 | [Poems from the Vernon MS] |  |
“Bernard, I haue told my þouȝt:
Wolt þou now ȝit aske me more?
Be I forþere in tales brouȝt,
I-wis, þou greues me ful sore.
Ac for þou hast me be-souȝt,
Bleþeliche I wol telle þe fore;
I wot, þow art in longyng brouȝt,
To witen wat his wille wore.
Wolt þou now ȝit aske me more?
Be I forþere in tales brouȝt,
I-wis, þou greues me ful sore.
Ac for þou hast me be-souȝt,
Bleþeliche I wol telle þe fore;
I wot, þow art in longyng brouȝt,
To witen wat his wille wore.
“Whon my sone deþ scholde han,
Delful wordes wiþ him þer were:
ffurst he seide: ‘be-hold, wommon!’
And siþen he seide: ‘be-hold þou here!’
And siþen he seide to seynt Ion:
‘Kep my moder leof and dere!’
Me þouȝte myn herte al to-chon
Such wordes of hym for to here.
Delful wordes wiþ him þer were:
ffurst he seide: ‘be-hold, wommon!’
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And siþen he seide to seynt Ion:
‘Kep my moder leof and dere!’
Me þouȝte myn herte al to-chon
Such wordes of hym for to here.
“He bed Ion, as he was hende,
Kepe me and ben al at my bone
Whoderward I wolde hym sende,
As him-self was wont to done.
‘Heþen,’ he seide, ‘I mot wende,
Mi tyme neiȝeþ swiþe sone,
I may her no lengor lende,
I mot in to my fader trone.
Kepe me and ben al at my bone
Whoderward I wolde hym sende,
As him-self was wont to done.
‘Heþen,’ he seide, ‘I mot wende,
Mi tyme neiȝeþ swiþe sone,
I may her no lengor lende,
I mot in to my fader trone.
| [Poems from the Vernon MS] | |