Part 10

Now as a wrecche ffor fals beleve, That I shewyd in temptynge this mayde, My hand is ded and doth me greve! Alas! that evyr I here assyde. _Angelus._ Woman, thi sorwe to have delayde, Wurchep that childe that ther is born: Towche the clothis ther he is layde, ffor he xal save alle that is lorn! _Salomee._ O gloryous chylde, and kynge of blysse! I aske ȝow mercy for my trespace; I knowlege my synne, I demyd amys; O blyssyd babe, grawnt me sum grace! Of ȝow, mayde, also here in this place, I aske mercy, knelynge on kne; Moste holy mayde, grawnt me solace, Sum wurde of comforte sey now to me. _Maria._ As Goddys aungel to ȝow dede telle, My chylde is medecyn ffor every sor; Towche his clothis be my cowncelle,— ȝowre hand ful sone he wyl restor.

_Hic Salomee tangit fimbriam Christi, dicens_,

_Salomee._ A! now blyssyd be this chylde evermore— The sone of God forsothe he is! Hath helyd myn hand, that was forlore Thorwe ffals beleve and demynge amys. In every place I xal telle this, Of a clene mayde that God is born: And in oure lyknes God now clad is, Mankend to save that was forlorn. His modyr a mayde as sche was beforne, Natt fowle pollutyd, as other women be; But fayr and fresche, as rose on thorn, Lely wyte clene with pure virginyté.

Of this blyssyd babe my leve now do I take, And also of ȝow, hyȝ modyr of blysse! Of this grett meracle more knowlege to make, I xal go telle it in iche place i-wys. _Maria._ ffarewel, good dame, and God ȝour wey wysse, In all ȝour jurnay God be ȝourspede; And of his hyȝ mercy that Lord so ȝow blysse, That ȝe nevyr offende more in word, thought, nor dede. _ȝelomy._ And I also do take my leve here, Of alle this blyssyd good company; Praynge ȝour grace, bothe fere and nere; On us to spede ȝour endles mercy. _Joseph._ The blyssyng of that Lord that is most myghty, Mote sprede on ȝow in every place, Of alle ȝour enmyes to have the victory, God that best may grawnt ȝow his grace! _Amen._

XVI. THE ADORATION OF THE SHEPHERDS.

_Angelus ad pastores dicit_, “Gloria in excelsis Deo.”

