How the Psalter of our Lady was Made

6. S. Augustin.

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6. S. Augustin.

SEint Austin was nempned þat name
For þreo causus of gret fame:
Þe furst is excellence of dignite,
Þe secunde is feruour of loue & charite,
Þe þridde is for þe kynde interpretacioun
Of þat name of gret renoun.
Whi? furst for excellence of dignite,
For, riht as þe emperour Augustus in his mageste
Grettur is þen eny oþur kyng,
Riht so was Austin in his teching
Tofore oþur doctours excellent
In declaryng holy writtes entent.
Þerfore, whon oþur doctours her
Weren liknet to þe sterres cler,
As Daniel witnesseþ in his boke,
Seyȝing þus, whose luste to loke:
»Þei þat techen mony men rihtwysnes
Ben lyk þe sterres in clernes«;
But to þe sonne is Austyns liknyng,
As witnesseþ þe epistle þat we of him syng,
þat seiþ: »he schon as sonne schinyng
In Godus temple wiþ his techyng«.
Þe secunde cause is, as I seide aboue,

Feruour in charite and loue:
For, as þe moneþ of August to his meete
Passeþ oþure in gret hete,
Riht so seint Austyn his herte wiþinne
Wiþ heuenliche loue, forsoþe, dude brinne.
Þerfore to God al in good feiþ
In þe bok of his confessions he seiþ:
»Min herte, lord, þou hast, ich wot,
Wiþ þi charite (i)schot«;
And »oþurwhile þou puttest me
In an affeccioun nouȝt wonte to be
Wiþinne me, i not forsoþe þer is
Such a maner of swetnis;
Þe whuche parfourned ȝif þat hit be,
I not what hit schal beo in me,
But as a þing in þis lyf
Ne is nouht, so mot i þryf«.
Þe þridde cause makeþ mencion
Of his names interpretacion:
For, as þe bok telleþ vs,
Þis name Augustinus
Of »augeo auges« mad hit is:
Þat is on Englisch »to eche«, iwis,
And of þis word: »austy«, parde:
Þat is on Englisch »a cite«,
And of þis word: »ana«, in certeyn:
Þat is »aboue« forte seyn;
Augustinus is to seyn, in verite,
As hose seiþ: echyng þe heiȝe cite.
Þerfore of him men rede and synge
Þat he passeþ oþere in echinge
Of þat ilke grete cite,
Þorw Godus grace and charite.
Þerfore of him hit is iseid
In Glosarie—þat is a bok ofte leyd—
Þat Austyn was wondur gret in liuyng
And more cler þen oþure in teching
And celi mon he was in blis.
Clerkes recorden of him þis.

AUstin þe doctour, þe noble man,
Boren was in þe prouince of Affrican
In þe cite of Chartous,
Of worschipful kunreden and glorious;
His fader men called Patrik,
And his modur hihte Monik.
He was so lernd in vche art
Þat of hem he hedde so gret part
Þat he was a philosofre and a rethor,
On þe greste þat þenne was bor:
For Aristotiles bokes and oþur moni on
He radde wiþoute teching of mon,
As he witnesseþ in his bok

Of confessiouns, hose luste to lok:
Þer he seiþ, as ȝe mowe here,
Riht clene on þis manere:
»Of artes þe bokes alle,
Þat liberales clerkes don calle,
As a seruaunt of wikked couetyse
Aftur myn oune wit and auyse
I radde al way and vndurstod
Al þat i Iadde wiþ wylde mod«.
Þis was also his seying
Þat of þe art of spekyng and of endytyng,
And of þe mesures of figures and musek,
And of alle þe noumbres ek,
Wiþouten eny gret lettyng
He vndurstod in his redyng
Wiþouten monnes teching
Or eny oþur witeryng:
»And þou, lord God, wost riht wel
Þat al hasty lernyng eueridel
And þe scharpe maner of lernyng
Is þi grace and þi ȝiuyng.
But neuerþeles on þat wyse
Tofore þat tyme dude i to þe no sacrifise;
Hit is soþ þat science wiþouten charite
Edefyeþ not, but makeþ a mon bilowen, parde«.

INto an errour þenne he fil
Þat mony a monnes soule dude spil,
Þat þulke tyme heolden þe Manichees,
Þat heretykes weren, wiþouten les:
For þei affermed sikerlye
Þat Crist nas bote a fantasye,
And þei forsok þat alle men
Schulde rise in flesch, to lyue aȝen,
At þe dredful day of dom,
Whon vs to juge Crist schal com.
Þeos opiniouns heolde nyne ȝer,
He and þe Manachees in feer.

WHon he was nine and twenti ȝer old
And of witte was waxe al bold,
He studied faste and gon to look
Vppon a philosofres bok:
Þer he radde iwriten in verite:
A mon schulde dispise þis worldus vanite.
Þe bok lyked him swiþe wel,
But, for he fond þerin neuer a del
Iwriten of vr lord Cryst,
Sori he was, þauh no wiht wist;
A luitel sauour of him he hed cauht,
As his modur hedde him tauht.
His modur for him wept euer fast,
For he schulde torne atte last
To þe vnite of þe feiþ—
As þe bok vs telleþ and seiþ.

IN þe bok of his confessiones
Þe soþe is writen for þe nones:

His modur þhouhte þat heo stood
Vppon a tyme wiþ entent good
In an euen forþriht lyne
Þat hedde beo marked wiþ þred of twyne,
And, þouh heo weore in herte sori,
Heo sauh bi hire stonde a child louely,
And asked hire þe cause whi
Þat heo was so sori.
And heo onswerde riht anon:
»I weope for Austin, my son:
I drede euere of his leosyng,
But God beo his helpyng«.
Þe to þur onswerde: »noþing so!
Beo riht siker and leue þi wo,
For þer as þou art þer is he.
Leeue wel! hit schal non oþur be«.
And as heo loked hire bisyde,
Heo sauh anon riht in þat tyde
Hou þat Austin stod hire by.
And heo him tolde þen openly
Hou on seide to hire parde:
Þer as þou art þer is he.
And he onswerde: »nay, modur, nay,
He seide riht þus, as i leeue may:
Þer as I am þer art þou«.
And heo seide: »sone, þou gabbest nou!
For hit nas not iseid to me:
Þer as he is þer art þou, parde,
But: þer as þou art þer is he—
Þat was þe word was seid to me«.
His modur wiþ riht good entent
Preyed a bisschop, verreyment,
For hire sone þat he schulde preye
Þat he weore brouht in to rihte weye.
Of hire preyere he lihtly dude lete,
But seide to hire as a prophete:
»Fare wel, he seide, and haue no fere!
For an inpossible þing hit were
Þat tat child ilost schulde beo
For whom þi teres so faste doun fleo«.

AT Chartouse he tauȝte mony ȝeres
Rethorike to his scholeres.
Þen priueliche aftur his oune dome
He stal awey and wente to Rome,
Þat his modur schulde not wite,
Leste heo þerfore wiþ him hedde flite.
Þer ful to him gret repeyre
Of clerkes, to lerne boþe wel and feire.
Þat same tyme men of Melan
To þe prefecte of Rome senden þan,
Hem to seenden witerlike
A doctour in rethorike;
Bisschop þat tyme wiþouten glose
Of Melan was seint Ambrose.
Þenne wiþ good entent and fyn
To Melan was sent seint Austyn.
On him was euere his modur þenkyng,
And, forte seo him, com wiþ hyȝing,
Forte herken of his stat.

