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 | [Poems from the Vernon MS] |  |
Be-fel sum tyme In Engelonde,
Þer was a prest, ich vndurstonde,
Þat ladde not his lyf, as was tolde,
Also clanliche as he scholde.
God wolde he scholde hym amende,
And he hym a strong vuel gon sende,
So, he wende almost to dye.
And on a day þis siht he seȝe:
A child boþe he seih and herde,
And asked hym hou he ferde;
In his hond bret-ful he beere
Of bernynge Obeleis a paniere.
Þer was a prest, ich vndurstonde,
184
Also clanliche as he scholde.
God wolde he scholde hym amende,
And he hym a strong vuel gon sende,
So, he wende almost to dye.
And on a day þis siht he seȝe:
A child boþe he seih and herde,
And asked hym hou he ferde;
In his hond bret-ful he beere
Of bernynge Obeleis a paniere.
Þe prest asked: “what is þat,
And þou þat askest of my stat?”
He seide: “Ich am Godes Messagere,
And þeos Obeleis þat ben here,
Þus monye vnworþily þou fong,
Whon þat þou þi Masse song;
And ȝif þat þou nult I-leue me,
Scheuh forþ þyn hond, and þou schalt se.”
And þou þat askest of my stat?”
He seide: “Ich am Godes Messagere,
And þeos Obeleis þat ben here,
Þus monye vnworþily þou fong,
Whon þat þou þi Masse song;
And ȝif þat þou nult I-leue me,
Scheuh forþ þyn hond, and þou schalt se.”
Þe prest heold forþ his hond anon,
And þe child tok vp on
Of þe obeleys þat were so rede,
And pult hit in þe prestes hond amidde.
Hit fel þorwh þe prestes hond on,
And þe child a-wey gan gon.
And þe child tok vp on
Of þe obeleys þat were so rede,
And pult hit in þe prestes hond amidde.
Hit fel þorwh þe prestes hond on,
And þe child a-wey gan gon.
Þe prest let men come hym to
And tolde hem whi he ferde so:
“Lo,” quaþ he, “hou I am diht!
Who sauh euere such a siht?”
Þat þorw his hond me mihte se
As brod as was þat obele.
And he not I-maymed nas,
And afturward song mony a Mas,
And an hole þorwh his hond—
Þus þat soþe men hit fond.
After for a þousend pound of golde
Þe prest no more synne wolde,
But serued god wiþ gret drede,
And afturward to heuene ȝede.—
And tolde hem whi he ferde so:
185
Who sauh euere such a siht?”
Þat þorw his hond me mihte se
As brod as was þat obele.
And he not I-maymed nas,
And afturward song mony a Mas,
And an hole þorwh his hond—
Þus þat soþe men hit fond.
After for a þousend pound of golde
Þe prest no more synne wolde,
But serued god wiþ gret drede,
And afturward to heuene ȝede.—
I holde þe Mon more þen mad
Þat takeþ þis bred and nis not drad
Of þe wreche þat mihte bi-falle.
So worþi bred hit is wiþ-alle
Þat for þe miht of þulke word
Þat god seide at his owne bord,
Þe same miht þat word haþ here,
To torne þe bred in oþur manere,
And to torne þe wyn in blode,
Þe same þat was sched on Rode.
Þe wordus perauenture I coude telle,
Ac I am not worþi and þerfore I nelle.
Þat takeþ þis bred and nis not drad
Of þe wreche þat mihte bi-falle.
So worþi bred hit is wiþ-alle
Þat for þe miht of þulke word
Þat god seide at his owne bord,
Þe same miht þat word haþ here,
To torne þe bred in oþur manere,
186
Þe same þat was sched on Rode.
Þe wordus perauenture I coude telle,
Ac I am not worþi and þerfore I nelle.
| [Poems from the Vernon MS] | |