Joye to God that sytt in hevyn, And pes to man on erthe grownde! A chylde is born benethe the levyn, Thurwe hym many ffolke xul be unbownde. Sacramentys ther xul be vij., Wonnyn thorowe that childys wounde; Therfore I synge a joyful stevene, The flowre of frenchep now is founde! God that wonyght on hyȝ, He is gloryed mannys gost to wynne, He hath sent salve to mannys synne, Pes is comyn to mannys kynne, Thorwe Goddys hiȝe wysdam I saye. _Primus Pastor._ Maunfras, Maunfras, felawe myn, I saw a grett lyght with bryght shyne, ȝit saw I nevyr so mervely a syne, Shapyn upon the skyes. It is bryghtere than the sunne bem, It comyth ryght over alle this rem, Evyn above Bedleem, I saw it brenne thryes! _Secundus Pastor._ Thu art my brother Boosras, I have beholdyn the same pas, I trowe it is tokenynge of gras, That shynynge shewyght beforn! Balaam spak in prophesye, A lyght xuld shyne upon the skye, Whan a chylde of a mayd Marye In Bedleem were i-born. _Tertius Pastor._ Thow I make lytyl noyse of this, I am an herde man that hattyht sayyng amyce, I herde spekyng of a chylde of blyce, Of Moyses in his lawe. Of a mayd a child xuld be borne, On a tre he xuld be torn, Delyver folkys that arn forlorn,— The chylde xulde be slawe. _Primus pastor._ Balaam spake in prophecie, Out of Jacob xuld shyne a skye, Many ffolke he xulde bye With his bryght blood. Be that bryght blod that he xulde blede, He xal us brynge fro the develys drede, As a duke most dowty in dede, Thorwe his dethe on rode. _Secundus Pastor._ Amos spak with mylde methe, A frute swettere than bawmys brethe, His dethe xulde slen owre sowlys dethe, And drawe us alle from helle. Therfore suche lyght goth beforn, In tokyn that the childe is born, Whiche xal save that is forlorn,— As prophetys gonne spelle. _Tertius pastor._ Danyel the prophete thus gan speke, Wyse God from woo us wreke, Thi bryght hevyn thou to-breke, And medele the with a mayde. This prophecye is now spad, Cryst in our kende is clad, Therfore mankend may be glad, As prophetes beforn han seyd. “Gloria in excelsis deo,” _Cantent._ _Primus Pastor._ Ey, ey! this was a wondyr note, That was now songyn above the sky! I have that voys, fful wele I wote, Thei songe _gle glo glory_. _Secundus Pastor._ Nay, so mot y the, so was it nowth, I have that songe fful wele I num, In my wytt weyl it is wrought:— It was _gle glo glas glum_. _Tertius Pastor._ The songe me thought it was glory; And aftyrwarde he seyd us to,— Ther is a chylde born xal be a prynce myghty, ffor to seke that chylde I rede we go. _Primus Pastor._ The prophecye of Boosdras is spedly sped; Now leyke we hens, as that lyght us lede: Myght we se onys that bryght on bed, Oure sorow it wolde unbynde. We xulde shadyr for no shoure, Buske us hens to Bedleem boure, To se that fayr fresche flowre, The mayde mylde in mynde. _Secundus Pastor._ Lete us ffolwe with alle oure myght, With songe and myrthe we xul us dyght, And wurchep with joye that wurthy wyght, That Lord is of mankynne. Lete us go fforthe fast on hye, And honowre that babe wurthylye, With merthe, songe, and melodye; Have do! this songe begynne!

_Tunc pastores cantabunt “Stella cæli extirpavit.” Quo facto, ibunt ad querendum Christum._

_Primus Pastor._ Heyle floure of floures, fayrest i-fownde! Heyle, perle peerles, prime rose of prise! Heyl, blome on hedde! we xul be unbownde with thi blody woundys and werkys fulle wyse. Heyl, God grettest, I grete the on grownde! The gredy devyl xal grone grysly as a gryse, Whan thou wynnyst this worlde with thi wyde wounde, And puttyst man to paradys with plenty of prys; To love the is my delyte. Heyl, floure and fre! Lyght from the Trynyté! Heyl, blyssyd mote thou be! Heyl, mayden, fayrest in syght! _Secundus Pastor._ Heyl, floure ovyr fflour fowndyn in fryght! Heyl, Cryst, kynde in oure kyth! Heyl, werker of wele to wonyn us wyth! Heyl wynner i-wys! Heyl, fformere and ffrende! Heyl, ffellere of the fende! Heyl, clad in oure kende! Heyl, prince of paradys! _Tertius pastor._ Heyl, Lord over lordys, that lyggyst ful lowe! Heyl, kynge ovyr kynges thi kynrede to knowe! Heyl, comely knyth the devyl to overthrowe! Heyl, flowre of alle! Heyl, werkere to wynne Bodyes bowndyn in synne! Heyl, in a bestys bynne, Be-stad in a stalle! _Joseph._ Herdys on hylle, Bethe not stylle, But seyth ȝour wylle, To many a man; How God is born, This mery morn, That is forlorn Fyndyn he can. _Secundus Pastor._ We xulle telle, Be dale and hylle, How harwere of helle Was born this nyght, Myrthis to melle, And fendys to quelle, That were so felle Aȝens his ryght. _Secundus Pastor._ ffarewel, babe and barne of blys! ffarewel, Lord that lovely is! The to wurchep thi feet I kys; On knes to the I falle. The to wurchepe I falle on kne, Alle this werd may joye of the! Now farewel, Lord of grett pousté! ȝa, farewel, kynge of alle. _Tertius Pastor._ Thow I be the last that take my leve, ȝit fayre mullynge, take it nat at no greve; Now, fayre babe, wele mut thou cheve! ffayr chylde, now have good day. ffareweyl, myn owyn dere derlyng: I-wys thou art a ryght fayr thyng! ffarewel, my Lorde and my swetyng! ffarewel, born in pore aray! _Maria._ Now, ȝe herdmen, wel mote ȝe be, ffor ȝoure omage and ȝour syngynge: My sone xal aqwyte ȝow in hefne se, And ȝeve ȝow alle ryght good hendynge! _Amen._

