St. Patrick's Purgatory Two versions of Owayne Miles and The Vision of William of Stranton: Together with the long text of the Tractatus de Purgatorio Sancti Patricii |
 |
 | St. Patrick's Purgatory |  |
Þen sayde þe knyȝth, ‘I dowte you nowȝth.
I betake me to hym þat me hatht wroght.’
Þen þe fendes made a fyre anone
Of blakke pyche and of brenstone.
Þey caste þe knyȝth þeryn forto brenne,
And all þey begonne on hym to grenne.
Þe knyȝth þat payne full sore he þowȝth,
To Jhesu he called whyle he mowȝth.
‘Jhesu,’ he sayde, ‘full of pyte,
Help and haue mercy on me.’
All þat fyre was qweynte anone,
Þe fendes flowen away euurychone,
And þen knyȝth anone vp stode,
As hym hadde ayled nowȝt but gode,
All alone belefte yn þat place,
And he þonked God of all hys grace.
Then was he bolder forto stonde,
Ȝyf þat þey wolde hym more fonde.
Ther come deueles oþur mony mo,
And badde þe knyȝth wyth hem to go,
And ladde hym into a fowle contreye
Wher euur was nyȝth and neuur day,
For hyt was derke and wonþur colde;
Ȝette was þer neuur man so bolde,
Hadde he neuur so mony cloþus on,
But he wolde be colde as ony stone.
Wynde herde he none blowe,
But faste hyt frese, boþe hye and lowe.
They browȝte hym to a felde full brode,
Ouer suche anoþur neuur he yode,
For of þe lenghte non ende he knewe,
Therouer algate he moste nowe.
As he wente he herde a crye,
He wondered what hyt was and why.
He syȝ þer men and wymmen also
That lowde cryed, for hem was woo.
They leyen þykke on euury londe,
Faste nayled boþe fote and honde
Wyth nayles glowyng all of brasse;
Þey ete þe erþe, so wo hem was,
Her face was nayled to þe grownde,
‘Spare,’ þey cryde, ‘a lytyll stounde!’
The deueles wolde hem not spare,
To [d]o hem peyne þey thowȝte yare.
Th[e] deueles speke to Syr Owayne,
‘Knyȝth, wylt þou ȝet turne agayne,
And we wyll yn a lytull stownde
Brynge þe vp hole and sownde;
And þer may þou lyfe a good whyle,
Bothe wyth gamen and wyth gyle.
And þen whenne þou art dede raþe
Thow shalt haue þe lesse skaþe,
For bettyr hyt ys þy sowle be yn woo,
Then þy sowle and þy body also,
For ȝyf þat þou here abyde,
Thus euyll þe shall betyde.’
The knyȝth answered to all þe rowte,
‘Off ȝour thret haue I no dowte.
Thus shull ȝe me not fere,
For my sowle ys elleswhere.’
Then þey caste on hym her clawe,
Syr Owayn was aferde, I trowe.
They browȝte forde nayles long,
Glowyng all afyre well strong.
They wolde haue dryuen þorow hys fete
Tho brennyng nayles wonþur grete.
‘Jhesu,’ he sayde, ‘full of myȝte,
Haue mercy on me, synfull knyȝth.’
The deueles flowen awey euerychon,
And lefte Syr Oweyn þer alone.
‘Lorde,’ he sayde, ‘I thanke hyt þe,
At euery nede þou helpest me.’
Some of þe fendes turned aȝeyne,
And forþ þey ladde Syr Owayne
Full ferre into anoþer felde,
In such on bare he neuur shelde.
Hyt was lengur and well more
Then þat felde was byfore.
And as he loked hym besyde,
He syȝ þer pyttus mony and wyde;
Thykke þey were as þey myȝth bene,
Oneþe was þer a fote hem betwene,
And all maner of metall
He syȝ þer yn þe pyttus wall.
Men and wymmen þer wer also
In þo pyttus abydyng wo;
Some wer þerinne vp to þe chynne,
And ȝet hadde þey noȝt bete her synne;
And some wer vp to þe pappus,
And some wer yn to [þe] shappus,
And some wer yn to þe kne;
They wolde full fayne out haue be.
Then þe fendes anone ryȝte,
In a pytte þey caste þe knyȝthe.
So sore aferde he was of that,
That almost he God forȝate;
But as Goddus wyll was,
Whenne he felte þe hote brasse,
‘Jhesu,’ he sayde, wyth good entente,
‘Helpe, lorde, at þys turnemente.’
