Part 3
My semely spowse and good husbond, Lystenyth to me, sere, I ȝow pray, Take this ffayr appyl alle in ȝour hond, Therof a mursel byte and asay. To ete this appyl, loke that ȝe fonde, Goddys ffelaw to be alway, Alle his wysdam to undyrstonde, And Goddys pere to be ffor ay, Alle thyng for to make,— Bothe ffysche and foule, se and sond, Byrd and best, watyr and lond; This appyl thou take out of myn hond, A bete therof thou take.
_Adam._ I dare not towche thin hand ffor dred Of oure lord God omnypotent, If I xuld werke after thi reed, Of God oure makere I xuld be shent. If that we do this synful dede, We xal be ded by Goddys jugement. Out of thin hand with hasty spede, Cast out that appyl anon present, ffor fer of Goddys threte. _Eva._ Of this appyl yf thou wylt byte, Goddys pere thou xalt be pyht, So wys of kunnyng, I the plyht, This frute yf thou wylt ete.
_Adam._ If we it ete oureself we kylle, As God us told we xuld be ded; To ete that frute and my lyf to spylle, I dar not do aftyr thi reed. _Eva._ A ffayr aungelle thus seyd me tylle, “To ete that appyl take nevyr no dred, So kunnyng as God in hevyn hille, Thou xalt sone be withinne a sted, Therfore this frute thou ete.” _Adam._ Off Goddys wysdam for to lere, And in kunnyng to be his pere, Of thyn hand I take it here, And xal sone tast this mete.
_Adam dicet sic._
Alas! alas! ffor this fals dede, My flesly frend my fo I fynde, Schameful synne doth us unhede, I se us nakyd before and behynde. Oure lordes wurd wold we not drede, Therfore we be now caytyvys unkynde, Oure pore prevytés ffor to hede, Summe ffygge-levys fayn wolde I fynde, ffor to hyde oure schame. Womman, ley this leff on thi pryvyté, And with this leff I xal hyde me, Gret schame it is us nakyd to se, Oure lord God thus to grame.
_Eva._ Alas! that evyr that speche was spokyn, That the fals aungel seyd onto me, Alas! oure makers byddyng is brokyn, ffor I have towchyd his owyn dere tre. Oure fflescly eyn byn al unlokyn, Nakyd for synne ouresylf we se, That sory appyl that we han sokyn, To dethe hathe brouth my spouse and me, Ryth grevous is oure synne. Of mekyl shame now do we knowe, Alas! that evyr this appyl was growe, To dredful deth now be we throwe, In peyne us evyr to pynne.
_Deus._ Adam, that with myn handys I made, Where art thou now? what hast thou wrought? _Adam._ A! lord, for synne oure floures do ffade, I here thi voys, but I se the nought. _Deus._ Adam, why hast thou synnyd so sone, Thus hastyly to breke my bone, And I made the mayster, undyr mone, Trewly of every tre. O tre I kept for my owe, Lyff and deth therin I knowe, Thi synne fro lyf now the hath throwe, ffrom deth thou mayst not fle.
_Adam._ Lord I have wrought aȝens thi wylle, I sparyd nat mysylf to spylle, The woman that thou toke me tylle, Sche brougth me therto. It was here counselle and here reed, Sche bad me do the same deed, I walke as werme withowtyn wede, A wey is schrowde and sho.
_Deus._ Womman that arte this mannys wyffe, Why hast thou steryd ȝour bothers stryffe? Now ȝe be ffrom ȝour ffayr lyffe, And are demyd for to deye. Unwys womman, sey me why, That thou hast don this fowle foly, And I made the a gret lady, In paradys for to pleye?
_Eva._ Lord! whan thou wentyst from this place, A werm with an aungelys face, He hyth us to be ful of grace, The frute yf that we ete. I dyd his byddyng, alas! alas! Now we be bowndyn in dethis las, I suppose it was Sathanas, To peyne he gan us pete.
_Deus._ Thou werm with thi wylys wyk, Thi fals fablis thei be ful thyk, Why hast thou put dethis pryk In Adam and his wyff? Thow thei bothyn my byddyng have brokyn, Out of whoo ȝet art not wrokyn, In helle logge thou xalt be loky[n], And nevyr mo lacche lyff.
