We receive the tonsured monk,
      Let him take his pittance;
    And the parson with his punk,
      If he craves admittance;
    Masters with their bands of boys,
      Priests with high dominion;
    But the scholar who enjoys
      Just one coat’s our minion!

    This our sect doth entertain
      Just men and unjust ones;
    Halt, lame, weak of limb or brain,
      Strong men and robust ones;
    Those who flourish in their pride,
      Those whom age makes stupid;
    Frigid folk and hot folk fried
      In the fires of Cupid.

    Tranquil souls and bellicose,
      Peacemaker and foeman;
    Czech and Hun, and mixed with those
      German, Slav, and Roman;
    Men of middling size and weight,
      Dwarfs and giants mighty;
    Men of modest heart and state,
      Vain men, proud and flighty.

    Of the Wanderers’ order I
      Tell the Legislature—­
    They whose life is free and high,
      Gentle too their nature—­
    They who’d rather scrape a fat
      Dish in gravy swimming,
    Than in sooth to marvel at
      Barns with barley brimming.

    Now this order, as I ken,
      Is called sect or section,
    Since its sectaries are men
      Divers in complexion;
    Therefore hic and haec and hoc
      Suit it in declension,
    Since so multiform a flock
      Here finds comprehension.

    This our order hath decried
      Matins with a warning;
    For that certain phantoms glide
      In the early morning,
    Whereby pass into man’s brain
      Visions of vain folly;
    Early risers are insane,
      Racked by melancholy.

    This our order doth proscribe
      All the year round matins;
    When they’ve left their beds, our tribe
      In the tap sing latins;
    There they call for wine for all,
      Roasted fowl and chicken;
    Hazard’s threats no hearts appal,
      Though his strokes still thicken.

    This our order doth forbid
      Double clothes with loathing: 
    He whose nakedness is hid
      With one vest hath clothing: 
    Soon one throws his cloak aside
      At the dice-box calling;
    Next his girdle is untied,
      While the cards are falling.

    What I’ve said of upper clothes
      To the nether reaches;
    They who own a shirt, let those
      Think no more of breeches;
    If one boasts big boots to use,
      Let him leave his gaiters;
    They who this firm law refuse
      Shall be counted traitors.

    No one, none shall wander forth
      Fasting from the table;
    If thou’rt poor, from south and north
      Beg as thou art able! 
    Hath it not been often seen
      That one coin brings many,
    When a gamester on the green
      Stakes his lucky penny?