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 |
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 | St. Patrick's Purgatory |  |
But as he stode vp and loked abowte,
Of deueles he syȝe [a] full gret rowte.
‘Knyȝte,’ þey sayde, ‘why standes þou here?
And wher ar all þy false feere?
They tolde þe þat þys was helle,
But oþurwyse we shull þe telle.
Come wyth vs a lytyll sowth,
We shall þe lede to þe deuelus mowth.’
They drewe hym be þe hatere,
Tyll þey come to a gret water,
Broode and blakke as any pyke;
Sowles wer þeryn, mony and thykke,
And also deueles on eche a syde,
As þykke as flowres yn someres tyde.
The watur stonke fowle þerto,
And dede þe soles mykyll woo.
Vp þey come to ese hem a stownde,
Þe deuelus drewe hem aȝeyn to þe grownde.
Ouur þe watur a brygge þer was,
Forsoþe kener þen ony glasse.
Hyt was narowe and hyt was hyȝe,
Vneþe þat oþur ende he syȝe.
The myddyll was hyȝe, þe ende was lowe,
Hyt ferde as hyt hadde ben a bent bowe.
The deuell sayde, ‘Knyȝte, her may þou se
Into helle þe ryȝte entre.
Ouur þys brygge þou moste wende;
Wynde and rayne we shull þe sende.
We shull þe sende wynde full goode
That shall þe caste ynto þe floode.’
Syr Owayne kneled þer adowne,
To God he made hys orysowne:
‘Lord God,’ he sayde, ‘full of myȝte,
Haue mercy on me, synfull knyȝte.
Wynde and rayne ys at þy wyll,
And all wederes lowde and styll.
Thow kanste make wynde to blowe,
And when þou lyst, to lye full lowe.
Sende me, lorde, þy swete grace,
That y may þys brygge passe.
Help, lorde, þat y þerin not falle,
Forto lese my labour all.’
To þe brygge anon he ȝede,
‘Jhesu,’ he sayde, ‘help at þys nede.’
Hys on foote he sette fyrste þeron,
And called to Jhesu ryȝth anoon.
He felte hys foote stonde stedfastly,
And þat oþur foote he sette þerby.
He called to helpe yn þat place
Jhesu, þat euur shall be and euur was.
The brygge wax a lytyll bradder
Then waxe Syr Owayne gladder;
But when he come ynto þe mydde,
Euury deuell wyth oþur chydde,
And for he sholde falle by,
All þey toke vp a grete cry.
That crye, hym þowȝt, greuede hym more
Then all þe payne he hadde before.
Neuurþelatter, forth he wente,
In God was all hys entente.
So brode þe brygge wax þoo,
That waynes myȝth þeron haue goo.
Ouur þat he come full sone,
Then was þe deuell power done.
He þonked God yn all hys þowȝth,
That hadde hym harmelese ouur browȝth.
Forth he wente a lytull whyle,
The mowntenance of halfe a myle.
He sawe a wall wondyr fayr,
Hym þowȝte hyt lasted ynto þe ayr;
Hyt was whyte and bryȝth as glasse,
He cowþe not wyte what hyt was.
When he was nyȝ þerat,
Agayne hym openede a fayr ȝate,
Full craftyly for þe nones,
Of metall and of presyous stones.
Out at þe ȝate come a smell,
Well nyȝ for joye downe he fell.
As þer hadde ben all maner of flourres,
Such w[er] þ[e] swete sauourres;
Non erdely sauour, be a þowsandfolde,
Myȝth not to þat sauour be tolde.
Then hym thowȝte he was so lyȝte,
Off þat sauour and of þat syȝte,
That all þe sorow þat he hadde sene,
And all þe payne þat he hadde yn bene,
All was forȝeten yn hy[s] þowȝth,
And of hyt he sette ryȝth nowȝth.
As he stode and was so fayne,
Hym þowȝth þer come hym agayne
A swyde fayr processyoun
Of all maner men of relygyoun.
Fayre vestymentes þey hadde on,
So ryche syȝ he neuer non.
Myche joye hym þowȝte to se
Bysshopes yn her dygnyte.
Ilkone wente oþur be and be,
Euery man yn hys degre.
He syȝ þer monkes and chanones,
And freres wyth newe shauen crownes;
Ermytes he sawe þeramonge,
And nonnes wyth full mery songe;
Persones, prestes and vycaryes,
They made full mery melodyes.
He syȝ þer kynges and emperoures,
And dukes þat hadde casteles and tourres;
Erles and barones fele
That sometyme hadde þe worldes wele.
Oþur folke he syȝ also,
Neuur so mony as he dede þoo.
