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

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.
Churls win no friends More simple than a wild deer is
A miser, who believes for this5110
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 abound5120
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 sword5130
Cleft limb from limb.
But little part
Hath he with love, for how in heart