But þen wox heo sumwhat mat,
For heo fond him not fulliche holdyng
Wiþ þe Manachees erryng
Nouþur fulliche in rihte wei
Of alle cristene mennes fei.
Whon he com to Melan,
Þerof was glad moni a man,
And for þe bisschop seint Ambrose
Was a mon of gret lose
And preched ofte swiþe wel
To alle maner of pepel,
Austin hedde gret likyng
Forte go here his preching.
Ambrose in his sarmoun
Hedde euer gret discrecioun
Þat aȝeyn þe heresyes on Manachees,
Nouþer fore, nouþur more no les
He nolde him entremete ne seye,
But take raþur anoþur weye.

VPpon a tyme, þauh, afturwarde
Ambrose disputed wondur harde
Aȝein þat ilke heresye,
Wiþ strong resun hit to distruye;
So longe he spac of þis mateer
Þat Austyn þhouȝte his seiȝing cler
And from his herte outurliche
Putte þulke heresye, verreyliche.
What ful afturward of þat,
In þe bok of confessiouns he telleþ sumwhat
And seiþ: »whon I þe kneuh furst ariht,
Þe syknesse þou beetest of my siht,
Schynynge wiþinne me wondurliche,
And I for fere qwok, treweliche,
I fond fro þe þat fer I was,
As in a kyngdam of vnlikenes,
As i hedde herd a vois from hiht
Þat to me hed seid þus riht:
To grete men I am þe mete,
Bileeue: and me þen þou schalt ete!
But in to þe þou schalt not chaunge me,
As mete þat þou puttest in to þe,
But i schal make bi charite
Þat þou schalt beo chaunged in to me«.

WHon he Cristes weyes lyked wel,
Ȝit þe streitnesse schomed him sumdel.
God putte in to his þouht þan
Þat he schulde go to Simplician—
In whuche mon þat tyme was
Muche good liuynge and Godus gras,—
Forte telle him his herte brennyng
To leorne þe maner of good liuyng,
Hou he miht best day bi day
Rihtfulliche gon in Godus way.
For þe loue of God, vr lord,
Al þat he dude in þis world
Hit him displesed outerly
For þe swetnesse of him an heiȝ
And for þe swetnesse of his hous,
Þat he louede, so glorious.

SImplician, þat noble man,
Bigon to amonesten him þan,
And so he dude him self also,
Seint Austyn, and seide þo:
»A, hou moni children ben þer now
And maydens þat han imad a vou,
Þat seruen God in holy churche
And mony a good dede don worche!
And þou maiȝt not beo he
Þat may do as he and heo?
Or elles þeos men and þeos wymmen
So mihti of hem self ben
Þat þei mowen so do þis,
And nouht in God, þat almihti is?
Wherto stondest þou in þi self as ouȝt,
And ȝit ne stondest þou riht nouht?
Caste þi self in him anon,
And he schal þe take to him al on
And, for þat þou art not i wele,
He him self wol þe hele«.

AMong þis speche boþe more and min
Þei hedden muynde of on Victoryn,
Þat Simplician wiþ glad cher
Tolde Austyn on þis maner
How þat he wuste wel þan
Þat Victorin was an heþen man
And, for of wit he was so sage,
Þer was imad an ymage
Of him and set vp at Rome
For worschip of his wisdome,
And he wolde seye ofte among men
Þat he was ful cristen,
Simplician wolde seie: »parde!
I leeue hit not, til I þe se
In holy churche wiþ charite
And beo, as cristene men be«,
Bourdyng he wolde aske þan
Wheþer þe walles maden a cristen man;
Atte last to churche he went,
And him was a bok brouht, verreiment,
Vppon þe whuche was writen þe crede:
Þen al aloud he gan hit rede,
Þat alle men miht him here,
Til he hedde pronounced al ifeere.

ANoþur frend of Austines eke
Com to him out of Aufreke,
Þat was icalled Poncian,
And he him tolde þe lyf of an holi man
And þe miracles also,
Þat seint Antonyn men called þo,
Þat ded was tofore in good hour
In Constantines tyme, þe emperour.
Þoruh þeose ensaumples loue hed him take
And brenneþ him wiþinne for Godus sake,
And his tornynge was so cler
Boþe in þouȝt and in cheer
Þat on his felawe wiþ open lippe,
Þat men called þo Alippe,
Þen he cried an heih to his ere:
»What suffre we, what do we here?

Lewed men rauisschen heuen ful welle,
And we, þat ben lettred, ben dreint in helle.
Wheþer we schul schone nou for scham,
For þei ben tofore, to suwen ham?«
In to a gardyn þenne he ran
And vndur a fyge tre he leide him þan
And þer wiþ bitter wepyng
He made gret deol and serewyng.
His bok witnesset of confession
Þat þer he cried wiþ deuocion:
»Hou longe, hou longe schal i sorewe
For to morwe and to morewe?
Now soffre a luitel þat hit mot be«.
þeose wordes risen al of charite,
Him þouhte he hedde to longe iben
From him þat made alle þing and men.
Of his slouþe in þat doyng
He made þus his pleynyng:
»Allas to me! hou heih þou art in þin heihnesse
And hou deop in þi deopnesse!
From vs þou wolt neuermore be,
And vnneþe we wole come to þe.
Do þou now, lord, and also make
To stire vs, and calle aȝeyn, þat þou ne slake!
Tac þou hede and rauische vs,
Hete vs wiþinne and be swete & glorious!
I dredde my self þorwh lettyng
To beo sped of my disiring,
Riht as I schulde haue had lettyng
Þorwh myn oune dredyng.
Þou art feirnes old and newe,
Ful sore, forsoþe, i may me rewe
Þat I þe loued haue so late—
For i knowe nou my self al mate.
Þou weore wiþinne and I wiþoute:
Þer þe to seche i was aboute;
Þou were, forsoþe, ay wiþ me,
But i ne was nout wiþ þe;
Þow calledest and criȝedest of þi godnes,
Þow hast ibroken my defnes,
Þou hast ischyned wiþ brihtnes
And driuen awey my blyndnes,
Þow hast isauered swetliche
And lad my spirit goodliche:
And nowþe þat makeþ me
Forte breþe aftur þe,
I haue þe tasted wiþ good lust:
Þerfore i hungre þe and þrust,
And i haue had a brennynge res
Forte come in to þi pees«.

AMong þis grete mournyng
And þis bitter wepyng
He herde a vois, and tok gret hede,
Þat seide to him: »tac þou and rede!
Tac and red!« hit seide eftsones.
Þen tok he hit to him for þe nones,
Þe book of þe apostles pistles,
And opened hit—þer weore þistles!—
He fond iwriten hol and sum:
Induimini dominum Jhesum Cristum,

Þat is to sei, whose wite list:
»Beo ȝe icloþud wiþ Jhesu Crist«.
And anon riht wiþ þat lokyng
Alle maner of misdoutyng
Of derknesse fleyh from his herte.
And in þe mene while him sore smerte,
For he hedde so gret an ache
Of seknesse of þe toþ-ache—
For he was fallen in þat dolour,—
Þat he was in point to ha bileeued an errour
Þat Cornelius þe philosofre
Heold sum tyme wiþ open profre:
Þat of þe soule þe grettest godnes
In wisdom stod awes
And of þe bodi þe most good
In feling of non ache stood.
Þe ache for þe tyme was so stronge
Þat he lafte þe speche of his tonge.
þerfore in a waxed table
He wrot þat alle men, wiþouten fable,
For him schulde preiȝe God witerly
Þat ache to hele of his merci.
Þenne alle men wiþ deuocioun,
And he also, kneoleden adoun:
And sodeynliche he feled wel,
Þe ache was passed eueridel.

