University of Virginia Library

He þat wyll of wysdome lere,
Herkeneth now, & ȝe may here
Of a tale of holy wryte—
Seynt Jon þe euangelist wytnesseth hyt:
How hyt befell yn grete Rome,
The chefe cyte of crystendome.
A chyld was sent of myȝtes most
Thorow vertu of þe holy gost
Vnto þe emperour of Rome,
A nobull man & wyse of dome;
The emperour of Rome þan
Men called hym syr Adryan.
When þat chyld of gret honour
Was comen before þe emperour,
On hys kne he hym sette,
Well fayre þe emperour þer he grette.
The emperour wyth mylde chere
Askede þe chylde of whens he were.
The chyld answered hym aplyȝt:
“Fro my fadur y come now ryȝt,
And that ys fro þe hyȝ Justyse,
To teche þem þat ben vnwyse
Ne nowȝt fulfylled of þe lawes.”
Then sayde þe emperour yn hys sawes:
“Then art þou wyse wysdome to teche?”
The chylde answered wyth mylde spech:
“He ys wyse þat heuen may wynne
And kepe hym out of deedly synne.”

The emperour sayde wythout blame:
“Chylde, tell me þy ryȝt name!”
“My name, he sayde, ys Ypotyse,
þat mych kon telle of heuen blysse.”
The emperour sayde: “what may heuen be?”
“Syr, sayde þe chyld, goddys pryuyte.”
“What, he sayde, ys god allmyȝt?”
The chylde answered anon ryȝt:
“He ys wythoute begynnynge
And shall be wythoute endynge.”

The emperour sayde: “y haue gret selkowþ.
What come fyrst of goddus mowþ?”
The chyld answered & sayd anone:
“Therof speketh þe apostell Johne
In hys gospell all & summe:
In principio erat verbum.
Thys was þe fyrst bygynny(n)ge
That euer spake our heuen kyng;
Wyth þat word was þe fadur & þe sone
And þe holy gost to-gedur kome,
Thre persones in trinite—
Ther may none fro oþur be.”

The emperour sayde full euenne:
“Chyld, þou hast be yn heuenne,
How fele heuens hath god almyȝt?”
“Seuen, sayde þe chylde aplyȝt;
The hyeste heuen þat may be
That ys of þe holy trinite:
Ther ys þe fadur wyth þe sone,
The holy gost to-gedur þey wone,
As þese clerkes both syng & rede,
Thre persones in on godhede;
That Joye may no-man dyscryue,
Lered ne lewed, þat ys on-lyue.
That oþur heuen ys gostly wrowȝt,
Of lower degre, but hyȝer nowȝt(!);
That Joye may no-man telle,
Thyll domus-day þowȝ he wold spelle.
The þrydde heuen shyneth as cristall,
Full of Joye & swete smelle;
For confessores þat place ys dyȝt;
Ther euur ys day & neuur nyȝt.
The fowrþe heuen ys gold lych,
Full of precyows stones rych;
For Innocentes þat place ys sette,
And euur yn Joye wythowten lette.
The fyfþe heuen ys long & brode,
All fulfylled wyth goddus manhode;
And ner goddus manhode were,
All þys worlde were forlore,
For þorow hys passyon & hys manhede
Heuen blysse shall be her mede.
The sixte heuen holy chyrche ys,
Full of holy angeles ywys,
That syngyn both day & nyȝt
Of hys strengþe & off hys myȝt.
The seueneth heuen, as sayth þe story,
Is paradys aftur purgatorie;
When sowles haue done here penance,
They come þydur wythoute dystance.
Thes ar þe heuens, syr emperour,
That Jhesus hath, our sauyour.”

