“Yit tel me,” quoth the somnour, “faithfully,
Make ye newe bodies for you alway
Of elements?” The fend him answerde, “Nay;
Som tyme we feyne, and som tyme we aryse
With dede bodies, in ful wonder wyse,
And speke resonably, and as fair and wel
As to the Pythonesse dede Samuel;
And yit wol somme say, it was not he.
I know but lytel of your divinitee.
But one thing warne I thee, I wol not jape,
Thou woldest fully know how we be shape:
Thou shalt herafter-ward, my brother deere,
Com, wher thee nedith nothing to enqueere,
For thou shalt by thin own experience
Here from a throne read al thy sentence
Better than Virgile, whils he was on erthe,
Or Dante also. Now let us ryde forthe,
For I wil holde company with thee,
Til it be so that thou forsake me.”

“Nay,” quoth the somnour, “that shal nought betyde.
I am a yeoman that knowen is ful wyde;
My trothe wil I holde, as in this case.
For though thou be the devyl Sathanas,
My trothe wil I holde to thee, my brother,
As I am swore, and ech of us to other,
For to be trewe bretheren in intent;
For bothe we go aboute to get oure rent.
Tak thou thi part, and that men wil the gyven,
And I shal myn, thus may we bothe lyven.
And if ech one of us have more than other,
Let him be trewe, and part it with his brother.”
“I graunte,” quod the devel, “by my fay!”
And with that word thay riden forth there way;
And right at the entryng of a townes ende,
To which this somnour shaped him for to wende,
Thay saw a cart, that chargid was with hay,
Which that a carter drof forth in his way.
Deep was the way, for which the carte stood;

This carter smote, and cryde as he wer wood,
“Hayt, brok; hayt, scot; why care ye for the stones?
The fend,” quoth he, “you fetch body and bones,
As true as ever in stable ye were foled!
So moche wo I have with you y-tholed!
The devyl have al, both cart and hors and hay!”
This somnour sayde, “Her shal we see som play.”
And nere the feend he drough, in secret wyse,
Ful privily, and softe did him avyse,
“Herke, my brother, herke, by thi faith!
Herest thou not that which the carter saith?
Take it anon, for he hath given it the,
Bothe hay and hors, and eek his cart, pardé!”
“Nay,” quoth the devyl, “God wot, never a whit,
It is nought his entente, trust me yit,
Ask it thiself, if thou not trowist me,
Or else stint a while and thou shalt see.”
This carter smiteth his hors upon the croupe,
And thay bygonne to drawen and to stowpe.
“Hayt now,” quoth he, “where Jhesu Crist you blesse,
And al his hondwerk, bothe more and lesse!
That was wel pulled, myn oune brave boy,
I pray God save thy body and seint Loy!
Now is my cart out of the sloo parfay!”
“Lo! brother,” quoth the feend, “what told I thee?
Her may ye see, myn owne deere brother,
The carter spak one thing, and thought another.
Let us go forth abouten our viáge;
Hier wynne I nothing from this cariáge.”

Whan that thay comen somwhat on the way,
This somnour to his brothir gan to say;
“Brothir,” quoth he, “her dwelleth an old wife,
That had almost as lief to lose hir lif,
As for to give a peny of hir good.
I wil have twelf pens though that she go wood,
Or I wil summon hir to oure office;
And yit, God wot, I know of hir no vice.
But for thou canst not, as in this countree,
Wynne thy rent, tak here ensample from me.”
This somnour clappèd at the widowes gate;
“Com out,” quothe he, “thou olde reprobate;
I trowe thou hast som frere or priest with thee.”
“Who clappith?” sayd this widow, “bencité,
God save you, sir! what is your swete wille?”
“I have,” quoth he, “a summons in a bille,
On payne of cursyng, loke that thou be
To morwe biforn our archedeknes knee,
To answer to the court of certeyn thinges.”
“Nou,” quoth she, “Jesu Crist, and king of kinges,
So wisly helpe me, as I not may.
I have ben seek, and that ful many a day.
I may not go so fer;” quoth she, “nor ryde,
But I be deed, so prikith me my syde.
May I nat aske excuse, sir somnour,
And answer ther by my procúratoúr
To suche thing as men wol charge to me?”
“Yis,” quoth this somnour, “pay anon, let see,
Twelf pens to me, and I thee wil acquite.
I shal no profyt have therby or lite;
My mayster hath the profyt and not I.
Com out, and let me ryden hastily;
Gif me my twelf pens, I may no lenger tary.”
“Twelf pens?” quoth she, “now lady seinte Mary
So wisly help me out of care and synne,
This wyde worlde though that I shulde wynne,
Lo, have I not twelf pens withinne myn hold.
Ye knowen wel that I am pore and old;
Give of youre almes to me a pore wretche.”
“Nay then,” quoth he, “the foule fend me fetche!
If I thee excuse, though thou shalt be spilt.”
“Allas!” quoth she, “God wot, I have no gilt.”
“Pay me,” quoth he, “or by the swete seint Anne
As I wol bere away thy newe panne
For dette, which thou owest me of old,
Whan that thou madest thin housbond cuckold,
I payd at hom for thy correccioún.”
“Thou liest,” quoth she, “by my salvacioun,
Nor was I never ere now, wydow ne wyf,
Summond unto your court in al my lyf;
Nor never I was of my body untrewe.
Unto the devel rough and blak of hiewe
Give I thy body and the panne also!”
And when the devyl herd hir curse so
Upon hir knees, he sayd in this manére:
“Now, Mabely, myn