University of Virginia Library

Princes proude þat beþ in pres,
I wol ou telle þing not lees.
In Cisyle was a noble kyng,
Fair and strong and sumdel ȝyng;
He hedde a broþer in grete Roome,
Pope of al Cristendome;
Anoþer he hedde in Alemayne,
An emperour, þat Saraȝins wrouȝte payne.
Þe kyng was hote Kyng Robert;
Neuer mon ne wuste him fert.
He was kyng of gret honour,
For þat he was conquerour;
In al þe world nas his peer,
Kyng ne prince, fer ne neer;
And for he was of chiualrie flour,
His broþer was mad emperour;
His oþer broþer, Godes vikere,
Pope of Rome, as i seide ere.
Þe pope was hote Pope Vrban:
He was good to God and man.
Þe emperour was hote Valemounde;
A strengur weorreour nas non founde
After his broþer of Cisyle,
Of whom þat i schal telle a while.

Þe Kyng þhouȝte he hedde no peer
In al þe world, fer no neer,
And in his þouȝt he hedde pryde,
For he was nounpeer in vch a syde.

At midsomer, a Seynt Iones Niht,
Þe Kyng to churche com ful riht
For to heeren his euensong.
Hym þouhte he dwelled þer ful long:
He þouhte more in worldes honour
Þen in Crist, vr saueour.
In Magnificat he herde a vers;
He made a clerk hit him rehers
In langage of his owne tonge;
In Latyn he nuste what heo songe.
Þe vers was þis, i telle þe:
“Deposuit potentes de sede,
Et exaltauit humiles.”
Þis was þe vers, wiþouten les.

Þe clerk seide anon riht,
“Sire, such is Godes miht
Þat he may make heyȝe lowe
And lowe heiȝe, in luytel þrowe;
God may do, wiþoute lyȝe,
His wil, in twynklyng of an eiȝe.”

Þe Kyng seide, wiþ herte vnstable,
“Al ȝor song is fals and fable;
What mon haþ such pouwer
Me to bringe lowe in daunger?
I am flour of chiualrye;
Myn enemys i may distruye;
No mon lyueþ in no londe
Þat me may wiþstonde;
Þen is þis a song of nouht!”
Þis errour he hedde in þouȝt,
And in his þouht a sleep him tok
In his pulput, as seiþ þe bok.

Whon þat euensong was al don,
A kyng ilyk him out gan gon,
And alle men wiþ hym gan wende;
Kyng Robert lafte out of mynde.

Þe newe kyng was, as i ou telle,
Godes angel, his pruide to felle.

Þe angel in halle ioye made,
And alle men of hym weore glade.
Þe Kyng wakede þat lay in churche:
His men he þouhte wo to worche
For he was laft þer alon
And derk niht him fel vppon.
He gan crie after his men:
Þer nas non þat spak aȝen;
But þe sexteyn, atten eende,
Of þe churche to him gan wende,
And seide, “What dost þou nouþe her,
Þou false þef, þou losenger?
Þou art her wiþ ffelenye,
Holy churche to robbye!”

He seide, “Foule gadelyng,
I am no þef; i am a kyng!
Opene þe churche-dore anon,
Þat i mowe to my paleis gon!”

Þe sexteyn þouhte anon wiþ-þan
Þat he was sum wood man,
And wolde þe chirche dilyueret were
Of hym, for he hedde fere,
And openede þe chirche-dore in haste.
Þe Kyng bygon to renne out faste,
As a mon þat was wood.
At his paleys ȝate he stood,
And heet þe porter gadelyng,
And bad hym come in hiȝing,
Anon þe ȝates vp to do.
Þe porter seide, “Ho clepeþ so?”
He onswerde anon þo,
“Þou schalt witen ar i go:
Þi kyng i am: þou schalt knowe!
In prison þou schalt ligge lowe,
And ben anhonged and todrawe
As a traytur bi þe lawe.
Þou schalt wel witen i am kyng!
Open þe ȝates, gadelyng!”

Þe porter seide, “So mot i þe,
Þe Kyng is mid his meyné!
Wel i wot, wiþoute doute,
Þe Kyng nis not now wiþoute.”
Þe porter com into halle,
Bifore þe newe kyng aknes gan falle,
And seide, “Þer is atte ȝate
A nyce fool icome late;
He seiþ he is lord and kyng,
And clept me foule gadelyng.
Lord, what wol ȝe þat i do:
Leten him in, or leten him go?”

