[Poems from the Vernon MS] | ||
“A Modur,” he seide, “þat wol I do,
ffor I am mon most I-holde þer-to—
Þou weore my Modur, I was þi sone—
To synge þe Masses I schal not schone;
God graunte me, Modur, þe stonde in stede
Aȝeynes þe synnes þat euer þou dude.
I halse þe heiȝliche, Modur deere,
Þis tyme twelf-Moneþ to me a-peere,
Hol þin a-stat to me þou schowe,
Þat, hou þou fare, I mouwe wel knowe!”
ffor I am mon most I-holde þer-to—
Þou weore my Modur, I was þi sone—
To synge þe Masses I schal not schone;
266
Aȝeynes þe synnes þat euer þou dude.
I halse þe heiȝliche, Modur deere,
Þis tyme twelf-Moneþ to me a-peere,
Hol þin a-stat to me þou schowe,
Þat, hou þou fare, I mouwe wel knowe!”
[Poems from the Vernon MS] | ||