TO seint Ambrose lettres he sent
Þat he schulde sende him his entent
As him þhouȝte best in his wit,
What bokes þenne of holy writ
Best him were forte rede,
To leorne þe rihte wey to lede,
Þat he mihte beo þe more apt
To cristene feiþ, as he hedde schapt.
Seint Ambrose him bad: deuoutelye
Þe book of þe prophete Ysaye
Tofore al oþure he schulde rede—
Þer he schulde lerne to gete him mede,
For þat bok techeþ wel
Þe callyng to God bi þe gospel
Of þe folk rediliche,—
And bad him studie bisiliche.
Austin bigon þat redyng,
But he vndurstod not þe biginning,
And for þat hit was to him so hard,
He caste to abyde til afturward,
Til he couþe more of holy writ,
Þat þerwiþ he mihte acorde his wit.

AT ester whon þat feste schulde bi holde,
Austin, þat was þritti winter olde,
And his sone, þat men called þo
»Godusȝift«, and Alippe also,
Þorwh his modur preiȝing
And seint Ambrosus preching
Weoren icristenet alle þre
In þe nome of þe trinite.
Þenne, as þe bok telleþ vs,
Ambros bigon Te Deum laudamus,
And Austin onswered wiþouten wondur
Te dominum confitemur,
And so þei tweyne wiþ herte glade

An ende of þat ympne þei made.
His sone, þat cald was »Godusȝift«,
He gat whon he þouȝte on no þrift,
Whil þat he was an heþen man
And tauhte philosofye þan;
And Alippe was a frend ful dere
To Austin al wei, wiþouten were.

AUstin aftur his cristendom, as þe bok seiþ,
He was so wondurlich confermed in þe feiþ
Þat þe hope þat he in þe world had
He fleyh awey and waxed al sad,
And his scolus he forsok
Þat he rad inne vppon þe bok.
Hou muche swetnesse of heuenlich loue
He hedde wiþinne for God aboue,
In his bok he telleþ opunliche
And seiþ þus deuoutliche:
»Min hert þou hast ischoten and me,
Deore lord, wiþ þi charite,
And i bar þi wordus stiked
In my guttus, faste ipriked,
And ensaumplus of þi seruauns dere,
Of þe whuche þou madest here
From blaknesse to turne to liht,
From deþ also to lyue ful riht,
I hem bar longe in my þouht
And in to slouþe þei me brouht(!).
To him þat com doun fro þe valeye
Of wepyng, and song bi þe weye
Þe louely song of degres,
Þou ȝaf, forsoþe wiþouten les,
Scharpe arwes and coles wastyng,
To amende wiþ my liuing;
Nouþur i nas fulled at þat tyme,
At vndurne, noon, euesong ne prime,
Of þat wondurful swetnes
Þat i hedde in my dissches:
To consydre þe heihnes
Of diuyne counseil and godnes
Vppon þe hele of monkynde,
Þat þoruh sunne was put bihynde.
Muche haue i wept in ympnes and þi song,
Stered wiþ swetnes of holichirches vois among,
Þulke voices flowen in to myn eres
And from myn eȝen ronnen doun þe teres—
And wel was me þat þei were smerte,
For þi soþnes melted in myn herte.—
Þat tyme furst in godus louyng
In þe chirche of Melan was ordeynd syngyng.—
Þerfore I cried a loud cry
Wiþ myn herte, al on heih:
O in pace, O in idipsum,
O qui dixit dormiam & capiam sompnum.
Tu es enim in idipsum
Wiþouten chaungyng boþe hol and sum—
Þat is to sei: a in pees and in þi self one,

A, þou seist i schal slep and take napping sone(!);
Þou art in þi self onliche,
Þat neuermore chaungest sikerliche,
And in þe my restyng is,
Forȝetynge al trauayles iwis.
Þat psalme i radde al wiþ lykyng,
Wiþ loue of herte wiþinne brennyng,
Þat sum tyme was a bitter berkere
And also a blynd herknere
Aȝeynes lettres goode and mete,
Wiþ hony of heuene ihonied swete
And liht inouh weren of þi liht
Þat schineþ euere so feir and briht;
And i tapissed vndur such lettring,
Swete Jhesu Crist, myn helpyng!.
Hit is waxen swete to me sodeynlye
To leue þe swetnesses of japerye—
Such tyme i dredde such japes to lete,
Nou is my joye wiþ hem not meete—
Þou þreuh hem out, wiþouten les,
Þou art icalled verrey swetnes,
In stude of hem þou come in to me
Swetter þen lust of vanite—
But nouþur to flesch nouþur to blod,
But to my spirit wiþ mylde mod,—
Brihtor to me þen eny liht,
Priuiest of alle þing wiþinne wiþ riht,
Hyȝest in worschipe and nobelte
To hem þat heiȝ of hem self nouȝt be«.

AFtur þat he tok wiþ him to go
Nebridie, Euodie, and his modur also,
And torned aȝeyn stillelike
To þe cuntreye of Affrike.
Whon þei weore comen wel afyn
To þe ȝates of Tiberyn(!),
Þer bifulle þorwh Godus gras
Þat his modur ded þer was.
Þen Austin þouhte on his lynage
And wente hom to his heritage.
Þen in wakyng and good preyere
He serued God, þat bouht him dere,
And oþure also þat dwelled wiþ him
At þat ilke same tym,
He wrot bokes of holy writ
And tauhte hem þat weoren lewed of wit.
His fame þen sprong wondur wyde,
And wondurful he was holden on vche syde
Boþe in his bokes and in his dede,
And euermore God was his spede.
He wolde raþur holde him self at home
Þen at eni such cite come
Þer as þe bisschop ded was,
Leste he hedde beo chosun in þat cas.

AT þe cite of Yppon
Dwelled þat tyme a riche mon,
Þat to seint Austyn sent to seye:
Ȝif þat he wolde take þe weye
Touward him, þat was so couþ,
And þat he miht here of his mouþ
Goddus word preched holliche,

He wolde forsake verreyliche
Al þe world and to God turne
And for his sunnes make deol and morne.
Whon seint Austin herde of þis,
Þider he wente anon iwis.
Whon þe bisschop Valerius
Of þat cite herde hit was þus,
And of Austines goode fame
And also of his grete name,
He made him in his oune chirche
Chef prest, þerinne to worche.
Seint Austin wepyng hit longe forsok,
But atte laste he hit to him tok.
Anon riht þer a munstre he mad
Of clerkes, lyf to lede ful sad,
And bigon to lyue on þat same manere
As þe apostles duden in eorþe here—
Out of þat munster aftur weren chose
Ten bisschopus, þat men weren of good lose.
And for þe bisschop of þat citéé
Was a Greke, in verite,
And luytel couþe of latyn,
Þerfore he ȝaf to seint Austin
Pouwer to preche for him þe fey,
Aȝein þe custum of þat cuntrey;
Men þerfore þe bisschop duden blame,
But he of þat tok no schame
Þouh anoþur for him preched wiþ mouþe
On latin, þat better þen he couþe.

