William Langland Quotes

There smites nothing so sharp, nor smelleth so sour as shame.

But all the wickedness in the world which man may do or think is no more to the mercy of God than a live coal dropped in the sea.

Like father, like son: every good tree maketh good fruits.

First impressions of mediaeval life are usually coloured by the courtly romances of Malory and his later refiners. Chaucer brings us down to reality, but his people belong to a prosperous middle-class world, on holiday and in holiday mood. Piers Plowman stands alone as a revelation of the ignorance and misery of the lower classes, whose multiplied grievances came to a head in the Peasants' Revolt of 1381.

The Spirit of Justice is the single most important seed Piers planted; if you don't live by its teaching, your chance of salvation is nil. Unless Conscience and the Cardinal Virtues form the food that people live on, just take my word for it, they're utterly lost - every single living soul among them!

In a somer seson, whan softe was the sonne, I shoop me into shroudes as I a sheep were, In habite an heremite unholy of werkes, Went wide in this world wondres to here.

For hevene myghte nat holden it, so was it hevy of hymself,Til it hadde of the erthe eten his fille.And whan it hadde of this fold flessh and blood taken,Was nevere leef upon lynde lighter therafter,And portatif and persaunt as the point of a nedle,That myghte noon armure it lette ne none heighe walles.Forthi is love ledere of the Lordes folk of hevene,And a meene, as the mair is, [inmiddes] the kyng and the commune.

For if hevene be on this erthe, and ese to any soule,It is in cloistre or in scole.

I kan noght parfitly my Paternoster as the preest it syngeth,But I kan rymes of Robyn Hood and Randolf Erl of Chestre.

A fair feeld ful of folk fond I ther bitwene -Of alle manere of men, the meene and the riche,Werchynge and wandrynge as the world asketh.

Manye chapeleyns arn chaste, ac charite is aweye; Are none hardere than hii whan hii ben avaunced: Unkynde to hire kyn and to alle Cristene, Chewen hire charite and chiden after moore - Swich chastite withouten charite worth cheyned in helle.

Who will bell the cat?

Al the povere peple tho pescoddes fetten; Benes and baken apples thei broghte in hir lappe, Chibolles and chervelles and ripe chiries manye, And profrede Piers this present to plese with Hunger.