St. Patrick's Purgatory Two versions of Owayne Miles and The Vision of William of Stranton: Together with the long text of the Tractatus de Purgatorio Sancti Patricii |
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 | St. Patrick's Purgatory |  |
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That was kyng of Inglonde,
Ther was a knyȝt men called Oweyn;
He was þeryn and come agayn.
What he þer syȝ, y wyll ȝou telle,
Bothe of heuene and of helle.
Thys knyȝt was dowȝty mon and bolde,
And among [men] mykyll of tolde;
But þys knyȝte fell ynto synne,
And long tyme he lay þerinne.
At þe laste hym rependede soore,
And þowȝte he wolde do no more,
But to þe bysshoppe of þat countre
He wente and fonde hym yn hys se.
To hym he gon hym forto shryue
Of all þe synnus yn hys lyue.
The bysshoppe blamede hym yn þat hete
For hys synnus mony and grete.
Sethen he sayde to hym at þe laste,
That all hys lyf he moste faste,
Forto amende her hys mysdede,
Of þat he hadde mysdone and sayde.
‘Syr,’ he sayde, ‘y þe beseche,
As þou art my sowles leche,
Graunte me þat y mote gone
To Saynt Patrykes Purgatorye anone;
And when y am comen agayn,
All ȝour wyll y wyll do fayn.’
The bysshoppe sayde, ‘Dyþur shalt þou nowȝth,
For mony a fole hath þydur sowȝth;
To moche vpon hemself þey tryste,
Whyþur þey wente, no mon wyste.
I rede þe for þy deuocyoun,
That þou take þe abyte of relygyoun,
And ȝyf þou wylt þy synne lete,
In þys wyse may þou heuen gete.’
‘Syr,’ he sayde, ‘y þe pray,
Thow ȝeue me leue to go þat way.
I hope y woll bothe come and wende,
Thorow þe grace of God [so hende].’
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On Goddes name he badde hym go.
Anon he made hym a letter wele,
And seled hyt wyth hys owne sele.
He toke hys leue and wente hys way
To þe pryour of þat abbey.
When he to þe pryour come,
Of þe knyȝte þe lettur he nome.
He hyt redde and stode full stylle;
Sone he wyste þe knyȝth[es] wylle,
And wellcomed hym yn fayr manere.
‘Syr,’ he sayde, ‘þou art wellcome here.
By þys lettur yn myn honde
I haue þy wyll vnþurstonde;
But I de rede þat þou do not so,
Noþur for wele ner for wo.
Aftur my rede þou do anoþur;
Take þe abyte and become our brodur;
So þou may, boþe nyȝth and day,
Serue God full well to pay.
Then may þy sowle to heuen wende,
And haue þer blysse wythowten ende.’
‘Syre,’ he sayde, ‘þou redest me well,
But for my synnus, dyþur y wyll.
Thyþur y wyll, for my synnus alle,
To haue forȝeuenesse, what so befalle.’
Then sayde þe pryour, ‘Ȝyf þou wylt so,
God kepe þe fro kare and wo.
But a lytyll whyle þou moste dwelle,
And þe perelles we shall þe telle.’
Fyftene dayes he dwelled þore
In almesse-dedes and holy lore.
At þe fyftene dayes ende,
The knyȝth began forth to wende.
Fyrst amorow he herde masse,
And afturwarde he asoyled was
Wyth holy water and holy book,
And ryche relykes forth þey toke.
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Wente wyth hym yn processyoun,
And as lowde as þey myȝth crye,
For hym þey songe þe letanye,
And browte hym fayre ynto þe entre,
Ther as Syr Owen wolde be.
Ther þe knyȝth kneled adown,
And þer [toke] al þur benesoun.
The pryour onlokked þe dore þo,
In Goddus name he badde hym go,
And lokked þe þore and turned agayn,
And lafte þer Syr Owayne.
Forth wente Syr Owayne, þat bolde knyȝth,
A whyle he hadde a lytull lyȝth,
But he wanted hys lyȝth full sone,
For þer shone neyþur sonne ner mone.
Hee hadde no mon hym to lede,
He groped hys way, as he moste nede.
When he come furþur wythinne,
A lytull lyȝth þer gan begynne,
Sone þeraftur a lytull more:
Glad was Syr Oweyn þerfore.
Such was hys lyȝth whan hyt was beste,
As in þe wynter when þe sonne goth to reste.
Then wente he faste, when he myȝth se,
Tyll he come to a grete countre.
Hyt semed well þe more wyldernesse,
For þer grewe noþur tre ner grasse.
As he behelde an hys ryȝth honde,
A swyde fayr halle he syȝe þer stonde;
Hyt was both longe and wyde,
And hyt was open on euery syde,
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