ÞAt tyme Austin wiþ disputyng
Ouercom þe Manaches erryng
And a prest, þat men called Fortunat,
Þat principal heretyk was of þat,
And þe Donatistes, þat weren fayn
To ben ibaptised aȝayn
Aȝeines holichurches feiþ,
As vr bocus techeþ and seiþ,
He drof awey wiþ his clergyse,
And stabled þe feiþ on þat wyse.
Þen bisschop Valerius wex aferd
Lest Austin from him schulde beo reued
And þat of men asked he schulde be
To bisschop of anoþur citéé,—
For, nedde he o[illeg.]s him ise[illeg.]
To a place, to bi hud priuement,
He hedde iben lad him fro
And sone aftur mad bisschop þo.
Þen gat he leue of þe erchebisschope
Of Cartus wiþ god hope
Of his bisschophed to sees,
Þat Austin mihte wiþouten les
Þerof ben his successour
And hit gouerne wiþ honour.
Long tyme Austin þat forsok,
But atte laste he hit tok,
Sumwhat compelled he was þerto—
Þer beoþ but fewe þat nou don so!—.
Aftur, whon he hedde lerned more,
Gretliche him forþhouȝte þerfore

Þat he tok such dignite þon,
Whil þe bisschop was lyues mon,
Aȝeyn þe bidding of holichurche;
And for oþur men schulde not so worche,
He made him bisy wiþ herte and wil
Þat bisschops schulde ordeyne in heore counsyl
Þat to him þat schulde bisschop ordeynd be
Alle þe constitucions in verite
Of vr eldre faderes his ordeynours
Schuld him furst schewe wiþ honours.
Þerfore he seid he felde for noþing God so wroþ
Wiþ him also, oþur hedde him loþ,
As whon he put him to þe heȝe dignite
Of holy churche gouernour to be,
Whon he nas worþi in no wyse
Vnneþe (beo) do to such on seruyse.
His cloþinge and his ornement
Nas nouþur to precious, ne torent
Ne abhominable to monnus siht,
But mesurable euen forþ riht.
Often tyme he wolde seyn:
»Of precious cloþus am I nouȝt fayn
But raþur aschomed, sikerly,
Þen to han lykyng þerby;
Þerfore, whom þei ben ȝiue to me,
I hem sulle, so mot i þe:
For þe cloþ may not comuyn be,
Þe prys þerof may wel, parde«.

HIs mete, luytel þouh hit were,
He wolde hit ȝiue wiþ god chere;
Oþurwhile in his potage,
For gestes þat coomen to his hostage,
Flesch he let seoþe for heor mete,
And he also wiþ hem wolde ete.
He loued raþer at such sittyng
To here a lessun oþur disputyng,
Þen his wombe to fol to fille—
And þat was euermore his wille.
Þer was writen on his mete bord
Aȝeynes bacbyters þis same word:
»Who so loueþ wiþ his seying
In absence of men blame heor liuyng,
He may wite riht wel iwis:
Þis bord to him vnworþi is«.
Þerfore, whon he bad to his fest
Bisschops þat he loued aller best,
And þei bigonne to bacbyte,
Þerof he wolde hem þen edwyte
And hem blame for heor speche
And seye þat he wolde for wreche
Ouþur þenne hem aȝeynseye
Oþur elles aryse and gon his weye.

TO þe mete he hedde ibeden ones
Gode frendes of his for þe nones;
Whon þat þei weren aftur sent,
On into þe kuchen went,

Forte loke what þei schulde haue;
He fond þerinne nouþur cok ne knawe,
And þe herþes weren al cold—
He wondred þerfore monyfold;
To þe halle he wente him in
And asked of seint Austin
What he hedde arayed forte ete
To hem þat he hedde bede to mete.
Seint Austin nas not curious
Of metes and drinkes not costous,
On onswerd þen on þis manere:
»Lo i my self am wiþ ȝou here«.

HE seide he hedde lerned þreo þinges
Aftur seint Ambrosus techinges:
Þe furste was, wiþouten rage
Þat he schulde make no mariage,
Leste þat mon and þe wyf,
Whon þei weoren weri of þat lyf,
Him wolde curse in certeyn
For þat ilke bargeyn.
Þe secunde was, wiþouten fayle,
Þat he schulde not cumforte to batayle
A kniht þat wolde him ȝiue to fiht
And oþur men to putte at fliht,
For hit miht falle of þat doyng:
He mihte men greue in heore þing
And do also muche wronge
To hem þat he werred amonge;
For þat þen him þei wolden blame
For his counseil, and þat were schame.
Þouh he weore beden to feste to cum,
Þe þridde was, he schulde him hold at hom,
Leste þat him ful þer such a chaunce
Þat he loste his temperaunce
In etyng and drynkyng,
In spekyng and al oþur þing.

IN him self he was so pure
And of meknes hedde so gret cure,
And of þe leste maner sinne
Þat eny mon falleþ inne
To God vr lord he wolde him schriue
And mekeliche acuse his lyue
In his bok of confessioun swiþe wel—
Witnesseþ hit so eueridel.
For þere he accuseþ him self at al
Hou he pleyed at þe bal,
Whyl he was child, and raged also,
Whil þat he scholde to scole han go;
And hou he nolde don his entent
Forte lerne, ne take talent,
Til his frendes him wolde peyne
Oþur elles his maister him constreyne;
And, whil he was child, þat he wolde rede
Poetes fables—þat nas no nede,
And for he made ones gret wepyng
For a wommones dying;
And for he stal out of his frendes celere
Mete, his felawes forte bere
Þat he was wont wiþ to pleye,
As children don ofte in þe weye;
And hou he wolde wiþ queyntyse

Casten his wit and diuise
Hou he mihte most propurly
Of his felawes haue þe victory;
And hou þat he was so bold,
Whon he was sixtene ȝer old,
Peres to stele from a tre
Of his neihȝebors, saunȝ cunge.

HE accused him also wiþ deuociun
Of þat luttel delectaciun
Þat he feled in his etyng;
Þerfore þis was his seying:
»Þou hast me tauȝt, lord, on þis maneer:
Riht so to take my mete heer
Riht as i schulde a medecyn
Proporciont, boþe good and fyn.
But whon nede me takeþ mi bodi to fille,
Concupiscence is aboute mi soule to spille:
Þat is þe pas þat i mot go,
Whon neode dryueþ me þerto,
But þat paas is voluptuosite,
Þer nis non oþur wey, whon neode driueþ me;
Þe cause of vche monnes mele
Schulde ben onliche monnes hele,
But voluptuosite eueneþ him to as a fot page
Þat preseþ tofore wiþ gret outrage,
Þe cause of hele to putte away,
And he for cause him self doþ forþ lay,
To ete or drinke whon I am pliht—
Þe cause schal be hele ful riht.

DRonkenesse is fer fro my þouht—
Ha merci on me, lord, þat he neihȝe me nouȝt!—
Glad of chere drinke wol me make,
But þi merci, lord, hit may slake.
And who is he, lord, more oþur lasse
Þat oþurwhile ne schal passe
Þe boundes of neode in etynge
And also in his drinkynge?
Whateuer he beo, wiþouten let,
He may beo called wondur gret
And þi name worschipe may he
Boþe niht and day, whereuer he be;
I am not he, lord, sikerly!
For a sunfol mon am I.«

HE hedde him self in his purpose
Suspecte in sauour of his nose,
Þerfore he seiþ wiþ dolour:
»In vnlofsum sauour
I haue coueyted not muche,
Whon hit is from me, verreyliche,
Ne i ne seche hit nouȝt, parde,
Nouþur aske, whon hit is aȝeines me;
And whon such sauours ben me by,
To hem am I al redi,
Þauh i wolde say þei lakken to me(!),
Bigyled par auenture miht I be.

Þer may no mon, so mot i þryue,
Beon siker, whil he is here alyue,
For þis lyf here of renoun
Nis noþing but temptacioun;
Wheþer a mon þat feble is
Bettre mihte beo mad to blis,
So þat of a good mon he neor not mad
Worse, oþur elles al to bad«.

ALso of his herynge
He confessed him, seyinge
Þat þe lustes of his ere
Hedde him brouht in gret fere
And ifolden him strongliche
And vndurgon him vyleynliche:
»But, lord, of þi godnesse
Þou hast me vnbounde what more and lesse.
Whon þe song to my ere
Is more likyng, whon I hit here,
Þen is þe þing þat men don synge,
I knoweleche: I sunge in herynge,
And þen were me leuere here no synginge
Þen þerinne haue such lykinge«.

