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 | [Poems from the Vernon MS] |  |
Þen onswerd þe pope: “allas,
Allas, my Modur, þis wondur cas!
Allas, my Modur, hou may þis be,
In such aray I þe to seo?
Men wenden witerli to-wisse
Þou weore wel worþi to habbe blisse
And þat ful wel wiþ God þou were,
To preyen for us þat liuen ȝit here.
Sey me, modur, wiþ-outen feyne,
Whi art þou put to al þis peyne?”
Allas, my Modur, þis wondur cas!
Allas, my Modur, hou may þis be,
In such aray I þe to seo?
Men wenden witerli to-wisse
Þou weore wel worþi to habbe blisse
And þat ful wel wiþ God þou were,
To preyen for us þat liuen ȝit here.
Sey me, modur, wiþ-outen feyne,
Whi art þou put to al þis peyne?”
Heo seide: “my sone, soþfastly
I schal þe telle þe cause why:
ffor I nas not such as I seemed,
But wikked and worse þen men me demed,
I sungede wikkedliche in my lyue,
Of wȝuch I ne dorste for schome me schriue;”
Heo tolde him trewely al hire cas
ffrom ende to oþur riht as hit was.
I schal þe telle þe cause why:
ffor I nas not such as I seemed,
But wikked and worse þen men me demed,
264
Of wȝuch I ne dorste for schome me schriue;”
Heo tolde him trewely al hire cas
ffrom ende to oþur riht as hit was.
| [Poems from the Vernon MS] | |