_Diabolus._ I xal the sey whereffore and why I ded hem alle this velony, ffor I am ful of gret envy, Of wrethe and wyckyd hate. That man xulde leve above the sky, Where as sumtyme dwellyd I, And now I am cast to helle sty, Streyte out at hevyn gate.
_Deus._ Adam! ffor thou that appyl boot, Aȝens my byddyng, welle I woot, Go teyl thi mete with swynk and swoot, Into thi lyvys ende. Goo nakyd, ungry, and bare ffoot, Ete bothe erbys, gres, and root, Thy bale hath non other boot, As wrecche in werlde thou wende.
Womman thou sowtyst this synnyng, And bad hym breke myn byddyng, Therfore thou xalt ben undyrlyng, To mannys byddyng bend. What he byddyth the, do thou that thynge, And bere thi chyldere with gret gronynge, In daungere and in deth dredynge, Into thi lyvys ende.
Thou wyckyd worm fful of pryde, ffowle envye syt be thi syde, Upon thi gutt thou xalt glyde, As werm wyckyd in kende. Tyl a maydon in medyl-erth be borne, Thou ffende I warn the beforn, Thorwe here thi bed xal be to-torn, On wombe awey thou wende.
_Diabolus._ At thi byddyng ffowle I falle, I krepe hem to my stynkyng stalle, Helle pyt and hevyn halle, Xul do thi byddyng bone. I ffalle downe here a ffowle freke, ffor this ffalle I gynne to qweke, With a ffart my breche I breke, My sorwe comyth ful sone.
_Deus._ ffor ȝour synne that ȝe have do, Out of this blysse sone xal ȝe go, In erthely labour to levyn in wo, And sorwe the xal atast. ffor your synne and mysdoyng, An angelle with a swerd brennyng, Out of this joye he xal ȝow dyng, ȝour welthe awey is past.
_Hic recedit Deus, et angelus seraphicus cum gladio fflammea verberat Adam et Evam extra Paradisum._
_Seraphim._ȝe wrecchis unkend and ryht unwyse, Out of this joye hyȝ ȝow in hast, With fflammyng swerd ffrom paradyse To peyn I bete ȝow, of care to tast. ȝour myrthe is turnyd to carfulle syse, ȝour welthe with synne awey is wast, ffor ȝour ffalse dede of synful gyse, This blysse I spere ffrom ȝow ryth fast. Here in come ȝe no more; Tyl a chylde of a mayd be born, And upon the rode rent and torn, To save alle that ȝe have forlorn, ȝour welthe ffor to restore.
_Eva._ Alas! alas! and wele away, That evyr towchyd I the tre; I wende as wrecche in welsom way, In blake busshys my boure xal be. In paradys is plenté of pleye, ffayr frutys ryth gret plenté, The ȝatys be schet with Godys keye, My husbond is lost because of me. Leve spowse now thou fonde, Now stomble we on stalk and ston, My wyt awey is fro me gon, Wrythe on to my necke bon, With hardnesse of thin honde.
_Adam._ Wyff, thi wytt is not wurthe a rosche, Leve woman, turne thi thought, I wyl not sle fflescly of my fflesche, ffor of my flesche thi fflesche was wrought. Oure hap was hard, oure wytt was nesche, To paradys whan we were brought, My wepyng xal be longe ffresche, Schort lykyng xal be longe bought. No more telle thou that tale, ffor yf I xulde sle my wyff, I sclow myself withowtyn knyff, In helle logge to lede my lyff, With woo in wepyng dale.
But lete us walke forthe into the londe, With ryth gret labour oure fode to fynde, With delvyng and dyggyng with myn hond, Oure blysse to bale and care to-pynde. And, wyff, to spynne now must thou ffonde, Oure nakyd bodyes in clothe to wynde, Tylle sum comforthe of Godys sonde, With grace releve oure careful mynde. Now come go we hens, wyff.
_Eva._ Alas! that ever we wrought this synne, Oure bodely sustenauns for to wynne, ȝe must delve and I xal spynne, In care to ledyn oure lyff.