The emperour sayde anon ryȝt:
“How mony orderus ar þer of angelus bryȝt?”
The chylde answered anon þo:
“Tenne orderes, syr, & no mo.
The fyrste ordur ys cherubyn,
And þat oþur ys seraphynne,
The þrydde ys tronus,
The fowrþe ys dominaciones,
The fyfte orþur ys principatus,
The sixte potestates, ywys,
The seuenthe orþur virtutes ys,
The eythe angelica called ys þus,
The nyneneth ordur archa(n)gely,
And euery pryns hath hys party,
Mony a þowsand to hys banere,
þat seruene god both fer & nere.
The tenþe ordur shall ma(n)kynde be,
And fulfylle þe place on hyȝe
Heuen by þat oþur syde
That Lucyfer lost for hys pryde;
Ther shall þe manhede of god almyȝt
Be our prinse, & þat ys ryȝt.”

The emperour sayde: “chyld, y þe pray,
What made god þe fyrst day?”
The chyld answered hym full euen:
“Angelles, archangelles, & heuen:
That same werke of gret nobylye
God made hyt on þe sondaye.
The monday aftur, verament,
God made þe fyrmament,
Mone & sonne, to shyne bryȝt,
And þe sterres þeron he dyȝt.
The tewesday, y vndurstonde,
he made both see & londe,
Welles fayr wyth wateres fresh,
To temper þe erþe harde & nesh,
Erbes, trees and also gras,
And oþur þyngus, as hys wyll was.
The wednesday made god a(l)myȝt
Fysh yn watur & fowle of flyȝt,
And bad hem abowte wende
For to helpe all mankynde.
The þursday god made gret & small
Bestes boþe by downe & dale,
And ȝaf hem erþe to her fode,
And badde hem turne man to gode.
On a fryday god made Adam
Aftur hys shappe & ȝaf hym name,
Syþen hys on rybbe gan he take
And made Eue vnto hys make,
And made hym man of myȝtes most,
And ȝaf hym lyf of þe holy gost;
A gret lord he gan hym make:
All paradys he dede hym take.
The saterday god forgate noȝt
The workes þat he hadde wroȝt,
he blessed hem wyth gode wyll,
Bothe lowde & eke styll,
And badde hem wex & multyplye,
Euery þyng yn hys partye.
That oþur sonday god reste toke,
As we fynde yn holy boke.
That day shuld no-mon werke,
But serue god & holy kerke,
And kepe hym fro deedly synne,
That he fall not þere-Inne.”

The emperour sayde: “þys may well be.
But oo þyng, chylde, tell þou me:
What mon dyed & was not born?”
The chylde answered hym byforn:
“Adam, oure forme fadyr, ywys,
That god ȝaf lyue yn paradys,
he was not borne, y vndurstonde,
For god made hym wyth hys honde.”

The emperour here-of was gladde.
Chylde Ypotys full sone he badde,
ȝyf he kowþe telle hym owȝt
Of how many þyngus mon was wrowȝt.
The chyld sayde: “syr, of seuenne.
whych þey be y shall þe neuen:
Eerthe-slyme forsoþe ys on of þo,
Water of þe see god toke þer-to,
And of þe sonne, & of þe wynde,
And of þe clowþus, wrytyn I fynde,
And of þe stones by þe see-coste,
And also of þe holy goste.
Of þe erþe slyme ys monnus flesh,
Of þe watyr hys blood nesh,
Of þe sonne hys herte & hys bowelys,
Hys mekenes & hys gode dewes,
Of þe clowdus hys wyttus beth,
And of þe wynde ys made hys breth,
And of þe stone ys made hys bone,
Of þe holy gost hys sowle alone;
Of þese seuen þyngus ys made manne.
Beholde, syr emperour Adryan,
Therfore euery man here
ys of dyuers manere:
The mon þat hath of þe erth most,
he shall be heuy, well þou wost,
Both yn worde & eke yn dede
And yn oþur þyngus, as we rede;
The man þat hath most of þe see,
Euur yn trauell shall he be
And coueyte both londe & lede,
That shall hym fayle at hys nede.
Who of þe wynde hath most myȝth,
Be ryȝt reson he shall be lyȝth,
wylde yn worde & eke yn þowȝth,
And speke moche, & waylys nowȝth.
Who of þe clowþus hath moste foyson,
He shall be wyse be ryȝth reson
And be ware yn worde & dede
And yn oþur þyngus, as we rede.
Who of þe sonne hath most plente,
hote & haste he shall be,
Also stalleworþ mon & mykyll of myȝth,
And be ryȝth reson a party lyȝth.
Who-so of þe stone ys most wroȝth,
he shall be steddefast yn hys þowȝth
And yn trauayle trusty & trewe,
And be ryȝth reson pale of hewe.
Who þat hath most of þe holy gost,
He shall haue yn herte most
Good worde, good þowȝt, & good dede,
The pore & naked to cloþe & fede,
And loue well god & holy chyrche,
And oþur penaunce for to wyrche.”

