I sitte this sevene yer I sholde nat wel telle
The harm that I have do with hand and with tonge;
Inpacient in alle penaunces, and pleyned, as hit were,
On god, when me greved auht, and groched of his sonde,
As som tyme in somer and also in hervest,
But I hadde weder at my wille, I witte god the cause
In alle manere angres that I hadde or felede.
 Amonges alle manere men my dwellyng is som tyme,
With lewed and lered that leef ben to here
Harm of eny man, byhynde or bifore.
Freres folewen my lore fele tyme and ofte
And proven unparfit prelates of holy churche;
And prelates pleyneth on hem for they here parschiens shryven
Withoute licence and leve, and herby lyveth wrathe.
Thus thei speke and dispute that uchon dispiseth other.
Thus beggares and barones at debat aren ofte
Til I, Wrathe, wexe an hey and walke with hem bothe.
Other til they bothe be beggares and by spiritualte libbe
Or alle riche and ryde, reste shal I nat, Wrathe,
That I ne mot folowe this folk—my fortune is non other.
 I have an aunte to nonne and to an abbesse;
Here were lever swowe or swelte then soffre eny payne.
I have be cok in here kychene and the covent served,
Mony monthes with hem and with monkes bothe.
I was the prioresse potager and other pore ladies,
And made hem joutes of jangelynge: “Dame Jone was a bastard,
And dame Clarice a knyhtes douhter, a cokewolde was here syre,
And dame Purnele a prestis fyle—prioresse worth she nevere;
For she hadde a childe in the chapun-cote she worth chalenged at the eleccion.”
Thus sytte they, sustres, sum tyme, and disputen
Til “thow lixt” and “thow lixt” be lady over hem alle;
And thenne awake I, Wrathe, and wolde be avenged.
And thenne I crye and crache with my kene nayles,
Byte and bete and brynge forth suche thewes
That alle ladyes me lotheth that lovyeth eny worschipe.
 Amonges wyves and wydewes than woned I to sitte
Yparroked in pues; the persone hit knoweth
How lytel I lovye Letyse at the style—
For she had haly-bred ar I, my herte gan change.
Aftur mete aftirward she and she chydde
And I, Wrath, was war, and wrathe on hem bothe,
Tyl ayther clepede other “hore” and of with the clothes
Til bothe here hedes were bar and blody here chekes.
 Amonges monkes I myhte be, ac mony tyme I spare,
For there aren many felle frekes myne aferes to aspye,
That ys, priour and suppriour and oure pater abbas .
And yf I telle eny tales they taken hem togyderes
And don me faste Fridayes to bred and to water.
Yut am I chalenged in oure chapitre-hous as I a childe were
And balayshed on the bare ers and no brech bytwene.
I have no luste, lef me, to longe amonges monkes,
For I ete more fysch then flesshe there, and feble ale drynke.
Ac other-while when wyn cometh and when I drynke late at even
I have a flux of a foul mouth wel fyve daies after,
And al that I wiste wykked by eny of oure covent
I coughte hit up in oure cloystre, that al the covent wot hit.’
 ‘Now repente,’ quod Repentaunce, ‘and reherce nevere
Consayl that thow knowest, by continaunce ne by speche.
And drynke nat over-delycatly no to depe neyther,
That thy wil ne thy wit to wrethe myhte turne.
Esto sobrius ,’ he saide, and assoiled hym aftur,
And bad hym bid to god, be his help to amende.

 Thenne seyde Lecherye ‘Alas!’ and to oure lady cryede,
‘Lady, to thy leve sone loute for me nouthe,
That he have pite on me, putour, of his puyr mercy,
With that I shal,’ quod that shrewe, ‘Saterdayes, for thy moder love,
Drynke but with the doke and dyne but ones.
 I, gulty in gost, to god I me shryve
As in likynge of lecherye my lycames gultes,
In word and in wedes, in waytynge of eyes.
