Keep thy tunge, thy tunge, thy tunge;
Thy wiked tunge werketh me wo.

Ther is none gres that groweth on ground,
Satenas ne peny-round,
Werse than is a wikked tunge
That speketh bothe evil of frend and fo.

Wikked tunge maketh ofte strif
Betwix a good-man and his wif;
When he shulde lede a merye lif
Her white sides waxen ful blo.

Wikked tunge maketh ofte staunce,
Bothe in Engelond and in Fraunce;
Many a man with spere and launce
Through wikked tunge to ded is do.

Wikked tunge breketh bone,
Though the self have none;
Of his frend he maketh his fone
In every place wher that he go.

Good men that sitten in this halle,
I pray you, bothe one and alle,
That wikked tunges fro you falle,
That ye mowen to hevne go.