The emperour sayde wyth wordus mylde
Anone ryght to þe chylde:
“Thow speke fyrst of þe see,
I wolde wyte what hyt myȝt be.”
The chylde sayde wythout lesyng:
“A wylde way of wendynge;
For such way þou myȝth take þer-Inne,
That þou shalt neuur to londe wynne.”

The emperour sayde wythout delay:
“Tell me, chylde, y þe pray,
What tyme dyde Adam amys,
That he loste paradys?”
The chylde sayde: “at mydde-morow t(yde),
And or mydday he loste hys pryde;
An angell drofe hym yn-to desert
Wyth a bryȝth brennyng swerde,
Ther to be yn care & wo,
he & hys ofsprynge for euer-mo.”

“Alas, sayde þe emperour, for dole,
That Adam was so mykyll a fole!
how mony synnus dyde Adam,
Byfore þat god bekam manne?”
“Seuene, sayde þe chyld, wythout mo.
And sacrylege was on of þo,
Lecherye was on of þese,
Auaryce and couetyse,
In glotenye & yn gret pryde;
These seuene synnus all Adam dyde.
In pryde he synned vyle
When he wroȝth hys owene wylle,
And nowȝt aftur þe heste of god,
he ny helde nowȝt goddus forbodde.
In sacrilege he synnede sore
When he wroȝth þe fendes lore
And fulfylled hys owene talent
And dyde þe fendus commaundement.
Man-slawȝtur he dyde ynowȝth
When he hys owene sowle slowȝ,
And all þat of hym come
The fende to helle to hym nome.
A thefe he was aȝeyns god
When he stale þat he hym forbode—
Certaynlyche, as y þe saye,
he was worþy for to dye.
Fornycacyon he hadde yn mynde,
when he wroȝth aftur þe fende
And helde þat goddus lore was false.
And yn Auaryce he synned alse
When he coueyted to haue more
Then he hadde nede fore,
Whene all paradys was at hys wyll—
No wonþur þowȝ god lykede yll.
In glotenye he synned full yll
When he putte hym yn þat peryll
For þe appull þat he gan take,
That god forbadde hym & hys make.
In slowthe he dyde worste of all:
When hem þat synne was byfall,
he ne hadde no grace to ryse.
When god come to hym yn þys wyse
And sayde: “Adam, what þost þou now?”
Adam answered aȝaeyn & se how(!):
“Lord, y here þe speke aplyȝt,
But of þe haue y no syȝt.”
Owre lord þan to Adam sayde:
“Man, why dedest þou þat y þe forbayde?”
Adam answerd aȝeyn wyth wyll:
“Thys womman tysed me þertyll
And made me to do þat dede.”
Our lorde þen to Eue sayde:
“Whommon, why wroȝtest þou þy wyll?”
“The edder, lord, tysed me þertyll.”
Our lorde sayd to þe edder þo:
“Worme, why wroȝtest þou hem þys wo?”
The fend answered: “be maystry:
For þat y hadde to hem enuye
That þey shulde haue þat grete blysse
That y for pride gan to mysse.”
Our lorde sayde to Adam þan:
“For þy gylte, he sayde, man,
Thow shalt gete þy mete wyth swete
And suffre both colde & hete.”
To Eue sayde our heuen kyng:
“Womman, for þy wykkyd tysyng
Thow shalt euur be mannus thrall,
And haue moch wo & trauell wythall,
And bere þy fruyt wyth gronyng & care,
Þou & þyn ofspryng for euur-mare.”
Our lorde þen sayde to Satan:
“In forme of a worme þou temptest mane:
Þerfor on þy wombe þou shallt glyde,
And all þat þe sene on eche a syde
Of þe shall be sore aferd
When þey come yn-to myddull erþe;
A virgyn shall be born blyue
That all þy powste shall to-dryue.”
Thus Adam lyued here
Nyne hondrede & II & þrydty ȝere.
When he was deed, to helle he nam,
And all þo þat of hym cam.
Hys sowle was yn helle þere
Fowre þowsand & fyfe hondred ȝere
And fowre & tydes seuene,
Tyll þe myȝtyfull kyng of heuene
kydde þat he was of myȝtys moste:
And sende down þe holy goste
And lyȝte yn þe mayde Marye
Wythoute wemme of here bodye.
Fowrty dayes for vs he faste.
The Jewes toke hym at þe laste
And dede hym vpon þe Rode,
And so he bowȝte vs wyth hys blode;
And syþen he lyȝth yn-to helle,
The fendes powste for to felle:
Ther he vnbonde Adam & Eue
And oþur mo þat hym wer leue,
And ledde hem yn-to paradys,
Ther euurmore ys Joye & blys.
Sythen aftur hys vp-rysynge
he styed to heuen, þer he ys kyng;
On hys fadur ryȝth hond sytte he þan,
There he ys sothfast godde & man.
That sone(!) god omnipotent
Shall come aȝeyn yn Jugeme(n)t
And deme all men aftur her dedes—
he ys vnwyse hyt not dredes!—
The gode to Joye, þe wykked to pyne.
That Joye may no-man dyuyne;
he shall haue þat for hys seruyse
That seruyth god yn all wyse.”

