Medieval Sourcebook:  
            Raimon de Cornet (14th cent. troubadour): 
            Poem Criticizing the Avignon Papacy
           
            I see the pope his sacred trust betray, 
            For while the rich his grace can gain alway, 
            His favors from the poor are aye withholden. 
            He strives to gather wealth as best he may, 
            Forcing Christ's people blindly to obey, 
            So that he may repose in garmets golden. 
            The vilest traffickers in souls are all 
            His chapmen, and for gold a prebend's stall 
            He'll sell them, or an abbacy or miter. 
            And to us he sends clowns and tramps who crawl 
            Vending his pardon briefs from cot to hall-- 
            Letters and pardons worthy of the writer, 
            Which leaves our pokes, if not our souls, the lighter. 
             
            No better is each honored cardinal. 
            From early morning's dawn to evening's fall, 
            Their time is passed in eagerly contriving 
            To drive some bargain foul with each and all. 
            So if you feel a want, or great or small, 
            Or if for some perferment you are striving, 
            The more you please to give the more 't will bring, 
            Be it a purple cap or bishop's ring. 
            And it need ne'er in any way alarm you 
            That you are ignorant of everything 
            To which a minister of Christ should cling, 
            You will have revenue enough to warm you-- 
            And, bear in mind, the lesser gifts won't harm you. 
             
            Our bishops, too, are plunged in similar sin, 
            For pitilessly they flay the very skin 
            From all their priests who chance to have fat livings. 
            For gold their seal official you can win 
            To any writ, no matter what's therein. 
            Sure God alone can make them stop their theivings, 
            'T were hard, in full, their evil works to tell, 
            As when, for a few pence, they greedily sell 
            The tonsure to some montebank or jester, 
            Whereby the temporal courts are wronged as well, 
            For then these tonsured rogues they cannot quell, 
            Howe'er their scampish doings may us pester, 
            While round the church still growing evils fester. 
            
             
          Source. 
          from J. H. Robinson, Readings in European History (Boston: 1904), pp. 375-377 
           
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          © Paul Halsall, July 1998  
            halsall@murray.fordham.edu  
           
                  
 
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