Kepé thy tunge, thy tunge, thy tunge

Kepé thy tunge, thy tunge, thy tunge!
Thy wiked tunge werketh me wo.

There is none gres that groweth on ground,
Satenas ne peny round,
Wersse then is a wikked tunge,
That speketh bethe evil of frend and fo.

Wikked tunge maketh ofté strife
Betwixe a good man and his wife;
Whan he schulde lede a merie life
Here white sidés waxen full blo.

Wikked tunge maketh ofté stauns
Bothe in Engelond and in Frauns.
Many a man with spere and launs,
Throw wikked tunge, to dede is do.

Wikked tungé breketh bone,
Thow the tungés self have none,
Of his friend he maketh his fon
In every place where that he go.

Good men that stonden and sitten in this halle,
I prey you bothe one and alle,
That wikked tungés fro you falle,
That ye moun to hevené go.