Þe angel seide in haste,
“Do him come in swiþe faste,
For my fol i wole him make
Forte he þe nome of kyng forsake.”

Þe porter com to þe ȝate,
And him he called, in to late.
He smot þe porter whon he com in
Þat blod barst out of mouþ and chyn.
Þe porter ȝeld him his trauayle:
Him smot aȝeyn, wiþouten fayle,
Þat noese and mouþ barst a-blood;
Þenne he semed almost wod.

Þe porter and his men in haste
Kyng Robert in a podel caste;
Vnsemely heo maden his bodi þan,
Þat he nas lyk non oþer man,
And brouht him bifore þe newe kyng
And seide, “Lord, þis gadelyng
Me haþ smyte withoute decert:
He seiþ he is vr kyng apert.
Þis harlot ouȝte, for his sawe,
Ben ihonged and todrawe,
For he seiþ non oþer word
Bote þat he is boþe kyng and lord.”

Þe angel seide to Kyng Robert,
“Þou art a fol, þat art not ffert
Mi men to don such vilenye;
Þi gult þou most nede abuye.
What art þou?” seide þe angel.
Qwath Robert, “Þou schalt wite wel
Þat i am kyng, and kyng wol be!
Wiþ wronge þou hast my dignité.
Þe Pope of Roome is my broþer,
And þe Emperour myn oþer:
Heo wol me wreke, for soþ to telle;
I wot heo nulle not longe dwelle!”

“Þow art my fol,” seide þe angel;
“Þou schal be schoren, euerichdel,
Lych a fool, a fool to be.
Wher is now þi dignité?
Þi counseyler schal ben an ape,
And o cloþing ou worþ ischape:
I schal him cloþen as þi broþer
Of o cloþing: hit is non oþer.
He schal beo þin owne feere:
Sum wit of him þou miht lere!
Houndes, how so hit falle,
Schulen eten wiþ þe in halle;
Þou schalt eten on þe ground;
Þin assayour schal ben an hound,
To assaye þi mete bifore þe.
Wher is now þi dignité?”
He heet a barbur him bifore,
Þat as a fool he schulde be schore
Al around, lich a frere,
An honde-brede boue eiþer ere,
And on his croune make a crois.
He gan crie and make nois:
He swor þei schulde alle abuye,
Þat him dude such vileynye;
And euere he seide he was lord,
And vche mon scorned him for þat word,
And vche mon seide he was wod;
Þat proued wel he couþe no good,
For he wende in none wyse
Þat God Almihti couþe deuyse
Him to bringe to lower stat;—
Wiþ o drauht he was chekmat!
Wiþ houndes eueri niht he lay,
And ofte he criȝede weylaway
Þat he euere was ibore,
For he was a mon forlore.
Þer nas in court grom ne page
Þat of þe Kyng ne made rage,
For no mon ne mihte him knowe:
He was defygured in a þrowe.
So lowe er þat was neuer kyng;
Allas, her was a deolful þing,
Þat him scholde for his pryde
Such hap among his men betyde!
Hunger and þurste he hedde grete,
For he ne moste no mete ete
But houndes eeten of his disch,
Wheþer hit weore fflesch or ffisch.
He was to deþe neiȝ ibrouht
For hunger, ar he miht eten ouht
Wiþ houndes þat beþ in halle;
How miȝt him hardore bifalle?
And whon hit nolde non oþur be,
He eet wiþ houndes gret plenté.

Þe angel was kyng, him þhouȝte long;
In his tyme was neuer wrong,
Tricherie, ne falshede, ne no gyle
Idon in þe lond of Cisyle.
Alle goode þer was gret plenté:
Among men loue and charité;
In his tyme was neuer strif
Bitwene mon and his wyf;
Vche mon louede wel oþer:
Beter loue nas neuere of broþer.
Þenne was þat a ioyful þing
In londe to haue such a kyng;
Kyng he was þreo ȝeer and more.—
Robert ȝeode as mon forlore.

