Peace is the chief of all the worldes wealth,
And to the heaven it leadeth eke the way;
Peace is of man's soul and life the health,
And doth with pestilence and war away.
My liege lord, take heed of what I say,
If war may be left off, take peace on hand,
Which may not be unless God doth it send.
With peace may every creature dwell at rest;
Without peace there may be no glad;
Above all other good peace is the best;
Peace hath himself when war is all bestead;
Peace is secure, war is adread;
Peace is of all charity the key,
That hath the life and soule for to weigh.
For honour vain, or for the worldes good,
They that aforetimes the strong battles made,
Where be they now? - bethink well in thy mood!
The day is gone, the night is dark and fade,
Their cruelty which then did make them glad,
They sorrow now, and yet have nought the more;
The blood is shed, which man may no more restore.
War is the mother of the wronges all;
It slayeth the priest in holy church at mass,
Forliths the maid, and doth her flower to fall;
The war maketh the great city less,
And doth the law its rules to overpass,
There is no thing whereof mischief may grow,
Which is not caused by the war, I trow.
And to the heaven it leadeth eke the way;
Peace is of man's soul and life the health,
And doth with pestilence and war away.
My liege lord, take heed of what I say,
If war may be left off, take peace on hand,
Which may not be unless God doth it send.
With peace may every creature dwell at rest;
Without peace there may be no glad;
Above all other good peace is the best;
Peace hath himself when war is all bestead;
Peace is secure, war is adread;
Peace is of all charity the key,
That hath the life and soule for to weigh.
For honour vain, or for the worldes good,
They that aforetimes the strong battles made,
Where be they now? - bethink well in thy mood!
The day is gone, the night is dark and fade,
Their cruelty which then did make them glad,
They sorrow now, and yet have nought the more;
The blood is shed, which man may no more restore.
War is the mother of the wronges all;
It slayeth the priest in holy church at mass,
Forliths the maid, and doth her flower to fall;
The war maketh the great city less,
And doth the law its rules to overpass,
There is no thing whereof mischief may grow,
Which is not caused by the war, I trow.
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