For eche mayde that I mette I made here a signe
Semyng to synne-ward, and summe I gan taste
Aboute the mouthe, and bynethe bygan I to grope,
Til bothe oure wil was on and to the werk we yeden,
As wel fastyng-dayes and Frydaies and heye-festes evenes,
As leef in lente as out of lente, alle tymes ylyche—
Such werkes with us were nevere out of sesoun—
Til we myhte no more; thenne hadde we mery tales
Of putrie and of paramours, and proveden thorw speche
And handlyng and halsyng and also thorw kyssyng,
Exited either other til oure olde synne;
Sotiled songes and sende out olde baudes
To wynne to my wille wymmen with gyle,
By sorserie sum tyme and sum tyme by maistrie.
I lay by the lovelokest and lovede here nevere aftur.
When I was olde and hoor and hadde ylore that kynde,
I had likyng to lythe of lecherye tales.
Now lord, for thy lewete, on lechours have mercy!’

 Thenne cam Covetyse—I can hym nat descreve,
So hungrily and holow, sire Hervy hym lokede.
He was bitelbrowed and baburlippid, with two blered eyes,
And as a letherne pors lollede his chekes
Wel syddere then his chyn, ycheveled for elde;
And as a bondemannes bacon his berd was yshave,
With his hood on his heved and his hat bothe,
In a tore tabard of twelve wynter age—
But yf a lous couthe lepe, I leve and I trowe,
He ne sholde wandre uppon that walch, so was hit thredbare.
 ‘I have be covetous,’ quod this kaytif, ‘I biknowe hit here,
For som tyme I served Symme at the style
And was his prentis yplyht, his profit to wayte.
Furste I lerned to lye a lesyng other tweye;
Wykkedliche to waye was my furste lessoun.
To Wy and to Wynchestre I wente to the fayre
With many manere marchandise, as my maister hyhte;
Ne hadde the grace of gyle go among my ware,
Hit hadde be unsold this sevene yer, so me god helpe!
 Thenne drow I me amonge drapers, my donet to lere,
To drawe the lyst along, the lenger hit semede.
Amonges the ryche rayes I rendrede a lessoun,
To brochen hem with a bat-nelde and bande hem togyderes,
Putte hem in pressoures and pynne hem ther-ynne,
Til ten yerde other twelve tolde out threttene.
 My wyf was a webbe and wollene cloth made;
She spak to the spynnesteres to spynnen oute.
The pound that she payede hem by peysed a quarter
More then myn auncel, when I wayed treuthe.
 I bouhte here barly and brew hit to sulle;
Peny-ale and poddyng-ale she poured togederes
For laboreres and for louh folke that lay by hemsulve.
Ac the beste ale lay in my bour and in my bed-chaumbre
And who-so bommede ther-of he bouhte hit ther-after
A galon for a grote—and yut no grayth mesure
Whanne it cam in coppe-mele; this crafte my wyf usede.
Rose the regrater was here ryhte name;
She hadde holde hokkerye this elevene wynter.’
 ‘Repentedest nevere?’ quod Repentaunce, ‘ne restitucioun madest?’
 ‘Yus, ones I was herberwed,’ quod he, ‘with an heep of chapmen;
I ros and ryflede here males when they a reste were.’
 ‘That was a ruful restitucioun,’ quod Repentaunce, ‘for sothe;
Thow wolt be hanged heye ther-fore, here other in helle!’

 Now bygynneth Glotoun for to go to shryfte
And kayres hym to-kyrke-ward, his coupe to shewe.
Fastyng on a Friday forth gan he wende
By Betene hous the brewestere, that bad hym good morwen,
And whedeward he wolde the breuh-wyf hym askede.
 ‘To holy churche,’ quod he, ‘for to here masse,
And sennes sitte and be shryve and synege no more.’
 ‘I have good ale, gossip Glotoun, woltow assaye?’
 ‘Hastow,’ quod he, ‘eny hote spyces?’
 ‘I have peper and pyonie and a pound of garlek,
A ferthyng-worth of fenkelsedes, for fastyng-dayes I bouhte hit.’
 Thenne goth Glotoun in and grete othes aftur.