III. CAIN AND ABEL.
_Abeele._ I wolde ffayn knowe how I xuld do, To serve my lord God to his plesyng; Therfore, Caym, brother, lete us now go Unto oure ffadyr withowte lettyng, Suenge hym in vertu and in norture To com to the hyȝer joy celestyalle, Remembryng to be clene and pure, For in mysrewle we myth lythly falle Aȝens hevyn kynge. Lete us now don oure dyligens, To come to oure faderes presens, Good brother, passe we hens, To knowe ffor oure levynge.
_Caym._ As to my fadyr, lete us now tee To knowe what xal be his talkyng; And that I holde it but vanyté, To go to hym ffor any spekyng, To lere of his lawe. ffor if I have good anow plenté, I kan be mery, so mot y the, Thow my fadyr I nevyr se, I ȝyf not therof an hawe.
_Abel._ Ryth sovereyn fadyr, semely sad and sure, Ever we thank ȝow in hert, body, and thowth, And alwey shulle whylle oure lyf may indure, As inwardly in hert it kan be sought, Bothe my brother and I. ffadyr, I ffalle onto ȝour kne, To knowe how we xul rewlyd be, ffor Godys that ffallyth bothe hym and me, I wolde ffayn wete trewly.
_Adam._ Sonys, ȝe arn to spekyn naturaly, The ffyrst ffrute of kendely engendrure, Befforn whom, saff ȝour modyr and I, Were nevyr non of mannys nature. And ȝit were we al of another portature, As ȝe have me oftyn herd seyd sothly; Wherfore, sonys, yf ȝe wyl lyff sad and sure, ffyrst I ȝow counseylle most syngulerly, God ffor to love and drede. And suche good as God hath ȝow sent, The fyrst frute offyr to hym in sacryfice brent, Hym evyr besechyng with meke entent, In alle ȝour werkys to save and spede.
_Abeelle._ Gramercy, ffadyr, ffor ȝour good doctrine, ffor as ȝe us techyn so xal we do, And as ffor me thoro Goddys grace dyvyne, I wyl fforthwith applye me therto. _Cayme._ And thow me be lothe I wyl now also Onto ȝour counselle, ffadyr, me inclyne; And ȝitt I say now to ȝow bothe too, I had levyr gon hom welle ffor to dyne. _Adam._ Now, God, graunt good sacryfice to ȝow bothe too, He vowchesaff to acceptyn ȝow and alle myne, And ȝeve ȝow now grace to plesyn hym soo, That ȝe may come to that blysse that hymself is inne, With gostly grace. That alle ȝour here levyng May be to his plesyng, And at ȝour hens partyng, To come to good place.
_Abelle dicet._
Almyhtty God, and God ful of myth, Be whom alle thing is made of nowth, To the myn hert is redy dyht, For upon the is alle my thought. O sovereyn lord! reygnyng in eternyté, With alle the mekenesse that I kan or may, This lombe xal I offre it up to the,— Accept it, blyssyd Lord! I the pray. My ȝyft is but sympyl, this is no nay, But my wyl is good and evyr xal be, The to servyn and worchepyn bothe nyht and day, And therto thi grace, Lord, grawnt thou me, Throwhe thi gret mercy, Whiche in a lombys lyknes Thou xalt for mannys wyckydnes Onys ben offeryd in peynfulnes And deyn ful dolfoly.
ffor trewly, Lord, thow art most worthy The best to have in eche degré, Bothe beste and werst ful certeynly, Alle is had thorowe grace of the. The best schep fulle hertyly, Amonges my flok that I kan se, I tythe it to God of gret mercy, And bettyr wolde, if bettyr myht be,— Evyn here is myn offryng. I tythe to the with ryht good wylle, Of the best thou sentyst me tylle. Now, gracyous God on hevyn hille, Accept now my tythyng.
_Caym._ Amonges alle ffolys that gon on grownd, I holde that thou be on of the most, To tythe the best that is most sownd, And kepe the werst that is nere lost. But I more wysly xal werke this stownde, To tythe the werst, and make no bost, Off alle my cornys that may be fownde, In alle my ffeldys bothe crofte and cost, I xal lokyn on every syde. Here I tythe this unthende sheff, Lete God take it or ellys lef, Thow it be to me gret repreff, I ȝeve no ffors this tyde.