The emperour seyde: “be heuen kyng,
Chylde, þys ys fayr sayynge!
But telle me, chyld, ȝyf þou can,
Wher-wyth þe fende begyled man?
And y þe pray þat þou me telle
what draweth mannus sowle to helle?”
The chylde sayde: “synnus fyfe,
That among mankynde ys ryfe:
wykked þowȝt yn mannus herte,
whyll þat he ys hole & qwarte;
Man-slawȝtur ys a-noþur of þam,
That bryngeþ a man to wykke fam—
But shryfte make hym þer-of clere,
For-soth, he goth to helle fere;
Pryde, y wote, ys a-noþur,
Glotenye ys þe þrydde broþur,
Lecherye þan ys þe ferþe,
On pe worste abouen erþe.
The fyfte ys couetyse, y þe tell,
That draweþ mannus sowle to helle.
Seynt Poule wytnesseþ yn hys story
Of þe paynes of purgatory,
That couetyse by hym-self ys dyȝth
As a welle of bras brennyng bryȝth,
Full of sowles hyt ys hongynge,
As ych by oþur may thrynge;
A wylde fyr among hem þoth renne,
All þat hyt towchyt hyt doth brenne.
And why coueytyse ys lykned to a whyle,
I wyll ȝou telle fayr & wele:
In hys ȝowthe he wynneþ þe price
And ȝeueth hym all to couetyce
And in no tyme wyll blynne,
But endeth all hys lyf þer-Inne;
Certeynly, as y þe telle,
Ȝyf he dye so, he goth to helle.
Therefor hyt ys lykned to a whele,
For coueytyse hath ende no dele.”

The emperour sayde: “Þys ys hard chanse.
what letteth a man to do penance,
To sawȝte vs wyth our sauyour?”
The chylde sayde: “synnus fowr:
Slowþe ys on, shame ys þat oþur,
Wanhope þe þrydde brodur,
The fowrþe ys wythout fabull
That god ys so mercy(a)bull
he wyll of hym take no wreche,
Ȝyf shryft of mowþe may be hys leche.”