Whenne he þe name of Jhesu called,
Ther was no fyr þat hym myȝte skalde,
But anone he was out caste,
And þe deueles flowen awaye faste.
I betake me to hym þat me hatht wroght.’
Þen þe fendes made a fyre anone
Of blakke pyche and of brenstone.
Þey caste þe knyȝth þeryn forto brenne,
And all þey begonne on hym to grenne.
Þe knyȝth þat payne full sore he þowȝth,
To Jhesu he called whyle he mowȝth.
‘Jhesu,’ he sayde, ‘full of pyte,
Help and haue mercy on me.’
All þat fyre was qweynte anone,
Þe fendes flowen away euurychone,
And þen knyȝth anone vp stode,
As hym hadde ayled nowȝt but gode,
52
And he þonked God of all hys grace.
Then was he bolder forto stonde,
Ȝyf þat þey wolde hym more fonde.
Ther come deueles oþur mony mo,
And badde þe knyȝth wyth hem to go,
And ladde hym into a fowle contreye
Wher euur was nyȝth and neuur day,
For hyt was derke and wonþur colde;
Ȝette was þer neuur man so bolde,
Hadde he neuur so mony cloþus on,
But he wolde be colde as ony stone.
Wynde herde he none blowe,
But faste hyt frese, boþe hye and lowe.
They browȝte hym to a felde full brode,
Ouer suche anoþur neuur he yode,
For of þe lenghte non ende he knewe,
Therouer algate he moste nowe.
As he wente he herde a crye,
He wondered what hyt was and why.
He syȝ þer men and wymmen also
That lowde cryed, for hem was woo.
They leyen þykke on euury londe,
Faste nayled boþe fote and honde
Wyth nayles glowyng all of brasse;
Þey ete þe erþe, so wo hem was,
Her face was nayled to þe grownde,
‘Spare,’ þey cryde, ‘a lytyll stounde!’
The deueles wolde hem not spare,
To [d]o hem peyne þey thowȝte yare.
Th[e] deueles speke to Syr Owayne,
‘Knyȝth, wylt þou ȝet turne agayne,
And we wyll yn a lytull stownde
Brynge þe vp hole and sownde;
And þer may þou lyfe a good whyle,
Bothe wyth gamen and wyth gyle.
And þen whenne þou art dede raþe
Thow shalt haue þe lesse skaþe,
54
Then þy sowle and þy body also,
For ȝyf þat þou here abyde,
Thus euyll þe shall betyde.’
The knyȝth answered to all þe rowte,
‘Off ȝour thret haue I no dowte.
Thus shull ȝe me not fere,
For my sowle ys elleswhere.’
Then þey caste on hym her clawe,
Syr Owayn was aferde, I trowe.
They browȝte forde nayles long,
Glowyng all afyre well strong.
They wolde haue dryuen þorow hys fete
Tho brennyng nayles wonþur grete.
‘Jhesu,’ he sayde, ‘full of myȝte,
Haue mercy on me, synfull knyȝth.’
The deueles flowen awey euerychon,
And lefte Syr Oweyn þer alone.
‘Lorde,’ he sayde, ‘I thanke hyt þe,
At euery nede þou helpest me.’
Some of þe fendes turned aȝeyne,
And forþ þey ladde Syr Owayne
Full ferre into anoþer felde,
In such on bare he neuur shelde.
Hyt was lengur and well more
Then þat felde was byfore.
58
He syȝ þer pyttus mony and wyde;
Thykke þey were as þey myȝth bene,
Oneþe was þer a fote hem betwene,
And all maner of metall
He syȝ þer yn þe pyttus wall.
Men and wymmen þer wer also
In þo pyttus abydyng wo;
Some wer þerinne vp to þe chynne,
And ȝet hadde þey noȝt bete her synne;
And some wer vp to þe pappus,
And some wer yn to [þe] shappus,
And some wer yn to þe kne;
They wolde full fayne out haue be.
Then þe fendes anone ryȝte,
In a pytte þey caste þe knyȝthe.
So sore aferde he was of that,
That almost he God forȝate;
60
Whenne he felte þe hote brasse,
‘Jhesu,’ he sayde, wyth good entente,
‘Helpe, lorde, at þys turnemente.’
Whenne he þe name of Jhesu called,
Ther was no fyr þat hym myȝte skalde,
But anone he was out caste,
And þe deueles flowen awaye faste.
| St. Patrick's Purgatory | |