1
At the reuerence of Seynt Margarete
My purpos is hir lyfe to compile;
Though I haue no Rethorikes swete
Nor colour noon tenbelisshe with my style
Yet dar I seyn, it happeth so somen while,
Vnder writyng rude of apparence
Mater is hid of grete intellygence.
2
Ful ofte falleth, in this Chestys blake
Gold and perlys and stones of grete prys
Ben ylooke and into warde ytake;
And by sentence and the prudent avys
Of philosoffres, that holden were so wys,
A Royal Ruby in whiche ther is no lak,
May closed ben in a ful pore sak.
3
And though that I haue noon eloquence
For to discryue hir parfit holynesse
Hir chaste lyf, hir tendre Innocence.
Hir martirdam wrought by grete duresse,—
Ay vnmutable in hir stablenesse,
Vn-to the dethe ay one in hir suffraunce,
So was hir herte roted on constaunce.
4
In Crystes feith she gan hir so delyte,
For whom she lyste despyse al worldly glorye,
This daysye, with leves rede and white,
Purpul hewed, as maked is memorye,
Whan that hir blode was shad oute by victorye,
The chaste lely of whos maydenhede
Thorugh martyrdam was spreynt with roses rede.
5
Margarete, the storye dothe hir calle,
After a stone ynamed Margarite,
A precyous gemme amonge these stones alle,
In there bokes as clerkys liste to write;
For of nature perlys echone ben white,
Right vertuous of kynde, rounde and small—
Whiche propurtees resemblen hir at alle.
6
She was first white by virginyte,
In al hir lyvyng preuyde vertuous;
And smal she was by humylite;
Right strong in God, this maide glorious;
And for she was thurgh deth victoryous,
Thurgh hir triumphe she gate the palme in heuene,
With laurer crowned above the sterres seuene.
7
This stone in vertu is a cordyal,
To the spirit a grete confortatyf;
Right so hir herte was imperyal
I mene, in vertu duryng al hir lyf;
For she venquesshed with al hir mortal stryf
The deuel, the worlde, her storye dothe devyse,
And of hir flesshe she made a sacryfice
8
Vnto the lorde, that starf vpon the rode,
Whan he liste deye for oure redempcyoun;
So this virgine, taquyte him, shad hir blode
Ful benygnely in her passyoun.
O gemme of gemmes, vyrgyn of most renoun,
Thy lif to write be thou my socoure,
And shede of grace the aureat lycoure
9
In-to my penne, quakyng of verray drede,
Of retoryke for I haue no muse
Duely to write this martirdom: in dede,
Ne were oo thyng, I wolde me excuse,—
That thou of grace wylt me not refuse
But dyrectyn, O blysful lode-sterre,
Me and my penne to conveye, whan I erre.
10
Lat thi lyght in derkenesse be my guyde
Tochyng this processe whiche I haue vnder-take.
Remembre, O virgyne, vpon that other side
On hir that caused, oonly for thi sake,
Thyn holy lyf me to compile and make,—
My lady Marche I mene, whiche of entent
Yafe firste to me in commaundement
11
That I shulde considre welle and see
In Frensshe and Latyne thyn holy passyoun,
Thi martidam and thi virginite,
And thereof make a compilacyoun;
So, as I cowde, vnder correccioun,
And vnder supporte of alle that shal it rede,
Vpon this storye thus I wylle procede.
Here endeth the prolog of Seynt Margarete, and next
folwyng begynneth the storye of hir.
