Page:Romance of the Rose (Ellis), volume 1.pdf/206

172

Of this base love that I declare

A wealthy carle gets ample share,

And the vile miser more than all,

Who ne’er hath wisdom to let fall

From out his soul the wretched vice

Of hard-eyed, grasping avarice.

More simple than a wild deer is

A miser, who believes for this

He winneth love. Nay, proves it not

He’s nought above a doltish sot?

How shall a man who never gave

Love to his fellow hope to have

Return of love? O is not he

Counted a fool most worthily?

The branch-horned stag is not so poor

Of sense as this dull, drivelling boor.

Pardie! whoso will draw around

His hearth true friends must needs abound

In kindly words and deeds, but nought

A miser loves, in deed or thought.

Nay! if he wots his neighbour poor,

He draws his purse-strings tight, and door

Shuts in his face.

Yea! still his gold,

With fist fast gripped, he strives to hold

Till death’s sharp sickle clears the field,

For liefer than a scrap he’ll yield

Of pelf from out his darling hoard

Would he prefer to be by sword

Cleft limb from limb.

But little part

Hath he with love, for how in heart