XVII. ADORATION OF THE MAGI.

_Herode._ As a lord in ryalté in non regyon so ryche, And rulere of alle remys, I ryde in ryal aray; Ther is no lord of lond in lordchep to me lyche, Non lofflyere, non lofsumere,—evyr lestyng is my lay: Of bewté and of boldnes I bere evermore the belle; Of mayn and of myght I master every man; I dynge with my dowtynes the devyl down to helle, ffor bothe of hevyn and of herthe I am kynge sertayn.

I am the comelyeste kynge clad in gleteringe golde, ȝa, and the semelyeste syre that may bestryde a stede; I welde att my wylle alle wyghtes upon molde,— ȝa, and wurthely I am wrappyd in a wurthy wede. ȝe knyghtes so comely, bothe curteys and kene, To my paleys wyl I passe, fulle prest I ȝow plyth; ȝe dukys so dowty, ffolwe me be-dene Onto my ryal paleys, the wey lyth ful ryght.

Wyghtly fro my stede I skyppe down in hast,— To myn heyȝ hallys I haste me in my way; ȝe mynstrelle of myrthe, blowe up a good blast, Whylle I go to chawmere and chaunge myn array. _Primus Rex._ Heyl be the kynges tweyne, fferre rydyng out of ȝour regne! Me thynkyth be ȝour presentes seyne, ȝe sekyn oure Savyour. ffro Saba have I folwyd fferre The glemynge of ȝon gay sterre; A chyldys blood xal bye us dere, That ther is born in bestes boure.

My name is kynge Baltaȝare, Of prophetys speche I am ware, Therfore a fferre wey I fare, A maydenys childe to seche. ffor he made man of the moolde, And is kynge of hevyn holde,— I wyl hym offere the rede golde, As reson wyl me teche.

_Secundus Rex._ Melchiȝar that my name is kydde, In hote love myn herte is hydde, To the blosme upon his bedde Born by bestes bynne. In Tarys I am kynge with crowne, By bankys and brymmys browne, I have travaylid by many a towne, My Lordys love to wynne.

I seke hym with ensens sote, Of alle prestys he xall be rote, His bryght blood xal be oure bote, To brynge us out of bonde. The childe xal be chosyn a preste, In all vertuys ffownden meste; Beforn his faderes fayr breste Ensens he xal up sende.

_Tercius rex._ In Ypotan and Archage I am kynge knowyn in kage, To seke a childe of semlant age I have faryn ryght fferre. Jasper is my name knowyn, In many countres that are myn owyn, Thorwe byttyr blastys that gyn blowyn, I stryke aftere the sterre.

I brynge myrre to my present, A byttyr lycour verament, ffor he xal suffyr byttyr dent, In a maydonys flesche is clad. On byttyr tre he xal be bent, Man and God omnypotent, With byttyr betynge his fflesche be rent, Tyl alle his blood be bledde.

_Herod._ Now I regne lyk a kynge areyd ful ryche, Rollyd in ryngges and robys of array; Dukys with dentys I dryve into the dyche, My dedys be ful dowty demyd be day. I xalle marryn tho men that belevyn amysse, And there in sette there sacramentes are I say; Theris no lorde in this werde that lokygh me lykei-wysse ffor to lame herytykk of the lesse lay. I am jolyere than the jay, Stronge thevys to steke, That wele oure lawys breke, On the wrecchis I wylle be wreke, And hont hem undyr hay.

In kyrtyl of cammaka kynge am I cladde, Cruel and curryd in myn crowne knowe; I sytt here ondyr Sesar in my sette sadde, Sorwyn to sottys suche sede wytt I sowe. Boys now blaberyn bostynge of a baron bad, In Bedlem is born be bestys, suche bost is blowe; I xal prune that paddok and prevyn hym as a pad, Scheldys and sperys shalle I there sowe; My knyghtes xalle rydyn on a rowe, Knave and chylderyn ffor to qwelle, Be Mahound, dyng ne duke of helle, Sowre deth his lyff xalle selle, Suche threttes wolde me overthrowe.