_Abelle._ Now Caym, brother, thou dost ful ille, ffor God the sent bothe best and werst, Therfore thou shewe to hym good wylle, And tythe to God evyr of the best. _Caym._ In feyth, thou shewyst now a febylle skylle, It wolde me hyndyr and do me greff, What were God the better, thou sey me tylle, To ȝevyn hym awey my best sheff, And kepe myself the wers? He wylle neyther ete nor drynke, ffor he doth neyther swete nor swynke: Thou shewyst a ffebyl reson, me thynke, What thou fonnyst as a best I gesse.
_Abelle._ ȝit me thynkyth my wyt is good. To God evermore sum love to shewe, Off whom we have oure dayly food, And ellys we had but lytyl drewe. _Caym._ ȝitt me thynkeht thi wytt is wood, ffor of thi lore I ffynde but ffewe; I wylle never the more chawnge my mood, ffor no wordys that thou dost shewe; I sey I wylle tythe the werst. _Abelle._ Now God, that syt in hefne above, On whom is sett alle myn hool love, This wyckyd wylle from the he showe, As it plesyth hym best!
_Hic ardent decimum Abel et Caym; quo facto, dicent_,
_Caym._ Herke, Abel, brother, what aray is this, Thy tythyng brennyth as ffyre fful bryght, It is to me gret wondyr i-wys, I trow this is now a straunge syght. _Abelle._ Goddys wylle fforsothe it is, That my tythyng with fyre is lyth, ffor of the best were my tythis, And of the werst thou dedyst hym dyght, Bad thyng thou hym bede. Of the best was my tythyng, And of the werst was thin offryng, Therfor God Almyghty, hevyn kyng, Alowyht ryht nowth thi dede.
_Caym._ What? thou stynkyng losel, and is it so? Doth God the love and hatyht me? Thou xalt be ded, I xal the slo, Thi Lord thi God thou xalt nevyr se! Tythyng more xalt thou nevyr do, With this chavyl bon I xal sle the, Thi deth is dyht, thi days be go, Out of myn handys xalt thou not fle, With this strok I the kylle.— Now this boy is slayn and dede, Of hym I xal nevyr more han drede; He xal hereafter nevyr ete brede, With this gresse I xal hym hylle.
_Deus._ Caym, come fforthe and answere me, Asoyle my qwestyon anon ryght, Thy brother Abel, wher is now he? Ha don, and answere me as tyght. _Caym._ My brothers kepere ho made me? Syn whan was I his kepyng knyght? I kan not telle wher that he be, To kepe hym was I nevyr dyght, I knowe not wher he is. _Deus._ Acursyd Caym, thou art untrewe, And for thi dede thou xalt sore rewe; Thi brothers blood that thou slewe, Askyht vengeauns of thi mys.
Thu xalt be cursyd on the grounde, Unprophitable where so thou wende, Bothe veyn and nowthty and nothyng sounde, With what thing thou medele thou xalt it shende. _Caym._ Alas! in whoo now am I wounde, Acursyd of God, as man unkende; Of any man yf I be founde, He xal me slo, I have no ffrende, Alas and weleaway! _Deus._ Of what man that thou be sclayne, He xal have vij. folde more payn, Hym were bettyr never to be sayn On lyve be nyth ne day.
_Caym._ Alas! alas! whedyr may I go? I dare nevyr se man in the vesage, I am woundyn as a wrecche in wo, And cursyd of God ffor my ffalfage. Unprofytabyl and vayn also, In felde and towne, in strete and stage, I may nevyr make merthis mo, I wot nevyr whedyr to take passage; I dare not here abyde. Now wyl I go wende my way, With sore syeng and welaway, To loke where that I best may ffrom mannys ssyht me hyde.
