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| II. |
 | [Poems from the Vernon MS] |  |
Þe gode Mon vnderstod
Þat þat þe toþur seide was not good.
“Do wei,” he seide, “þi lore : Ne spek no more of pryde:
Hit doþ þe soule muche wo : And helpeþ þe bodi luyte.
Whon I þenke on þinges þre : Boþe niht and day
Pruide ne worldes blisse : Glade me ne may.
ffurst, whon I beo-þenke me : And am wel I-ware
How I com in to þis world : Boþe naked and bare;
Nedde I to myn hed houue ne hod,
Ne Robe to my bac, badde ne good,
But a foul red clout, þat I was boren In,
Þat tok I of my Moder, and was a foul skyn—
Al is soþ þat I seye, þeiȝ I speke in Rym—
Þei coruen hit of me & wosch awei mi slym.
In to þis world þus com I wrecched & bare,
And so, wot I wel, I schal heþen fare.
Þei wounden me in cloutes, for cold & for schame,
ffor I ne scholde forfare, þei hulede mi licame.
Al-Maner quik þing þat is þorw Godes miht,
Whon hit comeþ furst forþ, con him-self diht,
Haþ of him-self kyndeliche wede,
And con him-self purchase mete to his nede,
And haþ þorw kynde miȝt for to gon,
Þer kynde of mon haþ riȝt non,
Bute vn-miȝti wrecches alle are we.
Hou scholde I be proud, whon I þis se?
Þat þat þe toþur seide was not good.
“Do wei,” he seide, “þi lore : Ne spek no more of pryde:
Hit doþ þe soule muche wo : And helpeþ þe bodi luyte.
Whon I þenke on þinges þre : Boþe niht and day
Pruide ne worldes blisse : Glade me ne may.
ffurst, whon I beo-þenke me : And am wel I-ware
How I com in to þis world : Boþe naked and bare;
Nedde I to myn hed houue ne hod,
Ne Robe to my bac, badde ne good,
But a foul red clout, þat I was boren In,
Þat tok I of my Moder, and was a foul skyn—
Al is soþ þat I seye, þeiȝ I speke in Rym—
Þei coruen hit of me & wosch awei mi slym.
In to þis world þus com I wrecched & bare,
And so, wot I wel, I schal heþen fare.
Þei wounden me in cloutes, for cold & for schame,
ffor I ne scholde forfare, þei hulede mi licame.
Al-Maner quik þing þat is þorw Godes miht,
Whon hit comeþ furst forþ, con him-self diht,
Haþ of him-self kyndeliche wede,
And con him-self purchase mete to his nede,
And haþ þorw kynde miȝt for to gon,
Þer kynde of mon haþ riȝt non,
Bute vn-miȝti wrecches alle are we.
Hou scholde I be proud, whon I þis se?
| [Poems from the Vernon MS] | |