The Ship of Fools, Volume 1

by Sebastian Brant

Of Auaryce or Couetyse and prodygalyte.

Ye that ar gyuen ouer moche to Couetyse
Come nere, a place is here for you to dwel
Come nere ye wastfull people in lyke wyse
Youre rowme shall be hye in the Topcastell
Ye care for no shame, for heuen nor for hell
Golde is your god, ryches gotten wrongfully
Ye dame your soule, and yet lyue in penury.

He that is besy euery day and houre

Without mesure, maner, or moderacion

To gather riches and great store of treasoure

Therof no ioy takinge, confort nor consolacion.

He is a Fole: and of blynde and mad opynyon

For that which he getteth and kepeth wrongfully

His heyre often wasteth moche more vnthryftely.

While he here lyueth in this lyfe caduke and mortal.

Ful sore he laboureth: and oft hungry gothe to bed

Sparinge from hymselfe: for hym that neuer shal

After do hym goode. thoughe he were harde bested.

Thus is this Couetous wretche so blyndly led

By the fende that here he lyueth wretchydly

And after his deth damned eternally.

There wandreth he in dolour and derknes

Amonge infernall flodes tedyous and horryble

Let se what auayleth than all his ryches

Ungracyously gotyne, his paynes ar terryble

Than wolde he amende but it is inpossyble

In hell is no order nor hope of remedy

But sorowe vpon sorowe, and that euerlastyngly.

Yet fynde I another vyce as bad as this

Whiche is the vyce of prodygalyte

He spendyth all in ryot and amys

Without all order, pursuynge pouertye

He lyketh nat to lyue styll in prosperite

But all and more he wastyth out at large

(Beware the ende) is the leste poynt of his charge.

But of the couetous somwhat to say agayne

Thou art a fole thy soule to sell for riches

Or put thy body to labour or to payne

Thy mynde to fere, thy herte to heuynesse

Thou fole thou fleest no maner cruelnesse

So thou may get money, to make thy heyr a knyght

Thou sleest thy soule where as thou saue it myght

Thou hast no rest thy mynde is euer in fere

Of mysauenture, nor neuer art content

Deth is forgoten, thou carest nat a here

To saue thy soule from infernall punysshement

If thou be dampned, than art thou at thy stent

By thy ryches which thou here hast left behynde

To thy executours, thou shalt small comforte fynde

Theyr custome is to holde fast that they haue

Thy pore soule shall be farthest fro theyr thought

If that thy carkes be brought onys in the graue

And that they haue thy bagges in handes cought

What say they, than (by god the man had nought)

Whyle he here lyuyd he was to lyberall

Thus dampned is thy soule, thy ryches cause of all

Who wyll denay but it is necesary

Of riches for to haue plenty and store

To this opynyon I wyll nat say contrary

So it be ordred after holy lore

Whyle thy selfe leuest departe some to the pore

With thy owne hande trust nat thy executours

Gyue for god, and god shall sende at all houres

Rede Tullius warkes the worthy Oratour.

And writen shalt thou fynde in right fruteful sentence

That neuer wyseman loued ouer great honour.

Nor to haue great riches put ouer great diligence

But onely theyr mynde was set on Sapience

And quyetly to lyue in Just symplycite.

For in greatest honour is greatest ieoperdye.

He that is symple, and on the grounde doth lye

And that can be content with ynoughe or suffisaunce

Is surer by moche than he that lyeth on hye.

Nowe vp nowe downe vnsure as a Balaunce.

But sothly he that set wyll his plesance

Onely on wysdom and styl therfore labour.

Shal haue more goode than all erthly tresour.

Wysdom techeth to eschewe al offence.

Gydynge mankynde the ryght way to vertue.

But of couetyse Comys all Inconuenyence.

It cawseth man of worde to be vntrue.

Forswerynge and falshode doth it also ensue.

Brybery and Extorcion, murder and myschefe.

Shame is his ende: his lyuyinge is reprefe.

By couetyse Crassus brought was to his ende.

By it the worthy Romayns lost theyr name.

Of this one yl a thousand ylles doth descende.

Besyde enuy, Pryde, wretchydnes and Shame.

Crates the Philosopher dyd Couetyse so blame:

That to haue his mynde vnto his stody fre.

He threwe his Tresour all hole into the see.

But shortly to conclude. Both bodely bondage.

And gostly also: procedeth of this couetyse.

The soule is damned the body hath damage

As hunger, thyrst, and colde with other preiudice.

Bereft of the ioyes of heuenly Paradyse.

For golde was theyr god and that is left behynde

Theyr bodyes beryed the soule clene out of mynde

The Enuoy of Alexander Barclay translatour.

Therefore thou couetouse thou wretch I speke to the.

Amende thy selfe ryse out of this blyndenes.

Content the wyth ynoughe for thy degre.

Dam nat thy soule by gatheringe frayle riches

Remembre this is a Uale of wretchednes.

Thou shalt no rest nor dwellynge place here fynde.

Depart thou shalt and leue it al behynde.

---