Seþþe hit fel vppon a day
A luytel bifore þe moneþ of May,
Sire Valemound, þe Emperour,
Sende lettres of gret honour
To his broþer, of Cisyle Kyng,
And bad him come withouten lettyng,
Þat heo mihten beo boþe isome
Wiþ heore broþer, Pope of Rome.
Hym þhouȝte long heo weore atwinne;
He bad him lette for no wynne,
Þat he neore of good aray
In Roome an Holy Þoresday.

Þe angel welcomede þe messagers
And ȝaf hem cloþes riche of pers,
Furred al wiþ ermyne;
In Cristendom is non so fyne;
And al was chouched mid perré.
Better was non in Cristianté.
Such cloþ, and hit weore to dihte,
Al Cristendom hit make ne mihte.
Of þat wondrede al þat lond,
Hou þat cloþ was wrouȝt wiþ hond;
Wher such cloþ was to selle,
Ne ho hit maade, couþe no mon telle.

Þe messagers wenten with þe Kyng
To grete Rome, wiþoute lettyng.
Þe ffool Robert also went,
Cloþed in lodly garnement,
Wiþ ffoxes tayles mony aboute:
Men miht him knowen in þe route!

Þe angel was cloþed al in whit;
Nas neuer seyȝe such samyt;
And al was chouched myd perles riche:
Neuer mon seiȝ none hem liche.
Al was whit, atyr and steede;
Þe steede was feir þer he ȝede;
So feir a steede as he on rod
Nas neuer mon þat euer bistrod.

Þe angel com to Roome sone,
Real, as fel a kyng to done;
So real kyng com neuere in Rome;
Alle men wondrede wheþen he come.
His men weore realliche diht:
Heore richesse con seye no wiht.
Of cloþus, gurdeles, and oþer þing,
Eueriche sqyȝer þhouȝte a kyng,
And alle ride of riche aray
Bote Kyng Robert, as i ow say:
Alle men on him gon pyke,
For he rod al oþer vnlyke:
An ape rod of his cloþing,
In tokne þat he was vnderlyng.
Þe Pope and þe Emperour also
And oþer lordes mony mo
Welcomede þe angel as for kyng,
And made ioye of his comyng.
Þeose þreo breþeren made cumfort;
Þe angel was broþer mad bi sort;
Wel was þe Pope and Emperour
Þat hedden a broþur of such honour!

Forþ con sturte Kyng Robert
As ffol and mon þat nas not fert,
And criȝede wiþ ful egre speche
To his breþeren to don him wreche
Of him þat haþ with queynte gyle
His coroune and lond of Cisyle.
Þe Pope ne þe Emperour nouþer
Þe ffol ne kneuȝ not for heor broþer.
Þo was he more fol iholde,
More þen er a þousend folde,
To cleyme such a breþerhede:
Hit was holde a foles dede.
Kyng Robert bigon to maken care,
Muche more þen he dude are,
Whon his breþeren nolde him knowe;
“Allas,” quaþ he, “nou am i lowe!”
For he hopede, bi eny þing,
His breþeren wolde ha mad him kyng;
And whon his hope was al ago,
He seide allas and weilawo!
He seide allas þat he was bore,
For he was a mon forlore:
He seide allas þat he was mad,
For of his lyf he was al sad.
Allas! allas! was al his song:
His heer he tar, his hondes wrong,
And euere he seide, “Allas, allas!”—
And þenne he þouȝte on his trespas:
He þouȝte on Nabugodonosore,
A noble kyng was him bifore:
In al þe world nas his peer,
Forte acounte, fer ne neer.
Wiþ him was Sire Olyferne,
Prince of knihtes stout and steorne.
Olyferne swor euermor
By God Nabugodonosor,
And seide þer nas no God in londe
But Nabugodonosor, ich vnderstonde;
Þerfore Nabugodonosor was glad
Þat he þe name of God had,
And louede Olofern þe more;
And seþþe hit greued hem boþe sore.
Olofern dyȝede in dolour:
He was slaye in hard schour.
Nabugodonosor lyuede in desert;
Dorst he nouȝwher ben apert;
Fyftene ȝer he liuede þare,
With rootes, gras, and euel fare,
And al of mos his cloþing was;
“Al com þat bi Godes gras:
He criȝede merci with delful chere:
God him restored as he was ere!
Nou am i in such caas,
And wel worse þen he was.
Whon God ȝaf me such honour
Þat i was clepet conquerour,
In eueri lond of Cristendome
Of me men speke wel ilome,
And seiden nouȝwher was my peer
In al þe world, fer ne neer.
For þat name i hedde pride:
And angels þat gonne from ioye glyde,
And in twynklyng of an eiȝe
God binom heore maystrie,
So haþ he myn, for my gult;
Now am i wel lowe ipult,
And þat is riht þat i so be!
Lord, on þi fool þow haue pité!
I hedde an errour in myn herte,
And þat errour doþ me smerte;
Lord, i leeued not on þe.
On þi fol þou haue pité!
Holy Writ i hedde in dispyt;
For þat is reued my delyt—
For þat is riht a fool i be!
Lord, on þi fool þou haue pité!
Lord, i am þi creature;
Þis wo is riht þat i dure,
And wel more, ȝif hit may be.
Lord, on þi fool þou haue pité!
Lord, i haue igult þe sore!
Merci, Lord: i nul no more;
Euere þi fol, Lord, wol i be.
Lord, on þi fol [þou] haue pité!