Styward bolde, Walke thou on mowlde, And wysely beholde Alle abowte; Iff any thynge Shuld greve the kynge, Brynge me tydydge, If there be ony dowte.

_Senescallus._ Lord, kynge in crowne, I go fro towne, By bankys browne I wylle abyde; And with erys lyste, Est and west, If any geste On grownde gynnyth glyde.

_Tunc ibit senescallus et obviabit tribus regibus et dicit eis_

Kynges iij., Undyr this tre, In this countré Why wylle ȝe abyde? Herowde is kynge Of this wonynge, Onto his dwellynge Now xul ȝe glyde.

_Primus Rex._ Nowe lede us alle To the kynges halle, How it befalle, We pray to the. Wyttys to wete He may us pete, In flesshe be glete, Godys frute fre.

_Senescallus._ ffolwith in stownde Upon this grownde, To the castel rownde, I xal ȝow teche Were kynge wonyt wyde, Up in this tyde, In pompe and pryde, His myght gynnyth reche.

Sere kyng in trone, Here comyth anone By strete and stone Kynges thre. They bere present,— What thei have ment, Ne whedyr they arn bent, I cannot se.

_Herodes rex._ I xal hem crave What they have; Iff they rave, Or waxyn wood, I xal hem reve Here wyttys deve, Here hedys cleve, And schedyn here blood.

_Primus rex._ Heyl be thou kynge in kage ful hye, Heyl, we nyghe thin halle ryght nye! Knowyst thou ought that chylde slye He is born here abowth? He is born of a mayd ȝynge, He xal be kynge over every kynge, We go to seke that lovely thynge,— To hym ffayn wolde I lowth.

_Secundus rex._ Balaam spake in prophecye, A sterre xulde ful lovelye Lythtyn upon mayd Marye, Comyn of Jacobys kynne. The childe is born, and lythe here by, Blomyd in a madenys body, A sterre hath strekyn upon the sky And ledde us fayr be fenne.

_Tertius rex._ The sterre hath ledde us out of the Est, To seke a baroun born best; He xal be kynge of myghtes mest, As prophecy gynnyth spelle. We be kynges in wey wery; Syr kynge, ffor thi curtesy, Telle us to that childe so lovely, In what towne gynnyth he dwelle.

_Herodes rex._ ȝe thre kynges rekenyd be rowe, Ley now downe ȝour wurdys lowe, Suche a carpynge is unknowe, Onrekenyd in my regne. I am a kynge of hyȝ degré, Ther xal non ben above me, I have florens and fryhthis fre, Parkys and powndes pleyne.

But goth to fynde that ȝe seche, And yf ȝe knowe suche a leche, And ȝe hym fynde, I ȝow beseche, Comyth aȝen be me. And I xal be bothe blythe and do bowne, That alle worchep to hym be done, With reverens I xal seke hym sone, And honor hym on kne.

And, therfore, kynges, I ȝow pray, Whan ȝe have don ȝour jurnay; Come aȝen this same way. The trewthe to me to telle. Come and telle me as ȝe spede, And I xal qwyte ryght wel ȝour mede, With gold and tresour and ryche wede, With furres ryche and wurth pelle.

_Primus Rex._ Kynge have good day, I go my way, To seche Lord of myght,— He xal be ryght Oure leche.

_Secundus Rex._ Kynge fful sterne, Be felde and ferne, I goo To sekyn a kynge,— He takyth wonynge In woo.

_Tertius Rex._ If we hym finde, Oure kynge ful kynde, Be a may, ffrom kynge and qwen, We comyn aȝen, This day.