The emperour sayde; “soth hyt ys.
what bryngeth a mannus sowle to blys?”
The chylde answerd hym & sayde:
“Good word, good þowȝt, & good dede.
Ther was neuur so euell þyng wroȝth
But þe begynnyng was euell þowȝth,
Ne neuur non good doyng
But good þowȝth was þe begynnyng.
Who so hath wyth hym good speche
And hys foo of hym wolde take wreche,
wyth good speche he may, er he wende,
Of hys foo make hys frende.
A good dede ys moche of myȝth
Aȝeyn god yn heuen bryȝth,
For a man may wyth on good dede
wynne heuen to hys mede.”

The emperour sayde: “þys wele y beleue.
But, chylde, take hyt not a-greue,
Tell me, y þe pray, ȝyf þou kan,
On how mony deþes may dye a man?”
The chylde sayde: “dethes thre.
And I woll þe telle whych þey be:
That on deth ys bodyly here,
That ys streyte & of grette fere,
That ys a synfull manne wyth-Inne
Or body & sowle may parte atwynne;
That oþer deth ys deth of shame,
ȝyf a man dye yn wykked fame;
The thrydde deth ys, as seyth þese clerkes,
ȝyf he haue no part of goddes werkes.”

The emperour sayde: “I beseche þe,
On þyng, chylde, telle þou me:
how many synnus þat bene onshryuene
Agayn god shall not be forȝeuen?”
The chylde sayde: “synnus two.
Mysbyleue ys on of þo;
Monye a man wyll for no reson
Byleue yn Cristys yncarnacyone,
That he lyȝth yn-to þe mayde Marye
wythowte wem of her body,
And þat he styed þer as he ys kynge;
But he hyt leue yn all þynge,
Certeynly, as y þe telle,
Wythowte ende he goth to helle.
Wanhope ys þat oþur synne
That mony a man ys bounden Inne:
And (he) hath aȝeyn god so mykyll gylt,
The fende to wanhope he hym pylte,
And þan he wyll no mercy craue
For he weneth non to haue;
For þat wanhope, wrytene y fynde,
he goth to helle wythouten ende.”

The emperour sayde: “syn hyt ys so
Synne þoth mony a man myche wo,
Chylde, where-wyth may a man hym were
That þe fynde ne shall hym dere?”
The chylde sayde: “wyth good deuocione.
Thenk wele on Cristus passyone,
how he kneled on þe hyll of Olyuete
And for drede of deth blood gan swete,
Stode bounden to a pyler longe,
Beten he was wyth skourges stronge
That hys body þer hyt stode
was dypped yn hys swete blode,
Also crowned wyth thornes kene
That þe wondus yn hys hedde were sene,
And bare þe crosse to Caluarye
On þe whyche hym-self moste dye;
Thenk vpon hys wondes smerte,
haue hys passyon yn þyn herte,
Therwyth may a man hym were,
That no fynde shall hym dere.”

The emperour sayde: “I leue þe well
That þys ys soth euery dele.
But tell me, chyld, ȝyf þou kan,
what pleseth best god & man?”
The chylde sayde: “penaunces þre.
I wyll ȝou telle whych þey be:
Ȝyf a man be yn trewe chaunse
And lede hys lyf yn ryȝth penance
And weres hym aȝeyn þe fendes fondyng
And kepeth hym fro fowle lykynge,
God ys payd wyth þat empryse
And ȝeueth hym heuen for hys seruyse.
A-noþur þyng payeth god yn herte:
he þat ys large yn hys pouerte
And taketh hys pouerte stylle
And þanketh god wyth good wylle,
And wolde gladly helpe & restore
hys euen-crysten þat are pore;
ȝyf he ne may do no more
But here pouerte rewe sore,
he shall haue for hys good wyll
heuen at hys endyng, as ys skyll.
The þrydde payth god so myche:
A man þat ys yn erþe ryche
And ys come of hyȝ kynne,
And forsaketh all þys worldus wynne
And ȝeueth hym to pouerte;
Therfor yn heuen shall he be.”

