‘Leve Liberum Arbitrium ,’ quod I, ‘I leve, as I hope,
Thow couthest telle and teche me to Charite, as I leve?’
 Thenne louh Liberum Arbitrium and ladde me forth with tales
Til we cam into a contre, Cor-hominis hit heihte,
Erber of alle pryvatees and of holynesse.
Evene in the myddes an ympe, as hit were,
That hihte Ymago-dei , graciousliche hit growede.
 Thenne gan I aske what hit hihte, and he me sone tolde:
‘The tree hatte Trewe-love,’ quod he, ‘the trinite hit sette;
Thorw lovely lokynges hit lyveth and launseth up blosmes,
The whiche blosmes burnes Benigne-speche hit calleth.
And ther-of cometh a gode fruyt, the whiche men calleth Werkes-
Of-holynesse, of hendenesse, of helpe-hym-that-nedeth,
The whiche is Caritas ykald, Cristes oune fode,
And solaceth alle soules sorwful in purgatory.’
 ‘Now, certes,’ I sayde, and sighte for joye,
‘I thonke yow a thousend sethe that ye me hider kende,
And sethen that ye vouchen-saf to sey me as hit hoteth.’
And he thonkede me tho. Bote thenne toke I hede,
Hit hadde schoriares to shuyven hit up, thre shides of o lenghe
And of o kyne colour and kynde, as me thoghte,
Alle thre yliche long and yliche large.
Moche merveyled me on what more thei growede,
And askede eft of hym of what wode they were?
 ‘Thise thre shorriares,’ quod he, ‘that bereth up this plonte,
Bytokeneth trewly the Trinite of hevene,
Thre persones indepartable, perpetuel were evere,
Of o will, of o wit; and here-with I kepe
The fruyt of this faire tre fro thre wikkede wyndes,
And fro falling the stok, hit faile not of his myght.
The World is a wikkede wynd to hem that wolde treuthe;
Covetyse cometh of that wynde, and Caritas hit abiteth
And for-fret that fruyt thorw many fayre sihtes;
And with the furste planke I palle hym down, Potencia-dei-patris .
Thenne is the Flesch a fel wynde, and in flouryng-tyme;
Thorw lecherie and lustes so loude he gynneth blowe
That hit norischeth nice sihtes and som tyme wordes
And many wikkede werkes, wormes of synne,
And al for-bit Caritas rihte to the bare stalke;
Thenne sette I the seconde planke, Sapiencia-dei-patris ,
The which is the passioun and the penaunce and the parfitnesse of Jesus,
And ther-with I warde hit other-while til hit waxe rype.
And thenne fondeth the Fende my fruyte to destruye,
And leyth a laddere ther-to, of lesynges ben the ronges,
And with alle the wyles that he can, waggeth the rote
Thorw bak-bitares and brauleres and thorw bolde chidares,
And shaketh hit; ne were hit under-shored, hit sholde nat stande.
So this lordeynes lithereth ther-to, that alle the leves falleth,
And feccheth away the fruyt som tyme byfore bothe myn yes.
And thenne palle I adoune the pouke with the thridde shoriere,
The whiche is Spiritus-sanctus and soth-faste bileve,
And that is grace of the Holy Gost; and thus gete I the maystrye.’
 I toted upon that tree tho, and thenne toke I hede
Where the fruyt were fayre or foul for to loke on.
And the fruyt was fayre, non fayrere be myhte;
Ac in thre degrees hit grewe, grete ferly me thouhte,
And askede efte tho, where hit were all o kynde?
 ‘Ye, certes,’ he sayde, ‘and sothliche leve hit.
Hit is al of o kynde, and that shal I preven,
Ac somme ar swettere then somme and sonnere wollen rotye.
Men may se on an appul-tre, mony tyme and ofte,
Of o kynde apples aren nat iliche grete,
Ne suynge smale, ne of o swettenesse swete.
Tho that sitten in the sonne-syde sonnere aren rype,
Swettere and saveriere and also more grettere
Then tho that selde han the sonne and sitten in the north halfe;
And so hit fareth sothly, sone, by oure kynde.