HE accused him self eke: in seoinge
Þat he hedde had to muche likynge,
To seo houndes rennynge
In eny maner of huntynge—
Þat vsed he nouȝt wilfuliche,
But ȝif hit ful so sodeynliche
As he passed on feld bi
On his romyng, sikerli.
Herof he wolde him confes
Tofore vr lord of his mekenes;
He seiþ þat his skile was whi,
For such maner of veneri
Torned awey from God his þouht
And breeken preyeres al to nouht.

HE accused him self ek of delyt
Þat he hedde in appetyt
In veinglorie of preisyng,
Whon he hit herde of his cunnyng
Oþur of oþur vertuwes
Þat God him sende, or goode þewes,
And he wolde seye þen:
»He þat wole beo heried of men,
Ȝif þat þou, lord, wolt him blame,
Þer may nomon defende þat schame;
And ȝif þou, lord, dampne him,
Nomon him saue may at þat tym.
A mon is preised onliche
For þi ȝifte specialiche,
And ȝit mon haþ more lykyng
In his owne preisyng
Þen to preise þi special ȝift:
Þat is vuel don, beo my þrift.

WE ben tempted day bi day
Of mony maner of assay,
But vr fourneis brennynge
Is monnes tonge in spekynge.
Neuerþeles i wolde nouȝt
Þat hit schulde falle in my þouht
Þat i schulde beo þe more glad

For anoþur mon me preised had
Of eny maner of goodnesse,
Wheþer þat hit beo more or lesse;
And, þouh a luytel hit eche my blis,
Blame hit amenuseþ sone, iwis.
In herte I am ay sori,
Whon men me pre(i)sen hertely
In suche þinges as me displese,
In my self a ben non ese,
Or whonne luytel or luyte god
Is mad more, beo þe rod,
Þen þei ben al togeder worþ—
Aftur men trouwe not euen forþ!«

HEretykes so he schent
Þat þei him hated in heor entent
And þei preched openliche
Þat hit nas no sunne dedliche
Seint Austin for to sle,
For to a wolf lyk was he,
And þat he schulde haue remissioun
Of his sunnes euerichon
Þat him wolde don of dawe
And noþing spare for Godus awe.
Þei setten a wayte ofte, him to slo,
But þorwh Godus grace he skaped euermo.

EUere he hedde mynde on þe pore
And wiþ hem he parted euermore
Such as he hedde, gladliche,
In sum tyme þat so muche
Þat þe vessel of seluer and golde
Of holichirche, taken him to holde,
He wolde breke and melte hit smal,
Þe mescheuous to parte wiþ al.
He nolde neuere buye hous ne toun,
Were þei neuere of so gret renoun;
In so muche þat mennes heritage,
Þat him was laft, as mon of age,
He lafte to heore kinnes men
Oþur to heore children þat liueden þen.
In þe possessiouns of his churche
Hedde he no þouȝt ne wil to worche,
Nouȝt to loue hem ouerwel,
But ȝaf his wit eueridel
Niht and day to holy writ—
Þerwiþ he occupyed his wit.
For to buylde eny newe plas,
Luytel þeron his þouȝt was,
For he wolde nouȝt his wit defoule
Wiþ worldly þinges, bote beo soule
And freo in good þenkynge
And in lessounes redynge.
But forbeode wolde he nouht
Hem þat buylden hedden þouht—
To curious þei schulde not be,
Þat onliche forbede wolde he.

HEm he wolde preise outerlye
Þat hedden desyr forte dye.

Þenne ensaumples he wolde hem tel
Of þreo bisschops, þat he louede wel:
Of seint Ambrose whon he schulde dye,
Hou þe peple him preyed deuoutelye
Þat he schulde wiþ his preyere
Sumwhat lengþen his lyf here,
And he onswerde wiþ vois ful cleer:
»I haue not liued on þat maner
Þat I am aschomed nou
Forte liue amonges ȝou,
Nouþur to dye I haue no drede:
We han a lord wol quyte vr mede«.
Seint Austin preised muche þis onswere,
Whil þat he was on eorþe here.

ÞE secunde ensaumple was of a bisschope,
A mon þat was of studefast hope,
To whom þe peple gan to seye,
Whon þe gost schulde taken his weye:
»To holichirche þou hast ben good
Boþe in word, dede and mood,
God þerfore, as nouþe leeue we,
Wole þat þou delyuered be«.
Þen he onswerde and seide þus:
»Ȝif þat beo neuer, wel is vs;
And eny tyme ȝif hit schal beo,
Whi not nou? hit wolde lyke me«.

OF þe þridde bisschop he tolde eke:
Whon þat he was wondur seke,
He preyed to God ful hertily
To sende him hele for his merci;
To him apeered a wel feir childe,
Ac spac to him wiþ maners wylde
And seide: »ȝe mouwe suffre no wo,
Ne ȝe wol nouȝt hennes go,
Þerfore wot i neuer nou
What me is best to do wiþ ȝou«.

OF wymmen, i telle ȝou in certayn,
Nouȝt his sustur Germayn,
His breþeres douhtres neuer þe mo,
Þat God almihti seruede þo,
He nolde soffre wiþ him to dwelle,
For temptyng of þe deuel of helle;
He seide: þouȝ men hadde no suspecioun
Of his suster or neuew, in feld ne toun,
Ȝit, for þei miht not ben wiþoute
Seruauns, to ben hem aboute,
And beo cause of heore dwellyng
Oþur wymmen schulde beo to hem comyng,
And of hem þenne ful lihtlyche
Men mihte beo stured foliliche
Oþur elles wikked-tonged men
Wolde speke vuel of hem þen.
He wolde neuer him self alon
Speken wiþ no wommon,
But ȝif þer weore gret priuete,
Bi þe wey of charite.

HE was such a benfesour

To his kunrede wiþ honour
Þat þei nedde no gret richesse
Ne to gret neode to more ne lesse.
Ful selde, forsoþe, was his maner
For eny mon to make preyer
Or lettres sende for benefyce—
Such maner doyng he huld a vice;
Of a philosofre he hedde a þouht
Þat to his frendes luytel ȝaf or nouht,
Forte geten him eny name,
Mon to bi holden of gret fame.
Þerfore ofte tyme was his seying:
»Pouste þat comeþ þorwh askyng
Holdeþ a mon oþur while doun,
Þouh he beo of gret renoun«.
Ful selden whon þat he wrot
For eny mon, God hit wot,
His askyng schuld not beo so large
Þat hit schulde bere eny gret charge,
But þorwh his corteis endityng
Men schulde take hede of his preying.

HE hedde leuere þe causes here
Bitwene twei enemys on his manere
Þen bitwene frendes tweyn.
Þis was his skile, as he wolde seyn:
For bitwene enemys he miht
Freoliche knowe bi word and siht
Þe wikkednes of þat on or boþe,
And wheþer to oþur weore more loþe,
And such grace God miht him sende:
Þe ton he mihte make his frende:
Him þat he schulde ȝiue fore þe sentence
Bi rihtwysnes, wiþoute reuerence;
Ȝif þei were his frendes boþe two,
Þat ones frendschipe schulde pas him fro:
Þe sentence aȝeynes whom
He schulde ȝiue and eke þe dom.

HE was preyȝed forte preche
To moni a churche, Godus word to teche,
And so he dude to Godus honour
And torned moni on from heore errour.
Oþurwhyle in his prechinge
He wolde turne from his furst biginnynge
And take þenne oþur mateere
Þat profyted to summe þat weren þere.
As hit bifel bi a chapman
Þat of þe Manachees secte was þan:
Vppon a day he herde Austin
Preche wondur wel and fyn.
Seint Austin turned his mater fro
And aȝeines þe Manachees preched þo
And eke aȝeynes heore errour,
As a clerk of alle þe flour.
Þe chapmon þorwh his preching
Torned al to his teching
And forsok þat ilke lore
Þat he heold wiþ þerbifore.

