Hoccleve's Works. I. The minor poems in the Phillipps Ms. 8151 (Cheltenham) and the Durham Ms. III. 9.: Edited by Frederick J. Furnivall |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V, VI. |
| VII. |
| IV. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. | [XVIII.] Ceste balade ensuyante feust translatee
au commandement de mon Meistre Robert Chichele. |
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| XX. |
| XXIV. |
 | Hoccleve's Works. I. |  |
67
[XVIII.] Ceste balade ensuyante feust translatee au commandement de mon Meistre Robert Chichele.
1
As þat I walkid in the monthe of MayBesyde a groue in an heuy musynge,
Floures dyuerse I sy, right fressh and gay,
And briddes herde I eek lustyly synge,
Þat to myn herte yaf a confortynge.
But euere o thoght me stang vn-to the herte,
Þat dye I sholde / & hadde no knowynge
Whanne, ne whidir, I sholde hennes sterte.
2
Thynkynge thus / byfore me I sayA crois depeynted with a fair ymage.
I thoghte I nas but asshes and foul clay:
Lyf passith as a shadwe in euery age;
And my body yeueth no better wage
Than synne / which the soule annoyeth sore.
I preyde god / mercy of myn outrage,
And shoop me / him to offende no more.
3
On god to thynke / it yeueth a delyt,Wel for to doon / & froo synne withdrawe;
But for to putte a good deede in respyt /
Harmeth / swich delay is nat worth an hawe.
Wolde god, by my speeche and my sawe,
I mighte him and his modir do plesance,
68
And of mercy, housbonde a purueance!
4
Modir of Ihesu, (verray god and man,Þat by his deeth / victorie of the feend gat,)
Haue it in mynde / thow blessid womman,
For the wo / which vn-to thyn herte sat
In thy sones torment / forgeete it nat!
Grante me grace / to vertu me take,
Synne despyse, & for to hate al that
That may thy sone & thee displesid make!
5
Mercyful lord Ihesu / me heere, I preye,Þat right vnkynde / & fals am vn-to thee!
I am right swich; I may it nat withseye.
With salte teeres craue I thy pitee,
And herte contryt / mercy haue on me
Þat am thy recreant caytif traitour!
By my dissertes, oghte I dampned be;
But ay thy mercy heetith me socour.
6
Lady benigne / our souereyn refuyt!Seur trust haue I, to han, by thy prayeere,
Of strength / & confort, so vertuous fruyt,
That I shal sauf be, Crystes modir deere!
My soules ship, gouerne thow, & steere!
Let me nat slippe out of thy remembrance,
Lest, whan þat I am rype vn-to my beere,
The feend me assaille, & haue at the outrance.
7
To thanke thee, lord / hyly holde I am,For my gilt / nat for thyn / þat woldest die,
Who souffred euere swich a martirdam.
Yit thy deeth gat of the feend the maistrie,
69
O! blessid be thy loue charitable,
Þat list so deere our synful soules bie,
To make vs sauf / wher we weren dampnable.
8
Now thy socour / o Heuenes Emperice,Fro me, wrecche, torne thow nat thy face!
Ther as I deepe wrappid am in vice,
Gretter neede haue I / thyn help to purchace!
Vn-to the souerain leche, preye of grace,
Þat he my wowndes / vouchesauf to cure,
So þat the feend my soule nat embrace,
Al thogh I haue agilt ouer mesure.
9
Wel oghten we thee thanke, gracious lord,Þat thee haast humbled, for to been allied
To vs! auctour of pees and of concord,
On the crois was thy skin in-to blood died!
Allas! why haue I me to synne applied?
Why is my soule encombrid so with synne?
Lord, in al þat I haue me mis gyed,
Foryeue / & of my trespas wole I blynne.
10
Lady / wardeyn of peple fro ruyne,Þat sauedest Theoffe and many mo!
Of thy grace, myn herte enlumyne!