Adam was as tre, and we aren as his apples,
Somme of us soothfaste and some variable,
Summe litel, some large, ylike apples of kynde.
As weddede men and wedewes and riht worthy maydenes,
The whiche the Seynt Spirit seweth, the sonne of al hevene,
And conforteth hem in here continence that lyven in contemplacion,
As monkes and monyals, men of holy-churche;
These han the hete of the Holi Gost as hath the crop of tre sonne.
Wedewes and wedewares, that here ownere wil forsaken
And chaste leden here lyf, is lyf of contemplacioun,
And more lykynde to oure lorde then lyve as kynde asketh
And folewe that the flesche wole and fruyt forth brynge,
That Activa lyf lettred men in here langage hit calleth.’
 ‘Ye, sire,’ I sayde, ‘and sethen ther aren but tweyne lyves
That oure lorde alloweth, as lered men us techeth,
Activa Vita and Contemplativa Vita ,
Why growth this fruyt in thre degres?’ ‘A gode skil,’ he saide;
‘Here beneth I may nyme, yf I nede hadde,
Matrimonye, a moist fruyt, that multiplieth the peple.
And thenne above is bettere fruyt (ac bothe two ben gode),
Wydewhode, more worthiere then wedlok, as in hevene.
Thenne is Virginite, more vertuous, and fayrest, as in hevene,
For that is evene with the angelis, and angeles pere.
Hit was the furste fruyte that the fader of hevene blessed,
And bad hit be, of a bat of erthe, a man and a maide,
In menynge that the fayrest thyng the furste thyng shold honour,
And the clennest creature furste creatour knowe.
In kynges court and in knyhtes, the clenneste men and fayreste
Shollen serve for the lord sulve, and so fareth god almyhty.
Maydenes and martres ministrede hym here on erthe
And in hey hevene is priveeste and next hym by resoun,
And for the fayrest fruyte byfore hym, as of erthe,
And swete withoute swellynge, sour worth hit nevere.’
 ‘This is a propre plonte,’ quod I, ‘and priveliche hit bloweth,
And bryngeth forth fruyt, folke of alle nacion,
Bothe parfit and inparfit; puyr fayn I wolde
Assay what savour hit hadde,’ and saide that tyme,
‘Leve Liberum Arbitrium , lat some lyf hit shake.’
 And anoon he hihte Elde an hy for to clymbe,
And shaken hit sharpeliche, the rype sholden falle.
And Elde clemb to the crop-ward, thenne comsed hit to crye:
He waggede Wedewhed, and hit wepte after;
He meved Matrimonye, hit made a foule noyse;
For evere as Elde hadde eny down, the devel was redy,
And gadered hem alle togyderes, bothe grete and smale,
Adam and Abraham and Ysaye the prophete,
Sampson and Samuel and seynt John the Baptiste,
And bar hem forth baldly, nobody hym lette,
And made of holy men his hord in limbo inferni ,
There is derkenesse and drede, and the devel maister.
 Thenne moved hym mod in majestate dei ,
That Libera-Voluntas-Dei lauhte the myddel shoriar
And hit aftur the fende, happe how hit myhte.
Filius , by the fadres wille, fley with Spiritus Sanctus
To go ransake that ragman and reve hym of his apples,
That thorw fals biheste and fruyt furste man disseyved.
 And thenne spak Spiritus Sanctus in Gabrieles mouthe
To a mayde that hihte Marie, a meke thyng with-alle,
That one Jesus, a Justices sone, moste jouken in here chaumbre,
Til plenitudo temporis , tyme ycome were,
That Elde felde efte the fruyt, or full to be rype,
That Jesus sholde jouste ther-fore, and by jugement of armes,
Who sholde fecche this fruyt, the fende or Jesus sulven.
The mayde myldeliche the messager she grauntede
And saide hendely to hym, ‘Lo, me, his hondmayden,
For to worchen his wille withouten eny synne.
  Ecce ancilla domini, fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum.’
And in the wombe of that wenche was he fourty wokes,
And bycam man of that maide, mankynde to save,
Byg and abydyng, and bold in his barn-hod
To have yfouhte with the fende ar ful tyme come.