Chapter CXXI. A lament addressed to S. Francis touching idle and gluttonous brethren

162. O holy father, let me be permitted to lift up on high to-day a lament for those who are called thine! The practice of virtue is hateful to many of them, who, by desiring to rest before they have toiled, prove themselves to be not sons of Francis but of Lucifer. Warriors are less abundant with us than weaklings, though these having been born to toil ought to reckon their life as a warfare. These will not profit through action, and cannot through contemplation. When they have distressed all by their singularity, plying their jaws more than their hands, they hate "him that rebukes in the gate," nor do they "suffer themselves to be touched with the tips of the fingers". But still more do I wonder at the impudence of these men (to use blessed Francis' word), for whereas at home they could only have lived by their sweat, now, without toiling, they are fed through the sweat of the poor. Wondrous prudence, indeed! Though they do nothing, you would think them always occupied. They know their mealtimes; and if ever they feel hungry they complain that the sun has gone to sleep. Am I to believe, kind father, that these monsters of men are worthy of thy glory? No, not even of thy tunic. Thou didst ever teach men to seek in this wanton and fleeting time the wealth of merit that they might not hereafter be brought to beggary: but these enjoy not even their country thoroughly, for they must afterwards pass into exile. This pestilence rages among the subjects, because the superiors are shutting their eyes to it, as though it were possible to escape the punishment of those whose vice they are tolerating.