Wymmen he syȝ þer that tyde,
Myche was þe joye þer on euery syde,
Of deueles he syȝe [a] full gret rowte.
‘Knyȝte,’ þey sayde, ‘why standes þou here?
And wher ar all þy false feere?
They tolde þe þat þys was helle,
But oþurwyse we shull þe telle.
Come wyth vs a lytyll sowth,
We shall þe lede to þe deuelus mowth.’
They drewe hym be þe hatere,
Tyll þey come to a gret water,
Broode and blakke as any pyke;
Sowles wer þeryn, mony and thykke,
And also deueles on eche a syde,
As þykke as flowres yn someres tyde.
The watur stonke fowle þerto,
And dede þe soles mykyll woo.
Vp þey come to ese hem a stownde,
Þe deuelus drewe hem aȝeyn to þe grownde.
Ouur þe watur a brygge þer was,
Forsoþe kener þen ony glasse.
Hyt was narowe and hyt was hyȝe,
Vneþe þat oþur ende he syȝe.
The myddyll was hyȝe, þe ende was lowe,
Hyt ferde as hyt hadde ben a bent bowe.
The deuell sayde, ‘Knyȝte, her may þou se
Into helle þe ryȝte entre.
Ouur þys brygge þou moste wende;
Wynde and rayne we shull þe sende.
62
That shall þe caste ynto þe floode.’
Syr Owayne kneled þer adowne,
To God he made hys orysowne:
‘Lord God,’ he sayde, ‘full of myȝte,
Haue mercy on me, synfull knyȝte.
Wynde and rayne ys at þy wyll,
And all wederes lowde and styll.
Thow kanste make wynde to blowe,
And when þou lyst, to lye full lowe.
Sende me, lorde, þy swete grace,
That y may þys brygge passe.
Help, lorde, þat y þerin not falle,
Forto lese my labour all.’
To þe brygge anon he ȝede,
‘Jhesu,’ he sayde, ‘help at þys nede.’
Hys on foote he sette fyrste þeron,
And called to Jhesu ryȝth anoon.
He felte hys foote stonde stedfastly,
And þat oþur foote he sette þerby.
He called to helpe yn þat place
Jhesu, þat euur shall be and euur was.
The brygge wax a lytyll bradder
Then waxe Syr Owayne gladder;
But when he come ynto þe mydde,
Euury deuell wyth oþur chydde,
And for he sholde falle by,
All þey toke vp a grete cry.
That crye, hym þowȝt, greuede hym more
Then all þe payne he hadde before.
Neuurþelatter, forth he wente,
In God was all hys entente.
So brode þe brygge wax þoo,
That waynes myȝth þeron haue goo.
Ouur þat he come full sone,
Then was þe deuell power done.
He þonked God yn all hys þowȝth,
That hadde hym harmelese ouur browȝth.
64
The mowntenance of halfe a myle.
He sawe a wall wondyr fayr,
Hym þowȝte hyt lasted ynto þe ayr;
Hyt was whyte and bryȝth as glasse,
He cowþe not wyte what hyt was.
When he was nyȝ þerat,
Agayne hym openede a fayr ȝate,
Full craftyly for þe nones,
Of metall and of presyous stones.
Out at þe ȝate come a smell,
Well nyȝ for joye downe he fell.
As þer hadde ben all maner of flourres,
Such w[er] þ[e] swete sauourres;
Non erdely sauour, be a þowsandfolde,
Myȝth not to þat sauour be tolde.
Then hym thowȝte he was so lyȝte,
Off þat sauour and of þat syȝte,
That all þe sorow þat he hadde sene,
And all þe payne þat he hadde yn bene,
All was forȝeten yn hy[s] þowȝth,
And of hyt he sette ryȝth nowȝth.
As he stode and was so fayne,
Hym þowȝth þer come hym agayne
A swyde fayr processyoun
Of all maner men of relygyoun.
Fayre vestymentes þey hadde on,
So ryche syȝ he neuer non.
Myche joye hym þowȝte to se
Bysshopes yn her dygnyte.
Ilkone wente oþur be and be,
Euery man yn hys degre.
He syȝ þer monkes and chanones,
And freres wyth newe shauen crownes;
Ermytes he sawe þeramonge,
And nonnes wyth full mery songe;
Persones, prestes and vycaryes,
They made full mery melodyes.
He syȝ þer kynges and emperoures,
And dukes þat hadde casteles and tourres;
66
That sometyme hadde þe worldes wele.
Oþur folke he syȝ also,
Neuur so mony as he dede þoo.
Wymmen he syȝ þer that tyde,
Myche was þe joye þer on euery syde,
| St. Patrick's Purgatory | |