_Transient._

_Herodes Rex._ A! fy, fy, on talys that I have ben tolde, Here beforn my cruel kne; How xulde a barn wax so bolde, Be bestys yf he born be? He is yong and I am olde, An hardy kyng of hye degré; This daye tho kyngges xal be kold, If they cum ageyne be me. My goddes I xalle upreyse! A derke devylle with falsnese, I saye, Shalle cast a myst in the kyngges eye, Be bankes and be dalys drey, That be derk thei xalle cum this weyes.

_Primus Rex._ Go we to sek owr lorde and our lech, Yon stere wille us teche the weyis ful sone, To save us from myschyff God I here besech, Onto his joyn that we may rech,— I pray hem of this bone!

_Tunc ibunt reges cum muneribus ad Jhesum et primus rex dicit_,

Heyle be thou, kyng cold clade! Heylle, with maydynys mylk fade! Heylle, I cum to the with gold glade, As wese wrytyng here it record. Golde is the rycheste metalle, And to weryng most ryalle, Gold I gyff the in this halle, And know the for my Lorde.

_Secundus rex._ Lorde, I knele upon my kne; Sote encence I offere to the, Thow xalte be the fyrst of hyȝ degré, None so mekelle of myght! In Goddes howse, as men xalle se, Thow xalt honor the Trynité, Iij. personys in oon Gode free, And alle oo lord of myght!

_Tertius Rex._ Lorde, I knele downe be thy bede, In maydyns flesche thou arte hede, Thy name xal be wyde rede, And kyng over alle kynges. Byttyr myre to the I brynge, ffor byttyr dentes on the thei xalle dyng, And byttyr deth xalle be thi endyng, And therfor I make mornyng.

_Maria._ Kyngges kynde, ffrome the fende God ȝow defende! Homwarde ȝe wende, And to your places ȝe lende, That ȝe xulde tende.

_Primus rex._ Now have we the place fownde, To Herode go we this stownde, With owr wordes we were bownde, That we xulde cum ageyne. Go we a pace and sey owr speche, ffor we have fownde our Lorde and leche; Alle the truth we wylle hem teche, How the kyng is borne of a quene.

_Secundus Rex._ Myn hede is hevy as lympe of leede, But yf I slepe, I am adrede My witt xalle fare the worse; I wax hevy in lyme and flanke, Downe I ley me upone this banke, Under this bryght sterre i-wys.

_Tertius Rex._ Brother, I must lye the bye, I will go never over this stye Tylle I have a slepe. The yong kyng and his mother Mary, Save us alle from every velany! Now Cryst us save and kepe!

_Primus rex._ Such hevynese have us cawght, I must drynk with ȝow a drawght, To slepe a lytyll whyle. I am hevy heed and footte, I xulde stumbylle at rescue and root, And I xulde goo a myle.

_Hic dormiunt reges, et venit angelus, et dicit eis._

_Angelus._ ȝe kyngges on this hille, Werk ȝe not aftyr Herodes wylle, For yf ȝe do, he wylle yow kylle This day or nyght. My lorde ȝow sent this tydyng, To rest yow knygges in rych clothyng, And whan ȝe rysyn and goo to your dwellyng, Tak home the wey fulle ryght. Whether that ȝe be wakyn or slepe, My lorde God xalle yow kepe, In goode tyme ȝe dede downe drepe To take ȝowr rest. Herowdys to the devyl he tryste, To marre ȝow in a thyrke myste, My lord God is ful of lyste, To glathe ȝow for his geste.

And therfore, kynges, whan ȝe ryse, Wendyth forthe be weys wyse, Ther ȝour halle be sett in syse, In dyverse londe. The ffadyr of God in alle thynge Hath ȝow grawntyd his swete blyssynge, He xal ȝow save ffrom alle shendynge, With his ryght honde.

_Tunc surgant reges, et dicat_

_Primus Rex._ A bryght sterre ledde us into Bedleem,— A bryghter thynge I saw in drem, Bryghtere than the sunne beeme, An aungelle I saw ryght here. The fayre floure that here gan falle, ffrom Herowdys kynge he gan us kalle, He taught us hom tylle our halle A wey by another mere.

_Secundus Rex._ I sawghe a syght, Myn hert is lyght To wendyn home. God, fful of myght Hath us dyght ffro develys dome.