“Blisful Marie, to þe i crie,
As þou art ful of cortesye;
Preye þi Sone, þat dyed for me;
On me, his fol, þow haue pité.
Blisful Marie, ful of graas,
To þe i knowe my trespas;
Prey þi Sone, for loue of þe,
On me, his fool, he haue pité!”
He seide no more, “Allas, allas!”
But þonked Crist of his gras,
And þus he gon himself stille,
And þonked Crist mid good wille.
Þen Pope, Emperour, and Kyng
Fyue wikes made heore dwellyng.
Whon fyue wykes weore agon,
To heore owne lond heo wolden anon,
Boþe Emperour and þe Kyng;
Þer was a feir departyng.

Þe angel com to Cisyle,
He and his men in a while.
Whon he com into halle,
Þe fool anon he bad forþ calle;
He seide, “Fool, art þow kyng?”
“Nay, sire,” quaþ he, “wiþoute lesyng.”
“What artou?” seide þe angel.
“Sire, a fol; þat wot i wel,
And more þen fol, ȝif hit may be;
Kep i non oþer dignité.”
Þe angel into chaumbre went,
And after þe fol anon he sent;
He bad his men out of chaumbre gon:
Þer lafte no mo but he alon
And þe fol þat stod him bi.
To him he seide, “Þou hast merci:
Þenk, þou weore lowe ipult,
And al was for þin owne gult.
A fool þou weore to Heuene-kyng;
Þerfore þou art an vnderlyng.
God haþ forȝiuen þi mysdede;
Euere herafter þou him drede!
I am an angel of renoun,
Isent to kepe þi regioun;
More ioye me schal falle
In heuene, among my feren alle,
In an houre of a day,
Þen in eorþe, i þe say,
In an hundred þousend ȝeer,
Þeiȝ al þe world fer and neer,
Weore myn at my lykyng!
I am an angel, þou art kyng.”
He went in twynklyng of an eȝe;
No more of him þer nas seȝe.

Kyng Robert com into halle;
His men he bad anon forþ calle.
And alle weore at his wille
As to heore lord, as hit was skille.
He louede God and holi churche,
And euere he þouhte wel to worche.
He regned after two ȝer and more,
And louede God and his lore.
Þe angel ȝaf him in warnyng
Of þe tyme of his diȝing.
Whon tyme com to dyȝe son,
He let write hit riht anon—
Hou God myd his muchel miht
Made him lowe, as hit was riht.
Þis storie he sende eueridel
To his breþeren vnder his seel;
And þe tyme whon he schulde dye
Þat tyme he diȝede as he gon seye.
Al þis is writen, withouten lyȝe,
At Roome, to ben in memorie
At Seint Petres Chirche, i knowe;
And þus is Godes miht isowe,
Þat heiȝe beoþ lowe, þeiȝ hit be ille,
And lowe heiȝe, at Godes wille.
Crist, þat for vs gon dye,
In his kynereche let vs ben heiȝe,
Euermore to ben aboue,
Þer is ioye, cumfort, and loue.