University of Virginia Library

To oure lorde Iesu crist in heuene,
Ich to-day shewe myne sweuene,
þat ich mette in one niȝth,
Of a kniȝth of mychel miȝth:
His name is ihote sir Edward þe kyng,
Prince of Wales, Engelonde þe faire þing.
Me mette þat he was armed wel,
Boþe wiþ yrne & wiþ stel;
And on his helme þat was of stel,
A Coroune of gold bicom hym wel.
Bifore the shryne of seint Edward he stood,
Myd glad chere, & mylde of mood,
Mid two kniȝttes armed on eiþer side,
þat he ne miȝth þennes goo ne ride.
hetilich hij leiden hym vpon,
Als hij miȝtten myd swerd don.
He stood þere wel swiþe stille,
And þoled al-to-gedres her wille;
No strook ne ȝaf he aȝeinward
To þilk þat hym weren wiþerward.
Wounde ne was þere blody non,
Of al þat hym þere was don.

After þat me þouȝth, onon,
As þe tweie kniȝttes weren gon,
In eiþer ere of oure kyng
þere spronge out a wel fare þing:
Hij wexen out so briȝth so glem
þat shyneþ of þe sonne-bem;
Of diuers coloures hij weren,
þat comen out of boþe his eren
ffoure bendes alle by rewe on eiþer ere,
Of diuers colours, red & white als hij were;
Als fer as me þou[ȝth] ich miȝth see,
hij spredden fer & wyde in þe cuntre.
fforsoþe me mette þis ilk sweuene—
Ich take to witnesse god of heuene—
þe wedenysday bifore þe decollacioun of seint Ion,
It is more þan twelue moneþ gon.
God me graunte so heuene blis,
As me mette þis sweuene as it is.
Now god þat is heuene kyng,
To mychel ioye tourne þis metyng!

Þe þrid sweuene me mette a niȝth,
Riȝth of þat derworþe kniȝth;
þe wedenysday a niȝth it was,
Next þe day of seint lucie bifore cristenmesse.
Ich shewe þis, god of heuene:
To mychel ioye he tourne my sweuene!
Me þouȝth þat ich was at Rome,
And þider ich com swiþe sone:
þe Pope, & sir Edward oure kyng,
Boþe hij hadden a newe dubbyng;
Hure gray was her cloþing;
Of oþere cloþes seiȝ ich noþing.
þe pope ȝede bifore, mytred wel faire I-wys;
þe kyng Edward com corouned myd gret blis;
þat bitokneþ he shal be
Emperour in cristianete:
Iesus crist ful of grace,
Graunte oure kyng, in euery place,
Maistrie of his wiþerwynes,
And of alle wicked sarasynes!
Me met a sweuene, on worþing-niȝth.
Of þat ilche derworþe kniȝth;
God ich it shewe, & to witnesse take,
And so shilde me fro synne & sake!
In-to an chapel ich com of oure lefdy;
Iesus crist, hire leue son, stood by;
On rode he was, an louelich Man,
Als þilk þat on rode was don.
He vnneiled his honden two,
And seide, ‘wiþ þe kniȝth he wolde go’:
“Maiden, & moder, & mylde quene,
Ich mote my kniȝth to-day sene.
Leue moder, ȝiue me leue,
ffor ich ne may no lenger bileue;
Ich mote conueye þat ilk kniȝth,
þat vs haþ serued day and niȝth:
In pilerinage he wil gon,
To bien awreke of oure fon.”
“Leue son, ȝoure wille, so mote it be,
for þe kniȝth boþe day & niȝth haþ serued me,
Boþe at oure wille wel faire I-wys,
þerfore he haþ serued heuene-riche blis.”
God þat is in heuene so briȝth,
Be wiþ oure kyng boþe day & niȝth!
Amen, Amen, so mote it be!
þerto biddeþ a pater noster & an Aue.

Adam, þe marchal, of stretford-atte-bowe—
Wel swiþe wide his name is yknowe,—
He hym-self mette þis metyng—
To witnesse he takeþ Iesu heuene kyng,—
On Wedenysday in clene leinte
A voice me bede I ne shulde nouȝth feinte;
Of þe sweuenes þat her ben write,
I shulde swiþe don my lorde kyng to wite.
Ich ansuerde, ‘þat I ne miȝth for derk gon.’
þe vois me bad goo, for liȝth ne shuld ich faile non,
And þat I ne shulde lette for noþing,
þat ich shulde shewe þe kyng my metyng.
fforþ ich went swiþe onon,
Estward as me þouȝth ich miȝth gon:
þe liȝth of heuene me com to,
As ich in my waye shulde go.
“Lorde, my body ich ȝelde þee to,
What ȝoure wille is wiþ me to do.
Ich take to witnesse god of heuene,
þat soþlich ich mette þis ilche sweuene!
I ne reiche what ȝee myd my body do,
Als wisselich Iesus of heuene my soule vndergo.”

Þe þursday next þe beryng of oure lefdy,
Me þouȝth an Aungel com sir Edward by:
þe Aungel bitook sir Edward on honde;
Al bledyng þe foure forþer clawes so were of þe lombe.
At Caunterbiry, bifore þe heiȝe autere, þe kyng stood,
ycloþed al in rede: murre he was of þat blee red as blood.
God, þat was on gode-friday don on þe rode,
So turne my sweuene niȝth & day to mychel gode!
Tweye poyntȝ þere ben þat ben vnshewed,
ffor me ne worþe to clerk ne lewed;
Bot to sir Edward oure kyng,
hym wil ich shewe þilk metyng.

Ich telle ȝou forsoþe wiþouten les,
Als god of heuene maide marie to moder ches,
þe Aungel com to me, Adam Dauy, & sede,
“Bot þou, Adam, shewe þis, þee worþe wel yuel mede!”
þerfore, my lorde sir Edward þe kyng,
I shewe ȝou þis ilk metyng,
As þe Aungel it shewed me in a visioun.
Bot þis tokenyng bifalle, so dooþ me in-to prisoun!
Lorde, my body is to ȝoure wille;
þeiȝ ȝee willeþ me þerfore spille,
Ich it wil take in þolemodenesse,
Als god graunte vs heuene blisse;
And lete vs neuere þerof mysse,
þat we ne moten þider wende in clennesse!
Amen, amen, so mote it be,
And lete vs neuere to oþere waye tee!
Who so wil speke myd me, Adam þe marchal,
In stretforþe-bowe he is yknowe, & ouere al.
Ich ne shewe nouȝth þis forto haue mede,
Bot for god almiȝtties drede;