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 |  |
For all was joye þat wyth hem ferde,
And myche solempnyte þer he herde.
Fayre þey wellcomed Syr Oweyne,
All þat þer was of hym were fayne.
Then come to hym þore
Two bysshoppus, as hyt wore.
They welcomede hym and ȝode hym by,
Forto bere hym company,
And schewede hym, þat he myȝth se,
The fayrnesse of þat cowntre.
Hyt was grene and full of flowres
Of mony dyuers colowres;
Hyt was grene on euery syde,
As medewus are yn someres tyde.
Ther were trees growyng full grene,
Full of fruyte euurmore, y wene;
For þer was frwyte of mony a kynde,
Suche yn þys londe may no mon fynde.
Ther þey haue þe Tree of Lyfe,
Theryn ys myrthe and neuur stryfe.
Frwyte of wysdom also þer ys,
Of þe whyche Adam and Eue dede amysse.
Oþur maner frwytes þer were fele,
And all manere joye and wele.
Moche folke he syȝ þer dwelle,
Ther was no tonge þat myȝth hem telle.
All wer þey cloded yn ryche wede,
What cloþ hyt was he kowþe not rede,
But shapte þey hadde yn all maner
As folke þat wonede somtyme her.
By þe cloþus men myȝthe hem knowe,
As þey stode vpon a rowe,
Ȝonge and olde, more and lasse,
As hyt her owene wyll was.
Ther was no wronge, but euur ryȝth,
Euur day and neuer nyȝth;
They shone as bryȝth and more clere
Then ony sonne yn þe day doth her.
The two bysshopes turnede aȝeyne,
And speke fayr to Syr Owayne.
‘Blessed be þou,’ þey sayden þoo,
‘That haddeste wyll þys way to goo.
Purgatorye þou haste ben inne
To haue forȝeuenesse of þy synne;
Loke þat þou do synne no more,
For þou shalt neuur efte come þore.
We haue gone þe way þer þou was,
And we haue passed þat ylke plas.
So shall yche man aftur hys day,
Pore and ryche, go that way,
For þer ys mony a mon alyue,
That hath no power hym to shryue,
Tyll at þe laste he shryueth hym for drede;
Somme penaunce þey mote suffre nede:
If þey woll nowȝth do here,
They shall do hyt elleswhere.
Suche maner men, erly or late,
To purgatorye þey mote algate.
Ther mote þey dwelle stylle,
And abyde Goddes wylle,
But somme frende for her mysdede,
For hem do oþur synge or rede;
For þus may man þorow suche dyuyne,
The soner come out of hys pyne.
And þou art mon ȝet alyue,
And haste gon þorow swythe;
Thorow grace of God and good entent
Thow art passed þat turnement,
And þou arte comen to joye and blysse;
I shall þe telle what hyt ys:
Thys ys Erþly Paradyse.
Her wer Adam and Eue þat wer not wyse;
For an appull þat þey ete,
All her joye þey forlete,
And nyne hondredde ȝer and fyftene
He lyued aftur yn erþe wyth sorow and tene,
And fowr þowsande and vi hondred and iiij. ȝere
He was yn helle wyth Lucyfere,
Tyll þat Goddes wyll was
To fecche hym out of þat place,
And all hys kynde þat were hym by,
That wordy were to haue mercy;
And ledde hem forth wyth hem, ywysse,
Ryȝth ynto hys owene blysse.
And at hys ordynaunce we be,
In joye and blysse wyth solempnyte.
But when we come hym byfore,
Then shall our joye be mykyll more.
And euery day we wexen moo,
But angeles called some vs froo.
All ȝyf we be out of penance ylle,
Her we abyde Goddes wylle,
For ȝet haue we not þat dygnyte
To come before hys mageste;
But oon and on, as he wyll calle,
At þe laste we shall come all.
Euery day comeþ our fode
Of hym þat for vs shedde hys blode,
And þat þou shalte fele or þou go.’
As he stode and sayde hym so,
Ther come a gleme anon full bryȝth,
And spradde ouur þat lond ryȝth.
Hyt was swete and hyt was hote;
Into euery monnus mowþe hyt smote.
The knyȝte felde þat yn glyde;
He ne wyste wher he was þat tyde,
Ne wheþur þat he was qwykke or dede,
Such hym þowȝte þat ryche brede.
Then sayde þe bysshoppe þat be hym stode,
‘How þowstedest þou, knyȝte, was þys gode?’
‘Oo, lorde,’ he sayde, ‘þyn oore!
Let me dwelle her euurmore.’
‘Nay, sone,’ he sayde, ‘þou may not so.
Agayn þou moste algate go,
And telle oþur men what þou haste sene,
And yn what aventure þou haste bene,
For yn þe worlde þou most dye onus,
And leue þer þy flesh and þy bonus,
And come yn sowle hydur agayne,
Then wyll we of þe be fayne.’
The knyȝte sye þat he moste go,
And wepynge þen he ȝode hem fro.
Anone ryȝte þer he fell adowne,
And toke all þer benesowne,
A redy way anon he fonde
Ryȝth ynto hys owene londe.
To þe hole hys way lay,
That he come fro þat oþur day.
The fyftene men he fonde þore
That he hadde speken wyth before.
