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We be enformed that the sermons in latin which ever before this tyme, save now of late, be now gretly discontynued, to the gret hurt and disworship of the same, We therefore, desiring right affecturusely the increse of vertu and cunning in oure said Universite, wol and commande you straitly that ye with ripe and suffisant maturite, advise a sure remede in that party, by the which such sermons may thereafter be continued and inviolably observed, wherein ye shal do unto Us right singulier pleisir.

I haue ouersene the fyrst Inuencion in Doche and after that the two translations in Laten and Frenche whiche in blaminge the disordred lyfe of men of our tyme agreeth in sentence: threfolde in langage wherfore wylling to redres the errours and vyces of this oure Royalme of Englonde: as the foresayde composer and translatours hath done in theyr Contrees I haue taken vpon me: howbeit vnworthy to drawe into our Englysshe tunge the sayd boke named ye shyp of folys as nere to ye sayd thre Langages as the parcyte of my wyt wyll suffer me.

Oure Lady Church, yt looked like hell wher were above 1000 torches brannyng and syche a noise as yf heven and erth had gone together with fallyng of images and fallyng down of costly works.

Let vs be newe transformed into them, for soche are oure maners as oure studies be.

He looked at the fair copy that was also the first draft and read to himself:          Conserve agst ye putrifyinge feende          The fathe yt fedde oure fathers, quite put doune          His incarnacioun in thes worst of tymes,          Casting hys hedde discoronate to ye dogges.

Oure conseil was nat longe for to seche- Us thoughte it was noght worth to make it wys- And graunted hym, withouten moore avys, And bad him seye his voirdit, as hym leste.

But now is tyme to yow for to telle How that we baren us that ilke nyght Whan we were in that hostelrie alyght, And after wol I telle of our viage, And all the remenaunt of oure pilgrimage.

Oure Hooste lough, and swoor, "So moot I gon, This gooth aright, unbokeled is the male, Lat se now who shal telle another tale, For trewely the game is wel bigonne.

Thy gentillesse cometh fro God allone, Thanne comth oure verray gentillesse of grace, It was no thyng biquethe us with oure place.

Oure blissed lordes body they to-tere, Hem thoughte that Jewes rente hym noght ynough, And ech of hem at otheres synne lough.

That lord is now of Thebes the Citee, Fulfild of ire and of iniquitee, He, for despit and for his tirannye, To do the dede bodyes vileynye, Of alle oure lordes, whiche that been slawe, He hath alle the bodyes on an heep ydrawe, And wol nat suffren hem, by noon assent, Neither to been yburyed nor ybrent, But maketh houndes ete hem in despit.

Now help, Thomas, for *him that harrow'd hell,* *Christ For elles must we oure bookes sell, And if ye lack our predication, Then goes this world all to destruction.

I pray to God so save thy gentil cors, And eek thyne urynals and thy jurdanes, Thyn ypocras and eek thy Galianes And every boyste ful of thy letuarie, God blesse hem, and oure lady Seinte Marie!

The gome vpon Gryngolet glyde3 hem vnder, Thur3 mony misy and myre, mon al hym one, Carande for his costes, lest he ne keuer schulde To se the seruyse of that syre, that on that self ny3t Of a burde wat3 borne oure baret to quelle.

And in oure yeerd tho herbes shal I fynde, The whiche han of hir propretee by kynde To purge yow bynethe and eek above.