ÞUlke tyme weren heþen men icome
And hedden taken þe cite of Rome:
Þen alle þe heþene men
Maden asaut vppon þe cristen.
For þat cause Austyn in good fey
Made þe bok »de Ciuitate dei«,

In þe whuche is his seying
Þat rihtwys men in þis liuyng
Schul not beo of reputacioun
But raþur euer beo put adoun,
And wikked men wiþ honoure
Schul her beo maistres and bere þe floure.
And þer he spekeþ of citees tweyn:
Jerusalem and Babileyn,
And also of heore twey kynges,
And seþþhe among oþur þinges:
Þat of Jerusalem kyng is Crist,
Of Babiloyne þe deuel vntrist;
Þeose twei citees on heor maners
Geeten hem twey louyers:
Þe deueles citéé loueþ nouht
But him self in dede and þouht
And waxeþ forþ wiþ wylde blood
Til þat he haue forsaken God,
Godus citéé is aboue
And onliche is in Godus loue
And makeþ mon wiþouten wrake
Him self dispise for Godus sake.

IN þe ȝer of vr lord of heuene
Four hundred and eke elleuene
Wandaly þe prouince tok
Of Aufrike—so seiþ þe bok—,
Þei wasted al, as men ful wylde,
And spared nouþur mon, wommon ne childe
Ne men of ordre of holichurche:
Such grisly werkes þei gonne worche.
And so þei wenten wiþouten reuerence
To þe citéé of Iponence.
Þer dwelled Austyn a mon ful old,
Þat tribulacion hedde monyfold,
His teres to him weren his bred
Niht and day for þat qued,
Þat he sayȝ so men slayn
And summe to fleo weoren ful fayn
And churches prestes hedde non,
Men fro citees weren awey gon.
Neuerþeles in þat offence
He was cumforted beo a sentence
Of a wys monnes seying
On þis maner in his writyng:
»He may not beo gret of sped
Þat takeþ to muchel hed
Þauh tren and stones falle
And eorþly men dyen, gret and smalle«.

ÞEn his breþeren euerichon
Tofore him he calde anon
And seide: »i haue ipreyed vr lord,
Boþe wiþ þouht and wiþ word,
Þat he schulde of his god wil
Delyuere vs of þis peril
Oþur elles wiþouten offence
Ȝif vs good pacience
Or elles take me þis lyf fro,
Þat i seo not so muche wo«.

GOd graunted him þe þridde askyng:
For þe þridde moneþ of þe beseching

Of þat citéé he fel seek
And of þe feuere to bedde went ek.
He vndurstod wel, certeynly,
Þat dissolued scholde be his bodi.
Þe seuen psalmus al on a rowe
He let writen vppon a wowe,
Þat, as he in his beodes lay,
Miht hem sigge eueriday;
He wolde hem seye deuoutliche,
Wepe þerto wel tenderliche,
And, for þat he nolde nouȝt be let
To don as he his herte hedde set,
Ten dayes bifore his dyȝing
Þer moste nomon come in his seoing,
But ȝif his leche were in ilet
Oþur elles a mon þat brouht him met.

A seek mon to him com
And preyed him for Godus dom
Þat he wolde on him holde his honde,
Þat his seknes mihte awey fonde,
And þat he wolde him sumwhat fele,
For, he seide, he schulde so cacche hele.
Austin onswerde on þis manere:
»Whi spekest þou so, my broþur dere?
Trouwest not þou, ȝif i miht do so,
I wolde my self hele and forþ go?«
Þe mon seide: he hedde comaundement
In a visioun, verreyment,
»Þat I schulde to ȝou go,
Ȝif i wolde haue hele of my wo«.
Whon Austin sauh his feiþfulnes,
He preyed to God of his godnes
Þat his wille were þat mon to hele.
And so he was sone eueridele.
He heled mony a sek man
And mony a miracle dude he þan.

IN his two and twentiþe bok
De ciuitate dei whose luste lok,
He may fynde miracles tweyn
Þat he telleþ, in certein,
As þei weore anoþur monnes doyng—
But God hem wrouht for his preying.
In his bok þus he sayde:
»At Iponence I wot a mayde
Þat wiþ oyle enoynted hire had:
Þerfore þe deuel made hire mad;
But a prest for hire wepte sore
To God, þat heo schulde not beo lore:
And anon heo dilyuered was
Of þe fend in þat cas«.
»Also«, he seide, »i knewh a bisschope
Þat preyed to God wiþ good hope
For a ȝong mon, þat he not sawe,
Whom þe deuel heold in awe:
And anon riht, verreyment,
He was saued from þat cumbrement«.
Þis tales he tolde þus of his mekenes,
For me schulde not knowe his holynes.

IN þe same bok also we fynde

A good miracle, to haue in mynde:
A seek mon þer was—þe bok telleþ hit—
Þat for his hele schulde ha be kit;
He was adred and hedde gret anyȝe:
Ȝif he were kut, þat he schulde dyȝe;
He wepte þerfore wiþ al his miht
And preyed to God boþe day and niht,
And seint Austin also wiþ him
Preyed to god þat ilke tym,
So longe he preyed to God and bad
Þat wiþouten eny cuttyng hele he had.

WHon þat seint Austines breþ
Bigon to schorten and drawe to deþ,
He tauhte vche mon to haue in mynde,
And for noþing leue hit behynde,
Þat, þauh a mon beo neuer so worþi
In his liuynge here deuoutli,
He schulde euer þenke on þis cas:
Wiþouten schrift and hosel þat he ne pas.
His limes weore hole and sounde,
Riht as he wente on þe grounde,
His siht was cler and his heryng
Euene to his dyȝing.
As his breþeren toforen him stod,
Preying to God wiþ dreri mood,
Tofore hem alle boþe best and most
To God þen he ȝeld þe gost,
Þe ȝeer of his age wiþouten wene
Þreo score and sixtene,
And of his bisschophed in feer
Euene þe fourtiþe ȝer.
He made no testament þan,
For he was Cristes pore man
And hedde noþyng wherof to make—
Al he forsok for Cristes sake.
He passed his wei on þis maner
Þe date of vr lord four hundred ȝer.

SEint Austin, of wisdom schining briht,
Defensour of soþfastnes and riht
And parfyt kepere of þe feiþ,
Ouer oþur doctours, as men seiþ,
In wit and connynge, he passeþ alle
Wiþ(oute) comparisun, gret oþur smalle,
He floureþ wiþ ensaumples of vertuwes in liuing
And wiþ affluence wonderliche in teching.
Þerfore seint Remigious
Of Jerom and oþur doctours glorious
Makeþ mynde, but he concludeþ hit
Þat Austin passeþ alle in cunnynge of wit:
For, þouh seint Jerom þe clerk
Parfourned so gret a werk
Þat six þousend volumes he dude rede
Of Origenes, wiþouten drede,
Seint Austin so moni wrot,
Þat nouȝt onliche—God hit wot!—
Nihtes no dayes no mon miht
Alle his bokes write out fulle riht,
Ne, þouh he mihte him gete gret mede,
His bokes alle ouerrede.

VOlusian, to whom Austin
Wrot mony a pistel good and fyn,
Seiþ of him, as he wel wist:
»What þing þat seint Austin nist,
Hit nas nouȝt in Godus lawe«.
Þis was þerfore Volusians sawe
In a pistel þat he sent
To seint Austyn, wiþ good entent:
»To þi tweyn luttel bokes,
In whuche may seo wel, whose lokes,
Schynynge wiþ feirnesse of eloquensye,
Mai I not onswere wiþ tonge ne eȝe;
For, certes, whateuer a mon mai take of wit
And drawe vp from þe welle of holi writ,
Of þe hit is declared and set
To clerkes wit wiþouten let.
Þerfore i preye þi reuerence,
Soffre me of þi pacience
A luytel to worschipe þi wit,
For alle oþur passeþ hit«.