They wellcomede hym anon ryȝth,
And þonked God full of myȝte.
And myche solempnyte þer he herde.
Fayre þey wellcomed Syr Oweyne,
All þat þer was of hym were fayne.
Then come to hym þore
Two bysshoppus, as hyt wore.
They welcomede hym and ȝode hym by,
Forto bere hym company,
And schewede hym, þat he myȝth se,
The fayrnesse of þat cowntre.
Hyt was grene and full of flowres
Of mony dyuers colowres;
Hyt was grene on euery syde,
As medewus are yn someres tyde.
Ther were trees growyng full grene,
Full of fruyte euurmore, y wene;
For þer was frwyte of mony a kynde,
Suche yn þys londe may no mon fynde.
Ther þey haue þe Tree of Lyfe,
Theryn ys myrthe and neuur stryfe.
Frwyte of wysdom also þer ys,
Of þe whyche Adam and Eue dede amysse.
Oþur maner frwytes þer were fele,
And all manere joye and wele.
Moche folke he syȝ þer dwelle,
Ther was no tonge þat myȝth hem telle.
All wer þey cloded yn ryche wede,
What cloþ hyt was he kowþe not rede,
68
As folke þat wonede somtyme her.
By þe cloþus men myȝthe hem knowe,
As þey stode vpon a rowe,
Ȝonge and olde, more and lasse,
As hyt her owene wyll was.
Ther was no wronge, but euur ryȝth,
Euur day and neuer nyȝth;
They shone as bryȝth and more clere
Then ony sonne yn þe day doth her.
The two bysshopes turnede aȝeyne,
And speke fayr to Syr Owayne.
‘Blessed be þou,’ þey sayden þoo,
‘That haddeste wyll þys way to goo.
Purgatorye þou haste ben inne
To haue forȝeuenesse of þy synne;
Loke þat þou do synne no more,
For þou shalt neuur efte come þore.
We haue gone þe way þer þou was,
And we haue passed þat ylke plas.
So shall yche man aftur hys day,
Pore and ryche, go that way,
For þer ys mony a mon alyue,
That hath no power hym to shryue,
Tyll at þe laste he shryueth hym for drede;
Somme penaunce þey mote suffre nede:
If þey woll nowȝth do here,
They shall do hyt elleswhere.
Suche maner men, erly or late,
To purgatorye þey mote algate.
Ther mote þey dwelle stylle,
And abyde Goddes wylle,
But somme frende for her mysdede,
For hem do oþur synge or rede;
For þus may man þorow suche dyuyne,
The soner come out of hys pyne.
And þou art mon ȝet alyue,
And haste gon þorow swythe;
70
Thow art passed þat turnement,
And þou arte comen to joye and blysse;
I shall þe telle what hyt ys:
Thys ys Erþly Paradyse.
Her wer Adam and Eue þat wer not wyse;
For an appull þat þey ete,
All her joye þey forlete,
And nyne hondredde ȝer and fyftene
He lyued aftur yn erþe wyth sorow and tene,
And fowr þowsande and vi hondred and iiij. ȝere
He was yn helle wyth Lucyfere,
Tyll þat Goddes wyll was
To fecche hym out of þat place,
And all hys kynde þat were hym by,
That wordy were to haue mercy;
And ledde hem forth wyth hem, ywysse,
Ryȝth ynto hys owene blysse.
And at hys ordynaunce we be,
In joye and blysse wyth solempnyte.
But when we come hym byfore,
Then shall our joye be mykyll more.
And euery day we wexen moo,
But angeles called some vs froo.
All ȝyf we be out of penance ylle,
Her we abyde Goddes wylle,
For ȝet haue we not þat dygnyte
To come before hys mageste;
But oon and on, as he wyll calle,
At þe laste we shall come all.
Euery day comeþ our fode
Of hym þat for vs shedde hys blode,
And þat þou shalte fele or þou go.’
As he stode and sayde hym so,
Ther come a gleme anon full bryȝth,
And spradde ouur þat lond ryȝth.
72
Into euery monnus mowþe hyt smote.
The knyȝte felde þat yn glyde;
He ne wyste wher he was þat tyde,
Ne wheþur þat he was qwykke or dede,
Such hym þowȝte þat ryche brede.
Then sayde þe bysshoppe þat be hym stode,
‘How þowstedest þou, knyȝte, was þys gode?’
‘Oo, lorde,’ he sayde, ‘þyn oore!
Let me dwelle her euurmore.’
‘Nay, sone,’ he sayde, ‘þou may not so.
Agayn þou moste algate go,
And telle oþur men what þou haste sene,
And yn what aventure þou haste bene,
For yn þe worlde þou most dye onus,
And leue þer þy flesh and þy bonus,
And come yn sowle hydur agayne,
Then wyll we of þe be fayne.’
The knyȝte sye þat he moste go,
And wepynge þen he ȝode hem fro.
Anone ryȝte þer he fell adowne,
And toke all þer benesowne,
A redy way anon he fonde
Ryȝth ynto hys owene londe.
To þe hole hys way lay,
That he come fro þat oþur day.
The fyftene men he fonde þore
That he hadde speken wyth before.
They wellcomede hym anon ryȝth,
And þonked God full of myȝte.
| St. Patrick's Purgatory | |