IV. NOAH’S FLOOD.
_Introitus Noe._
_Noe._ God of his goodnesse and of grace grounde, By whoys gloryous power alle thyng is wrought, In whom alle vertu plentevously is ffounde, Withowtyn whos wyl may be ryth nought; Thy servauntes save, Lord, fro synful sownde, In wyl, in werk, in dede, and in thouht; Oure welth in woo lete nevyr be fownde, Us help, Lord, from synne that we be in brought, Lord God fful of myght! Noe, seres, my name is knowe, My wyff and my chyldere here on rowe, To God we pray with hert ful lowe, To plese hym in his syght.
In me Noe, the secunde age Indede begynnyth, as I ȝow say; Afftyr Adam, withoutyn langage, The secunde fadyr am I in fay. But men of levyng be so owtrage, Bothe be nyght and eke be day, That lesse than synne the soner swage, God wyl be vengyd on us sum way, Indede. Ther may no man go ther owte, But synne regnyth in every rowte, In every place rownde abowte Cursydnes doth sprynge and sprede.
_Uxor Noe._ Allemyghty God, of his gret grace, Enspyre men with hertely wylle, For to sese of here trespace, ffor synfulle levyng oure sowle xal spylle. Synne offendyth God in his face, And agrevyth oure Lorde ffulle ylle, It causyth to man ryght grett manace, And scrapyth hym out of lyvys bylle, That blyssyd book. What man in synne doth alle wey scleppe, He xal gon to helle ful deppe, Than xal he nevyr after creppe Out of the brennyng brook.
I am ȝour wyff, ȝour childeryn these be, Onto us tweyn it doth longe, Hem to teche in alle degré Synne to forsakyn and werkys wronge. Therfore, sere, for love of me, Enforme hem wele evyr amonge, Synne to forsake and vanyté And vertu to ffolwe that thei ffonge, Oure Lord God to plese. _Noe._ I warne ȝow, childeryn, on and alle, Drede oure lord God in hevy[n] halle, And in no forfete that we ne ffalle, Oure Lord for to dysplese.
_Shem._ A! dere ffadyr, God forbede That we xulde do in ony wyse Ony werke of synful dede, Oure lord God that xulde agryse. My name is Shem, ȝour son of prise, I xal werke aftere ȝour rede, And also, wyff, the weylle awyse, Wykkyd werkys that thou none brede, Never in no degré. _Uxor Seem._ fforsothe, sere, be Goddys grace, I xal me kepe from alle trespace, That xulde offende Goddys fface, Be help of the Trynyté.
_Cham._ I am Cham, ȝour secunde sone, And purpose me be Goddys myght, Nevyr suche a dede for to don, That xuld agreve God in syght. _Uxor Cham._ I pray to God me grawnt this bone, That he me kepe in suche a plyght, Mornynge, hevenynge, mydday, and none, I to affendyn hym day nor nyght. Lord God, I the pray, Bothe wakynge and eke in slepe, Gracyous God, thou me keppe, That I nevyr in daunger crepe, On dredffulle domys-day.
_Japhet._ Japhet, thi iij.ᵈᵉ sone, is my name; I pray to God, wher so we be, That he us borwe fro synfulle shame, And in vertuous levynge evyrmore kepe me. _Uxor Japhet._ I am ȝour wyff, and pray the same, That God us save on sonde and se, With no grevauns that we hym grame, He grawnt us grace synne to fle,— Lord God, now here oure bone. _Noe._ Gracyous God, that best may, With herty wyl to the we pray, Thou save us sekyr bothe nyght and day, Synne that we noon done.
_Deus._ Ow, what menyht this myslevyng man, Whiche myn hand made and byldyd in blysse? Synne so sore grevyht me ȝa in certayn, I wol be vengyd of this grett mysse. Myn aungel dere, thou xalt gan To Noe that my servaunt is, A shypp to make on hond to tan Thou byd hym swythe ffor hym and his, ffrom drynchyng hem to save, ffor, as I am God off myght, I xal dystroye this werd downe ryght, Here synne so sore grevyht me in syght, Thei xal no mercy have.
ffecisse hominem nunc pœnitet me! That I made man sore doth me rewe, Myn handwerk to sle sore grevyth me, But that here synne here deth doth brewe. Go sey to Noe, as I bydde the, Hymself, his wyf, his childeryn trewe, Tho viij. sowlys in shyp to be, Thei xul not drede the flodys fflowe, The fflod xal harme them nowht. Of alle ffowlys and bestys thei take a peyre, In shypp to save, bothe ffoule and ffayere, ffrom alle dowtys and gret dyspeyre, This vengeauns or it be wrought.
