And on the folk areyseth blame,
And doth hem dishonour and shame,
For thing that may have no preving,
But lyklinesse, and contriving.
For I dar seyn, that Reson demeth, 7545
It is not al sooth thing that semeth
And it is sinne to controve
Thing that is [for] to reprove;
This wot ye wel; and, sir, therefore
Ye arn to blame [wel] the more.
And, nathelesse, he rekketh lyte ;
He veveth nat now thereof a myte;
For if he thoughte harm, parfay,
He wolde come and gon al day;
He coude him-selfe nat abstene.
Now cometh he nat, and that is sene,
For he ne taketh of it no cure,
Bat-if it be through aventure,
And lasse than other folk, algate.
And thou here watchest at the gate, 7560
With spere in thyne arest alway;
There muse, musard, al the day.
Thou wakest night and day for thought;
Y-wis, thy traveyl is for nought.
And Jelousye, withouten faile,
Shal never quyte thee thy travaile.
And scat he is, that Fair-Welcoming,
Without[en] any trespassing,
Shal wrongfully in prison be,
Ther wepeth and languissheth he.
And though thou never yet, y-wis,
Agiltest man no more but this,
(Take not a-greef) it were worthy
To putte thee out of this baily,
And afterward in prison lye,
And fettre thee til that thou dye;
For thou shalt for this sinne dwelle
Right in the devils ers of helle,
But-if that thou repente thee.'
Thus seide I now, and have seid yore;
I not wher he dide any more.
7600
Why shulde men sey me such a thing,
If it hadde been gabbing?
Right so seide I, and wol seye yit;
I trowe, I lyed not of it;
And with my bemes I wol blowe 7605 To alle neighboris a-rowe,
How he hath bothe comen and gon.'
Tho spak Fals-Semblant right anon,
'Al is not gospel, out of doute,
That men seyn in the toune aboute; 7610
Ley no deef ere to my speking;
I swere yow, sir, it is gabbing!
I trowe ye wot wel certeynly,
That no man loveth him tenderly
That seith him harm, if he wot it,
Al be he never so pore of wit.
And sooth is also sikerly,
(This knowe ye, sir, as wel as I),
That lovers gladly wol visyten
The places ther hir loves habyten. 7620
This man you loveth and eek honoureth;
This man to serve you laboureth;
And clepeth you his freend so dere,
And this man maketh you good chere,
And every-wher that [he] you meteth,
He you saleweth, and he you greteth. 7626
He preseth not so ofte, that ye
Ought of his come encombred be;
Ther presen other folk on yow
Ful ofter than [that] he doth now.
And if his herte him streyned so
Unto the Rose for to go,
And if they were of oon assent,
Ful sone were the Rose hent;
The maugre youres wolde be.
And sir, of o thing herkeneth me :-
Sith ye this man, that loveth yow,
Han seid such harm and shame now,
Witeth wel, if he gessed it,
Ye may wel demen in your wit,
He nolde no-thing love you so,
Ne callen you his freend also,
But night and day he twolde wake,
The castel to destroye and take,
If it were sooth as ye devyse;
Or som man in som maner wyse
Might it warne him everydel,
Or by him-self perceyven wel;
For sith he might not come and gon
As he was whylom wont to don,
He might it sone wite and see;
But now al other-wyse doth he.
Than have tye, sir, al-outerly
Deserved helle, and jolyly
The deth of helle, douteles,
That thrallen folk so gilteles.'
And sey thy sinne withoute more ;
7650 Of this shalt thou repente sore;
For I am preest, and have poustee
To shryve folk of most dignitee
That been, as wyde as world may dure.
Of al this world I have the cure,
And that had never yit persoun,
No vicarie of no maner toun.
And, god wot, I have of thee
A thousand tymes more pitee
Than hath thy preest parochial,
Though he thy freend be special.
I have avauntage, in o wyse,
That your prelates ben not so wyse 7690
Ne half so lettred as am I.
I am licenced boldely
7665 In divinitee to rede,
Incipit carmen secundum ordinem literarum Alphabeti.
ALMIGHTY and al merciable quene,
To whom that al this world fleeth for socour,
God vouched sauf thurgh thee with us
For certes, Cristes blisful moder dere,
Were now the bowe bent in swich manere,
As it was first, of justice and of yre,
The rightful God nolde of no mercy here;
But thurgh thee han we grace, as we
desyre.
Ever hath myn hope of refut been in thee,
For heer-biforn ful ofte, in many a wyse,
Hast thou to misericorde receyved me. 35
But mercy, lady, at the grete assyse,
Whan we shul come bifore the hye jus-
tyse!
So litel fruit shal thanne in me be founde, That, but thou er that day me twel
Glorious mayde and moder, which that
Were bitter, neither in erthe nor in see, 50
But ful of swetnesse and of mercy ever,
Help that my fader be not wroth with me!
Spek thou, for I ne dar not him y-see.
So have I doon in erthe, allas ther-whyle!
That certes, but-if thou my socour be, 55
To stink eterne he wol my gost exyle.
He vouched sauf, tel him, as was his wille,
Bicome a man, to have our alliaunce,
And with his precious blood he wroot the
bille
For thou ne failest never wight at nede.
Purpos I have sum tyme for t'enquere, Wherfore and why the Holy Gost thee soughte,
Whan Gabrielles vois cam to thyn ere. 115 He not to werre us swich a wonder wroughte,
But for to save us that he sithen boughte Than nedeth us no wepen us for to save, But only ther we did not, as us oughte, Do penitence, and mercy axe and have, 120 Queen of comfort, yit whan I me bithink That I agilt have bothe, him and thee,
And that my soule is worthy for to sinke,
Allas, I, caitif, whider may I flee?
Who shal un-to thy sone my mene be? 125
Who, but thy-self, that art of pitee welle?
Thou hast more reuthe on our adversitee
Than in this world mighte any tunge telle.
Redresse me, moder, and me chastyse,
For, certeynly, my fadres chastisinge 130
That dar I nought abyden in no wyse :
So hidons is his rightful rekeninge.
Moder, of whom our mercy gan to springe,
Beth
ye my juge and eek my soules leche;
For ever in you is pitee haboundinge 135
To ech that wol of pitee you biseche.
Soth is, that God ne graunteth no pitee
With-oute thee; for God, of his goodnesse,
Foryiveth noon, but it lyke un-to thee.
He hath thee maked vicaire and mais-
tresse
Of Paradys, thou me wisse and counsaile, How I may have thy grace and thy socour; Al have I been in filthe and in errour. Lady, un-to that court thou me ajourne That cleped is thy bench, O fresshe flour! Ther-as that mercy ever shal sojourne. 160
Xristus, thy sone, that in this world alighte,
Up-on the cros to suffre his passioun,
And teek, that Longius his herte pighte,
And made his herte blood to renne adoun;
And al was this for my salvacioun ; 165
And I to him am fals and eek unkinde,
And yit he wol not my dampnacioun—
This thanke I you, socour of al mankinde.
Ysaac was figure of his deeth, certeyn,
That so fer-forth his fader wolde obeye 170
That him ne rough te no-thing to be slayn;
Right so thy sone list, as a lamb, to deye.
Now lady, ful of mercy, I you preye,
Sith he his mercy mesured so large,
Be ye not skant; for alle we singe and
|