ÞE same clerk of him writ in þe bok
Of þe twelue doctours, hose luste to lok,
And seiþ: »seint Austin was a bisschop fleoing
Ouur þe hexte of þe mountayns wiþ hiȝing,
As an egle, wiþouten drede,
Þat of þe feet of þe mountayns tok non hede,
But of heuene þe brode space
And þe cyte of þe eorþe in vche place
And þe viroun of þe wattres wondurliche
He schewed to alle men openliche«.

SEint Jerom hedde him in loue and reuerence:
Þat witnesseþ a pistle, of his sentence
Wherin he wrot on þis manere,
As ȝe schulle nouþe ihere:
»To an holy and blessedest pope Austin
Jerom recomaundeþ him.
Eueri tyme þi blessedhed
Wiþ such worschipe as bisemeþ, bi mi hed,
I honoured tide, tyme and our,
And i loued þat dwelleþ in þe, vr saueour;
But nouþe, ȝif hit mihte beo so,
To þe heep sumwhat we adden þerto,
And fulliche hit to folfulle
Wiþ al vr herte and vr wille,
Þat wiþouten mencioun
Of þi name of renoun
Wiþ wondur gret honour
We mowe not suffre passe an hour«.

IN anoþur pistle eke he seiþ:
»God forbeode hit and good feiþ
Þat I schulde beo so hardi
Of þin holinesse to touche bocus any;

Hit soffiseþ to me proue myn owne doyng
And of oþur mennes entremete noþing«.

SEint Gregori ek, þe grete clerk,
Comendeþ seint Austines werk
Wiþ al his wit verreylike
In a pistel þat he sent to Aufrike
To Innocent, þat prefecte was þere,
And seiþ forsoþe on þis manere:
»We beoþ riht glad of ȝor moode,
Þat ȝe to vs senden for goode
For þe exposicioun of Jobs lyf;
But, so mote we euer þryf!
Ȝif þat ȝe coueyte to beo fed
Wiþ dilicious foodus to ȝor hed,
Tac hede of þe werk þon
Of seint Austin, ȝor contre mon,
And to þe compar(i)soun of his whete flour
Secheþ not or bren—hit were errour«.

IN his registre he seiþ also
Of seint Austin þis word wel þro:
Þat wiþ his suster wolde he not dwelle,
»Þerfore he wolde sey ful welle:
Þulke wymmen þat wiþ my suster be
Sustres beo þei nouht to me.
Þe cautel of þis mon so wys
Schulde beo ensaumple to vre auys«.

SEint Ambrose in his preface
Of seint Austin seiþ in þat place:
»Þi mihtinesse we worschupeþ, lord,
Boþe in dede and in word
And of þe stablyng of seint Austin
Þorwh þin owne vertu diuin,
Þat was so wiþ þe holigost
Enspiret—riht wel þou wost—
Þat ouercome miht he not be
Wiþ no falles of vanite;
For wiþ al maner of pite,
Of mekenes and of charite
Þou him foundedest on good wyse,
Þat he was to þe auter and sacrifice
And also temple and eke prest—
His doynge to þe was honest«.

ÞE clerk seint Prosper
Seiþ in his þridde bok þer
Þat he made her in his lyf
Of þe lyf contemplatyf,
On þis maner, hose lokeþ hit:
»Seint Austin was a bisschop of scharp wit,
Softe mon in spekynge,
And in seculer lettrure cunnynge,
In holichirche werk and fulle werkere,
And in eueriday disputisouns clere,
And in alle his doynges
Manerliche of alle þinges,
To assoyle questions he was scharp,
To ouercome heretykes wise of carp,
And riht trewe«—as Prosper seiþ—
»In exposicion of þe feiþ,
And wondur war in expleyting

Of holy mennes writyng«.
Seint Bernard, God hit wot,
Of seint Austin þus he wrot:
»Austin is beetel strongest to felle,
Heretykes resouns forte quelle«.

HIt bifel longtyme after þare
Þat þe heþene folk of Barbare(!)
Occupyed þat ilke londe
And holi places destruyeden wiþ heor honde,
Þer seint Austin buried was;
Þerfore byful þis ilke cas
Þat cristene men token his bodi
And translated hit in to Sardini.

HIt bifel þenne atte last,
Whon two hondred þer and XXXti wer past,
In þe ȝer of vr lord bidene
Fyf hondred and eihte tene:
Þer com to þe heryng
Of Ludbrande, þe noble kyng
Of Longobardis, þat distruyed
Was Sardinie. þerfore anuyed
He was. he sende þider þo
Messagers, þat weren þro,
Seint Austins relikes as a drurye
For to bere to Papye.
Þis messagers gret ȝiftus ȝauen
Seint Austines bodi forte hauen,
And forþ wiþ hem þei gonne hit walwe,
Til þei come to þe toun of Janwe.
When þe goode kyng herde of þis,
Aȝeynes þe bodi he wente, iwis,
Wiþ joye, and wiþ reuerence
He hit receyued wiþoute offence.
Vppon þe morwe whon hit was day,
Þei wolde haue lad hit forþ on way.
Þer bifel a wondur cas:
Þei miht not meue hit from þe plas,
Til þe kyng a vow hedde mad
Þat, ȝif he suffrede him þennes be lad,
He wolde riht þere wiþouten blame
Buylde a chirche in his name.
When þe kyng hedde mad þe vou,
Lihtliche inou—i telle hit ȝou—
Þei toke wiþ hem forþ þe bere.
Þe kyng a churche let buylde riht þere.
Vppon þat oþurday wiþ god wil
Þe same miracle of his bodi bifil
In a toun of þe bisschopriche
Of Terdonence, sikerliche,
Þat men callen þere Cassel;
On þe same maner þe kyng riht wel
Let buylde a chirche of seint Austyn,
A wondur noble, feir and fyn;
And þat ilke same toun
Wiþ al þe possessioun
He graunted and ȝaf wiþouten ende,
For þei of him schulde haue sum muynde,
To hem þat in seruise diuyn

In þat chirche seruen seint Austin.
Þe kyng hedde gret þenkynge
Leste he to Papye him schulde not bringe;
Þerfore, to plese þat seint wiþ his miht,
Whereuer þe bodi lay al niht
Þer a churche he let buylde,
Wheþur hit were in toun or felde.
Þus wiþ joye ful goodlye
He brouhte þe bodi to Papye.
And in þe chirche of seint Petre
Worschipfuliche in a fertre
Þe bodi was leid wiþ mylde steuene—
Þat chirche is called »þe guyldene heuene«.—

A muleward þer was in þat cuntre,
Þat hedde a gret enfermete
Vppon his leg for þe none,
Hit was so sor: he miht not gone;
But euere he hedde in feld and toun
In seint Austin deuocioun,
Þerfore he preyed him deuouteliche
To ben his help certeynliche.
Seint Austin for his deuociun
Apered to him bi a uisioun
And hondled his leg softe and wel:
And hit was hol þen eueridel.
Whon he awok, he fond hit so—
A wondur glad mon was he þo,
Almihti God and seint Austin
He þonked þenne wiþ herte fyn.

A child þer was wiþ wo bigon:
Wiþ þe seeknesse of þe ston;
Leches putte his frendes in witte
Þat he moste nedes beo kitte.
But þe modur hedde gret drede
Leste þorwh þat cuttynge he schuld be dede;
Þerfore to seint Austin þan
Deuoutliche preyede þat womman,
Wiþ word and wiþ herte mylde,
Þat he schulde helpe and hele hir chylde.
Anon riht þenne þe chyld, iwis,
A gret stone al out dude pis
And was al hol of þat seknes,
And þonked God of his goodnes.