For, as I trowe, & woot it wel also,
Thy might is me to warisshe of my wo.
Of thy benigne sone, mercy craue,
Of þat forueyed haue I, & mis go.
His wil is thyn / my soule keepe & saue!
11
Lord Ihesu Cryst / I axe of thee pardoun!I yilde me to thee, lord souereyn!
My gilt confesse I / lord / make vnioun
Betwixt thee & my soule / for in veyn
70
Some of the dropes of thy precious blood
Þat the crois made as weet as is the reyn,
Despende on me, lord merciable & good!
12
Lady! þat clept art ‘modir of mercy,’Noble saphir / to me þat am ful lame
Of vertu, and am ther-to enemy,
Thy welle of pitee, in thy sones name,
Lete on me flowe / to pourge my blame,
Lest in to Despeir þat I slippe & falle!
For my seurtee to keepe me fro blame,
Of pitee, mirour, I vn-to thee calle!
13
Synne, þat is to euery vertu fo,Betwixt god & me / maad hath swich debat,
Þat my soule is dampnyd for eueremo,
But if þat mercy / which hath maad thacat
Of mannes soule, þat was violat
By likerous lust & disobedience,
For which our lord Ihesu was incarnat,
Me helpe make the feend resistence!
14
Lady! þat art of grace spryng & sours,Port in peril / solas in heuynesse!
Of thy wont bontee, keepe alway the cours!
Lat nat the feend, at my deeth me oppresse!
Torne the crois to me, noble Princesse,
Which vn-to euery soor is the triacle!
Thogh my dissert be naght / of thy goodnesse,
Ageyn the feendes wrenches, make obstacle!
15
Lord, on thy grace & pitee / myn herte ayAwaitith / to purchace thy mercy.
Allas! I caytif / wel I mourne may,
Syn the feend serued often sythe haue y.
71
For I purpose to stynte of my synnes.
What ageyn thee / mis take hath my body,
My soule keepe fro the feendes gynnes!
16
Blessid virgyne, ensample of al vertu,Þat peere hast non / of wommanhode flour!
For the loue of thy sone, our Lord Ihesu,
Strengthe vs to doon him seruice & honour!
Lady! be mene vn-to our Sauueour,
Þat our soules þat the feend waytith ay
To hente / & wolde of hem be possessour,
Ne sese hem nat in the vengeable day!
17
The flessh / the world / & eek the feend my fo,My wittes alle han at hir retenance:
They to my soule doon annoy & wo.
For why, Lord, dreede I me of thy vengeance.
With mercy, my soule in-to blisse enhance!
Worthy marchant! saue thy marchandie,
Which þat thow boghtest with dethes penance!
Lat nat the feend haue of vs the maistrie!
18
Excellent lady! in thy thoght impresseHow & why thy chyld souffrid his tormente!
Preye him to haue on vs swich tendrenesse,
Þat in the feendes net we be nat hent!
At the day of his steerne iugement,
Lat nat him leese þat he by deeth boghte!
I woot wel / ther-to hath he no talent:
Mynge him ther-on / for thee so to doon / oghte!
19
Whan in a man, synne growith & rypith,The fruyt of it is ful of bittirnesse;
But penitence cleene away it wypith,
And to the soule yeueth greet swetnesse.
72
Medle thy mercy / and shewe vs fauour!
Vn-to our soules, maad to thy liknesse,
Graunte pardoun of our stynkyng errour!
20
O glorious qweene / to the repentauntÞat art refuyt / socour and medecyne!
Lat nat the foule feend make his auaunt,
Þat he hath thee byreft any of thyne!
Thurgh thy prayere, thow thy sone enclyne
His merciable grace / on vs to reyne!
Be tendre of vs / o thow blissid virgyne!
For if thee list / we shuln to blisse atteyne.
Cest tout.
[End of the Phillipps MS.]
| Hoccleve's Works. I. | |