_Tertius Rex._ Oure God I blysse, He sent us, i-wys His aungel bryght. Now we be wake, The wey to take Home fulle ryght.

XVIII. THE PURIFICATION.

_Symeon Justus._ I have be prest in Jherusalem here, And tawth Goddys lawe many a ȝere, Desyrynge in alle my mende, That the tyme we neyhand nere, In whiche Goddys son xul apere, In erthe to take mankende. Or I deyd that I myght fynde, My Savyour with myn ey to se; But that it is so longe behynde, It is grett dyscomforte onto me.

ffor I waxe olde and wante my myght, And begynne to fayle my syght, The more I sorwe this tyde; Save only, as I telle ȝow ryght, God of his grace hath me hyght, That blysful byrth to byde; Wherfore now here besyde, To Sancta Sanctorum wyl I go, To pray God to be my gyde, To comfort me aftyr my wo.

_Here Symeon knelyth and seyth_,

A! gode God in Trinité! Whow longe xal I abyde the, Tyl that thou son thou doth sende, That I in erthe myght hym se? Good Lord, consydyr to me, I drawe fast to an ende; That or my strenthis fro me wende, Gode Lorde, send dow thi son, That I with my ful mende, Myght wurcheppe hym, if I con.

Bothe with my fete and hondys to, To go to hym and handele also, My eyn to se hym in certayn. My tonge for to speke hym to, And alle my lemys to werk and do, In his servyse to be bayn. Send forth thi son, my Lord sovereyn, Hastely anon withowte teryenge; ffor fro this world I wolde be ffayn,— It is contrary to my levynge.

_Angelus._ Symeon, leff thi careful stevene, ffor thi prayer is herd in hevene; To Jherusalem ffast now wynne. And ther xalt se ful evene, He that is Goddys son ffor to nevene, In the templ ther thou dwellyst inne. The darknes of orygynal synne, He xal make lyght and clarefye; And now the dede xal begynne, Whiche hath be spokyn be prophecye.

_Symeon._ A! I thank the, Lord of grace, That hath grauntyd me tyme and space, To lyve and byde thys! And I wyl walk now to the place, Where I may se thi sonys face, Whiche is my joye and blys. I was nevyr lyghtere i-wys, To walke nevyr here beforn; ffor a mery tyme now is, Whan God my lord is born.

_Anna Prophetessa._ Al heyl, Symeon! what tydynges with ȝow? Why make ȝe al this myrth now? Telle me whedyr ȝe fare. _Symeon._ Anne prophetes, and ȝe wyst whou, So xulde ȝe, I make avow, And alle maner men that are. ffor Goddys son, as I declare, Is born to bye mankende; Oure Savyour is come to sesyn oure care; Therfore have I grett merthe to wende.

And that is the cawse I hast me Onto the temple hym to se; And therfor lett me not, good frende! _Anna._ Now blyssyd be God in Trinyté, Syn that tyme is come to be, And with ȝow wyl I wende. To se my Savyour ende, And wurcheppe hym also, With alle my wytt and my ful mende, As I am bound, now wyl I do.

_Et tunc ibunt ambo ad templum et prophetissa_,

_Symeon._ In the temple of God who undyrstod, This day xal be offeryd with mylde mood, Whiche that is kynge of alle; That xal be skorgyd and shedde his blood, And aftyr dyen on the rood, Withowtyn cawse to calle. ffor whos passyon ther xal beffalle, Swyche a sorwe bothe sharpe and smerte; That a swerd perce it xalle, ȝevene thorwe his moderys herte.

_Anna._ ȝa, that xal be, as I wel fynde, ffor redempcion of alle mankende, That blysse ffor to restore. Whiche hath be lost fro oute of mende, As be oure fadyr of oure owyn kende, Adam and Eve beffore.

_Maria._ Joseph my husbond withowtyn mys, ȝe wote that ffourty days nere is, Sythe my sonys byrth fful ryght; Wherfore we must to the temple i-wys, Therfor to offre oure sone of blys, Up to his fadyr in hyght. And I in Goddys syght, Puryfyed ffor to be; In clene sowle with al my myght, In presence of the Trinyté.