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[A Tale of Bishop St. Robert Grostest of Lincoln, and why he lovd Music.]
  
  
  
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[A Tale of Bishop St. Robert Grostest of Lincoln, and why he lovd Music.]

Y shall ȝow telle, as y haue herd,
Of þe bysshope Seynt Roberd;
Hys tonamë ys ‘Grostest
Of Lynkolne,’ so seyþ þe gest.
he loued moche to here þe harpe,
For mannys wytte hyt makyþ sharpe;
Next hys chaumbre, besyde hys stody,
Hys harpers chaumbre was fast þerby.
Many tymes, be nyȝtys and dayys,
He had solace of notes and layys.
One asked hym onys, resun why
he hadde delyte yn mynstralsy:
he answerede hym on þys manere,
why he helde þe harper so dere,
“Þe vertu of þe harpe, þurgh skylle & ryȝt,
wyl destroye þe fendës myȝt,
And to þe croys by godë skylle
Ys þe harpë lykened weyle.
Anoþer poynt cumfórteþ me,
Þat God haþ sent vnto a tre
So mochë ioye to here with eere;
Moche þan morë ioye ys þere
with God hym-selfë, þere he wonys;
Þe harpe þerof me oftë mones;
Of þe ioye and of þe blys
where God hym-self wonys and ys.
Þare-for, gode men, ȝe shul lere,
whan ȝe any glemen here,
To wurschep God at ȝoure powere,
As Dauyd seyþ yn þe sautere,
“yn harpe, yn thabour, and symphan gle,
wurschepe God, yn troumpes, and sautre,

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yn cordys, an organes, and bellys ryngyng,
yn al þese, wurschepe ȝe heuene kyng.”
Ȝyf ȝe do þus, y sey hardly,
Ȝe mow here ȝoure mynstralsy.
Ȝyf þou lyggë long yn synne,
And wylt nat ryse, ne þerof blynne,
Certeynly, for euery oure
Þou shalt ȝelde a-counte ful soure;
For euery oure þat þou þeryn lay
Yn purgatorye þou gest þy pay.
Hyt ys sloghnes, and kalled ‘accyde,’
Fro Goddys seruyse so long þe hyde.
And some, alle þe ȝere wyllyn abyde
Of shryftë tyl þe lentyn tyde;
And nygh tyl lentyn be al gone
Mede for fastyng gete þey none;
Þat ys, for sloghnes þey wyl nat ryse;
lyggyng yn synne, ys lore seruyse.
And, sum men, yn alle here lyue,
Clenly ne wylë þey hem shryue;
For þey synne alle yn hope of grace,
At here endyng wene þey haue space;
Þan þenkë þey to shryue hem clene:
To swyche men, God sheweþ hys tene.
Hyt ys seyd al day, for þys skyl,
“he þat wyl nat whan he may,
He shal nat, when he wyl, [haue pay.]”
And þer byþ many one ful euyl to wynne
To any godenes fro vylë synne;
Euyl tokyn hyt ys of swyche a man,
God hym deme; for y ne kan.
And þyr are ouþer þat mys dous,
As a best, for defaute þat goþ lous.
But whan men techë hem þe wey,
And þey wyl do as men hem sey;

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A tokyn hyt ys, þey shul haue grace
To come to God, and hauë space.
And he may hope of euyl endyng
Þat nonë may to Godë brynge.
A slogh messagere, hys wylland,
Þat charged ys wyþ lordes erand,
Ȝyf he go nat as he ys sent,
He ys wurþy to be shent.
Man þat wel spedyþ hym yn dede,
And messáger smart at nede,
Þey shul stonde byfore þe kyng,
And hauë mede to here askyng.
A persone ys slogh yn holy cherche
Þat on hys shepë wyl nat werche
How þey shul hem-self[ë] ȝeme,
And God and holy cherche to queme.
Þe hyghë shepard shal hym blame,
how he lateþ hem go to shame.
Ȝyf he se yn any þyng
Þat þey haue defaute of chastysyng,
But he teche hem and chastyse so
Þat þey forward better do,
For hem he shal, at þe assyse,
Be ponysshed before þe hygh Iustyse.
Also behoueþ hym, for hem pray,
Þat God, of grace, wysse hem þe wey.
Ȝyf any of hem defautë has,
And he may helpe hem yn þat kas,
And wyl nat, for vnkyndhede,
But late hem perysshe þer for nede,
Ful harde a-countë shal he ȝelde
Þat he myȝt helpe whan he ne welde.
Ȝyf he kyndly vndyrstode,
Of hem he haþ al hys gode;

161

For, God seyþ yn þe gospel þys,
Vpbreydyng hem when þey do mys:
Þe mylke, þe wulle, þey wyl receyue;
And syþþen þe shepe þey wyle late weyue.
Holy wrytë swyche men holdes
As wyldë wuluës brekyng foldes.
Swyche a personë ys ful slogh,
Be he hygh, or be he logh.
Man or womman þat haþ a chylde
Þat wyþ vnþewys wexyþ wylde,
Þat wyl boþe myssey and do,
Chastysment behoueþ þarto;
But ȝe hem chastyse at ȝoure myȝt,
Ȝe falle, ellys, for hem yn plyȝt.
Better were þe chylde vnbore
Þan fayle chastysyng, and syþþen lore.
Þus seyth þe wys kyng Salamonn
To men and wymmen euerychonn,
“wyle ȝe þat ȝoure chyldryn be a-ferd,
Ȝyueþ hem þe smert ende of þe ȝerde;”
And techeþ hem gode þewys echone;
Ȝyt dur ȝow brekë hem no bone.