The emperour sayde ȝet to the chylde:
“Tell me fayre wyth wordes mylde,
why fasteþ men þe fryday so moche
For-by any oþur day yn þe woke?”
The chylde answered & seyde aȝeyn:
“For þryttene resones, tell I kan.
The fyrste reson ys of hamme
For on þe fryday god made Adam
In þe vale of Ebron þorow hys grace
And formed hym aftur hys face.
The secounde reson, þou may me leue:
vpon a fryday Adam & Eue
losten paradys, þe soþe to telle,
And both wer dampned to helle.
The þrydde reson, y þe telle:
vpon a fryday Caym slowȝ Abelle,
The fyrste martyr for sothe aplyȝt
That was martered for god almyȝt;
And Cayme for þat same þyng
hadde þe curse of our heuene kyng.
The fowrthe reson ys full swete:
how Gabryell our lady dede grete;
vpon a fryday wyth mylde mode
Goddes sone toke flesh & blode
Of þat swete mayde Marie
wythowten wemme of her body.
The fyfte reson I telle beforn:
vpon a fryday Jhesus was born
Of þat swete holy vyrgyne,
To borow our sowles out of pyne.
The syxte reson ys of hyȝ empryse:
when Jhesus toke hys cyrcumcise,
vpon a fryday blode gan he blede,
For þe gylt of our mysdede
And for þe synne of Adam & Eue
That blode he bledde for our beleue.
The seuenþe reson, tell y kan:
how seynt Steuen, goddes man,
vpon a fryday was stoned to dede
Thorow Herode & hys fals rede.
The VIII reson y kan telle,
ȝef ȝe wyll a stounde dwelle:
vpon a fryday saynt Jon þe baptyst
was martered for þe loue of Cryst
In harueste aftur þe assumpcyon—
hys day ys called decollacyoune.
The IX reson ys full gode:
That goddes sone dyed on þe Rode
vpon a fryday, as y ȝou telle,
To bye our sowles out of helle.
Thys ys þe tenþe reson:
Of our ladyes assumpcioune:
On a frydaye she ȝolde þe gost
To her sone þat she loued most;
Ther he ys kyng, she ys qwene—
I-blessed mot þat tyme bene!
The XI reson ys full trewe:
That þe apostell saynt Andrewe
vpon a fryday was don on crosse;
To god he called wyth meke voys
And sayde: fadur yn trynyte,
Thys suffre y for þe loue of þe.
The XII reson: wyth mylde mode
Seynt Elene fonde þe holy Rode
vpon þe mounte of Caluarye—
On þat Rode Jhesus gan dye,
And was born to þat cyte
Wyth Joye & grete solempnite.
The XIII reson ys verament:
That god shall sytte yn Jugement
vpon a fryday wyth mylde mode,
wyth feet & hondes & sydes all blode.
Man, haue þou fryday yn mynde
For þese resones þat y fynde!
For þe fryday ys a day of chaunce
Best to faste & to do penaunce.
The satyrday aftur, sykurly,
Is beste for to faste for our lady;
Thorow her we bene of bale vnbonde
And browȝt out of helle grounde;
She ys called welle of mercy
To alle þat wyll to her cry,
To wash & to make clene
All þo þat yn synne bene;
The see-sterre called she ys,
The ryȝth way vs to wys;
Of her sprong þat swete flour,
Jhesus Cryste, our sauyour—
I-blessed mote þey all be
That seruen Marye mayden fre!”

The emperour wyth wordes sterne
To þat chylde he sayde ȝerne:
“Chylde, he sayde, I coniure þe
In þe name of þe trynyte
And of þe passyon of Jhesus Cryst
And of hys deth & hys vpryst:
That þou me þe soþe say,
Ere þou fro me wende away:
Wheþur þou be wykked angell or good?”
The chyld answered wyth mylde mood:
“I am he þat þe wroȝth
And on þe Rode þe dere bowȝth.”

The chylde styed yn-to heuen þo,
In-to þe place þat he come fro.
The emperour kneled down to þe grounde
And þanked god þat same stounde,
And bycam a good man, as we rede,
In bedes byddyng & almesse-dede,
And serued god yn all wyse,
And kam to heuene for hys seruyse.
God ȝeue grace yt so mote be,
Sayth all amen for charyte!