_Angelus ad Noe._ Noe! Noe! a shypp loke thou make, And many a chaumbyr thou xalt have therinne; Of every kyndys best a cowpyl thou take, Within the shypp here lyvys to wynne. ffor God is sore grevyd with man for his synne, That alle this wyde werd xal be dreynt with flood, Saff thou and thi wyff xal be kept from this gynne, And also thi chylderyn with here vertuys good.
_Noe._ How xuld I have wytt a shypp for to make, I am of ryght grett age, v. c. ȝere olde, It is not for me this werk to undyrtake, ffor ffeythnnesse of age my leggys gyn ffolde. _Angelus._ This dede ffor to do be bothe blythe and bolde, God xal enforme the and rewle the ful ryght, Of berd and of beste take, as I the tolde, A peyr into the shypp, and God xal the qwyght.
_Noe._ I am ful redy as God doth me bydde, A shypp for to make be myght of his grace, Alas! that ffor synne it xal so be betydde, That vengeauns of flood xal werke this manase. God is sore grevyd with oure grett tresspas, That with wylde watyr the werd xal be dreynt; A shyppe for to make now lete us hens pas, That God aȝens us of synne have no compleynt.
_Hic transit Noe cum familia sua pro navi, quo exeunte, locum interludii subintret statim Lameth conductus ab adolescente, et dicens_,
_Lameth._ Gret mornyng I make, and gret cause I have; Alas! now I se not, for age I am blynde, Blyndenes doth make me of wytt for to rave, Whantynge of eye-syght in peyn doth me bynde. Whyl I had syht, ther myht nevyr man fynde My pere of archerye in alle this werd aboute; ffor ȝitt schet I nevyr at hert, are, nere hynde, But yf that he deyd, of this no man have doute.
Lameth “the good archere,” my name was ovyr alle, ffor the best archere myn name dede ever sprede; Record of my boy, here wytnes this he xal, What merk that were set me to deth it xuld blede. _Adolescens._ It is trewe, mayster, that ȝe seyn, indede; ffor that tyme ȝe had ȝoure bowe bent in honde, If that ȝour prycke had be half a myle in brede, ȝe wolde the pryk han hitte, if ȝe ny had stonde.
_Lameth._ I xuld nevyr affayled what marke that ever were sett, Whyl that I myght loke and had my clere syght; And ȝitt, as me thynkyht, no man xuld shete bett Than I xuld do now, if myn hand were sett aryght. Aspye some marke, boy, my bowe xal I bende wyght, And sett myn hand evyn to shete at some best; And I dare ley a wagour his deth for to dyght, The marke xal I hitt, my lyff do I hest.
_Adolescens._ Undyr ȝon grett bushe, mayster, a best do I se, Take me thin hand swythe and holde it ful stylle, Now is thin hand evyn as evyr it may be, Drawe up thin takylle ȝon best for to kylle. _Lameth._ My bowe xal I drawe ryght with herty wylle, This brod arwe I shete that best ffor to saylle; Now have at that busche ȝon best for to spylle, A sharppe schote I shote, therof I xall not faylle.
_Cayn._ Out, out, and alas! myn hert is on sondyr. With a brod arwe I am ded and sclayn! I dye here on grounde, myn hert is alle to tundyr, With this brod arwe it is clovyn on twayn! _Lameth._ Herke, boy, cum telle me the trewthe in certeyn, What man is he that this cry doth thus make? _Adolescens._ Caym thou hast kyllyd, I telle the ful pleyn, With thi sharp shetyng his dethe hath he take.
_Lameth._ Have I slayn Cayme? Alas! what have I done? Thou stynkynge lurdeyn, what hast thou wrought? Thou art the why I scle hym so sone, Therfore xal I kylle the here, thou skapyst nowght.