Sesse the souhteres sat on the benche,
Watte the wernare and his wyf dronke,
Tymme the tynekare and tweyne of his knaves,
Hicke the hackenayman and Hewe the nedlare,
Claryce of Cockes-lane, the clerc of the churche,
Syre Peres of Prydie and Purnele of Flaundres,
An hayward, an heremyte, the hangeman of Tyborne,
Dawe the dikere, with a doseyne harlotes
Of portours and of pikeporses and pilede toth-draweres,
A rybibour and a ratoner, a rakere and his knave,
A ropere and a redyngkynge and Rose the disshere,
Godefray the garlek-monger and Gryffyth the Walshe,
And of uphalderes an heep, erly by the morwe
Geven Glotoun with glad chere good ale to hansull.
 Clement the coblere cast of his cloke
And to the newe fayre nempnede forth to sull.
Hicke the hackenayman hit his hod aftur
And bade Bitte the bochere ben on his syde.
There were chapmen ychose this chaffare to preyse,
That who-so hadde the hood sholde nat have the cloke,
And that the bettre thyng, be arbitreres, bote sholde the worse.
Tho rysen up rape and rounned togyderes
And preisede this peniworths apart by hemsulve,
And there were othes an heep, for on sholde have the worse.
Thei couthe nat be here consience accorde for treuthe
Tyl Robyn the ropere aryse they bisouhte
And nempned hym for a noumper, that no debat were.
 Hicke the hostiler hadde the cloke,
In covenaunt that Clement sholde the coppe fulle,
And have Hickes hood the hostiler and holde hym yserved;
And who-so repentede hym rathest shold aryse after
And grete syre Glotoun with a galon of ale.
 There was leyhing and louryng and ‘lat go the coppe!’
Bargaynes and bevereges bygan tho to awake,
And seten so til evensong, and songen umbywhile,
Til Glotoun hade yglobbed a galoun and a gylle.
His guttes gan to gothly as two grydy sowes;
He pissede a potel in a pater-noster -whyle,
He blew his rownd ruet at his rygebones ende,
That alle that herde the horne helde here nose after
And wesched hit hadde be wasche with a weps of breres.
He myhte nother steppe ne stande til he a staf hadde,
And thenne gan he go lyke a glemans byche,
Sum tyme asyde and sum tyme a-rere,
As who-so layth lynes for to lacche foules.
 And when he drow to the dore, thenne dymmede his yes,
And thromblede at the thresfold and threw to the erthe,
And Clement the coblere cauhte hym by the myddel
And for to lyfte hym aloft leyde hym on his knees;
Ac Gloton was a greet cherl and greved in the liftynge
And cowed up a caudel in Clementis lappe;
Ys none so hungry hound in Hertfordshyre
Durste lape of that levynge, so unlovely hit smauhte.
 With alle the wo of this worlde his wyf and his wenche
Beren hym to his bed and brouhten hym ther-ynne;
And aftur al this exces he hadde an accidie after,
He sleep Saturday and Sonenday til the sonne yede to reste.
Then gan he wake wel wanne and wolde have ydronke;
The furste word that he spak was ‘Who halt the bolle?’
His wif and his inwit edwitede hym of his synne;
Ywax ashamed that shrewe, and shrofe hym as swythe
To Repentaunce ryht thus: ‘Have reuthe on me,’ he saide,
Thow lord that aloft art and alle lyves shope!
 To the, god, I, Glotoun, gulty I me yelde
Of that I have trespased with tonge, I can nat telle how ofte,
Sworn “Godes soule and his sides!” and “So helpe me, god almyhty!”
There no nede ne was, many sythe falsly;
And over-sopped at my soper and som tyme at nones
More then my kynde myhte deffye,
And as an hound that eet gras, so gan I to brake,
And spilde that I aspele myhte—I kan nat speke for shame
The vilony of my foule mouthe and of my foule mawe—
And fastyng-dayes bifore none fedde me with ale
Out of resoun, among rybaudes, here rybaudrye to here.
 Her-of, gode god, graunte me foryevenesse
Of all my luyther lyf in al my lyf-tyme.
For I vowe to verray god, for eny hunger or thurste,
Shal nevere fysch in the Fryday defyen in my wombe
Til Abstinence myn aunte have yeve me leve—
And yut have I hated here al my lyf-tyme.’