IN an hous of religious,
Þat men callen Almous,
In þe vigile of seint Austin
A monk was rauissched þerin
In spirit and sauh such a cas:
Þat a cloude from heuene sliden doun was,
And seint Austin þeron sittyng
In bisschops cloþing, him þhouȝte, wel semyng,
And his tweyn eȝen verreyliche
To twei sonne bemus weren liche,

Þat al þat churche lihted þo,
A wondur gret swetnesse com him fro.

SEint Bernard þorwh Godus miht
Was at matins on a niht,
Þer þe legende good and fyn
Was rad of a trete of seint Austin;
Þe while a luytel on slepe he fil,
Þouh hit were not wiþ his wil,
Him þhouȝte he say þat ilke tym
A feir child stondynge beo him,
Of whos mouþ out þer ran
So grete cours of watres þan
Þat hit semed to him wel
Þat hit fulde þe chirche eueridel.
Whon he awok, he wuste wel afyn
Þat þat was seint Austin,
Þat wiþ his goode teching
Fulled holichirche wiþ god lyuyng.

A mon þat louede him hertilike
Coueyted of him to haue a relyke:
Þerfore ful deuoutely
To a monk þat kepte þe bodi
He ȝaf for seint Austines sake,
On of his fingres him forto take,
A gret summe of good money.
Þe monk þenne tok al in god fey,
But he him þouȝt sumwhat on gyle:
And a ded monnes fynger he rayed þat while,
Wrapped hit in a selkene cloþ,
And tok hit þe mon wiþouten oþ,
He seide: hit was of seint Austyn
A fingre and a relyke fyn.
Þe mon hit tok reuerentliche
And worschiped hit deuoutliche,
Wiþ his eȝen and his mouþ,
He hit cussed, as þing selcouþ.
But God tok hede to his feiþ
Þorwh his miht, as þe bok seiþ,
And a verrei fingre of seynt Austin
Him sende of his merci diuin,
And þat oþur anon riht
Was don awey þorwh Godus miht.
Whon he to his cuntreye com, anon
Mony miracles þer weoren don.
Þe fame sprong so brod wiþ hyȝe,
Til hit com to Papye.
Þe monk þat him bygyled hadde
Seide þat men weren waxen al madde,
For he him bigyled on his maner
Wiþ a ded monnes fynger.
But whon þe toumbe was vndon,
Þei founden þat þer lakked on
Of þe fyngres of his honde.
And þenne þei þonked Godus sonde,
And þe abbot of his offyce
Remued þe monk, þat was so nyce,
And punissched him for þat doyng
Of such a fals begyling.

AT Burgoyne in a munster swet,
Þat is icalled Fountanet,
Þer was a monk, god mon and truwe,
Þat men called þo Daun Huwe,

To seint Austin he was deuout,
To rede his bokus he was about.
He preied seint Austin deuoutlye
Þat, what tyme þat he schulde dye,
Þat hit scholde falle on his festeday—
Þus hertiliche he dude him pray.
Fiftene dayes tofore þat solempnite
Wiþ brenynge feuere taken was he,
And riht vppon seint Austines eue
Wiþ al his rihtes and good bileue
Vppon þe grounde he was forþ leyde,
Forte dye, as alle men seide.
In þe chirche an old monk sat,
Seyinge his psauter vppon a mat,
And sauh a siht of gret delyt:
A cumpaygnye, cloþed in whit,
Entringe wiþ deuocioun
In to þe churche on a processioun,
Beohynde hem alle þer com a man
Al lyk a bisschop icloþed þan.
Þe monk sumdel aferd was,
But he asked on of hem þe cas,
What þei weren and whodur þei went,
Whi þei come so, to what entent.
And anon riht in þat tym
On of hem onswerde him
Þat seint Austin wiþ his chanouns
Was icomen for þe nones,
To fette þe monkes soule to blis
Þat him tofore hedde serued, iwis.
Þo al þat feire cumpaygnie
Wenten euene to fermerie.
Whon þei a while hedden beo þerin,
Þe soule from þe bodi dude twin
Of þat ilke monk holye
Þat forþ was leid forte dye,
And seint Austin and his cumpaygnye
Þat soule token to glorie
And diliuerde hit from þat enemye
Þat to monkynde haþ euer envye.

VPpon a tyme wiþouten drede
Seint Austin vppon a bok gon rede,
W(h)il þat he liuede, wiþ good entent:
He sauh wher a fend wend
And a gret bok in his nek
Trussed, in þe maner of a sek.
Anon him coniured seint Austyn
To schewe him what was writen þerin.
And he seide: »sunnes, wiþouten doute,
Þat I haue gedered of mennes aboute«.
»Ȝif þou hast eny þer of myn,
Schewe me anon!« quaþ seint Austyn.
And he him schewed wel a fyn
Þat he hedde forȝeten ones a cumplyn.
He bad þe fend him scholde abyde,
Til he coome to him þat tyde.
In to þe chirche he hyed sumwhat

And seide þe cumplin þat he forȝat,
And his orisouns euerichon,
As he was wont forte don.
Whon he com to þe fend aȝeyn,
»Scheuh me þe place« he gon seyn,
»Þer þat i was set in þi boke,
Let me seo, red and loke!«
Þe fend turnde faste, he couþe not fynde,
He wox al wroþ as þe wynde
And seide: »me forþinkeþ i schewed þe
Mi bok, for þou hast bigyled me
And don awey wiþ þi preyere
Þi synne þat was writen here«.
Þe fend vanissched þenne away,
Seynt Austin nomore of him saih.

A wommon dwelled sum men among
Sumtyme, þat dude hire muche wrong,
And þen heo went to seint Austin
To place þer he sat in,
Forte aske counseil of him
What hire weore best do for þat tym.
Heo fond him studying bisiliche,
And heo saluwed him reuerentliche,
But he biheold on hire noþing
Ne onswerd nouht to hire seying.
Þe wommon gan in hire hert caste
Þat þe holy mon was so studefaste
Þat he nolde not in no cas
Biholde a wommon in þe fas;
Þerfore heo neihhed him ner,
Tolde him þe cas of hire daunger.
But he tornd him nouȝt to hire
Ne ȝaf hire non onswere,
And heo þerfore wiþ sori cher
Wente hir hom in heuy maner.
Afturward what more and lesse
On a day seint Austyn wente to messe;
Þis wommon stod þere and herde hit,
And was rauissched in hire spirit
Aftur þe sacringe in verite
Tofore þe heȝe trinite:
Þer heo sauh wiþouten dred
Seint Austin, enclyning wiþ his hed,
As bisi as he mihte beo, iwis,
Disputyng of þe grete blis
Of þat blisful trinite—
God ȝif vs grace þat siht to se!—
A vois to hire seide cler and fyn:
»Whon þou were at seint Austyn,
He was so ifulled of charite,
To dispute of þe blis of þe trinite,
Þat of þe tok he non hede,
Nouþur to counseil no to rede.
Bote go nou to him safliche,
For þou schalt fynde þat mekeliche
He schal þe ȝiue good counsayle,
Þe beste to don, wiþouten fayle«.
As heo was beden, so dude heo,
And good counseil þen ȝaf hire he.

SUm tyme a mon þer was
Þat bifel such a cas:
Þat rauissched was in his spirit
In to blis wiþ gret dilyt:
Þer he sauh angeles monye
And oþur seintes in gret glorie,
But, for seint Austin he sauh nouht,
He wondrede gretliche in his þouht.
He asked þen on of hem
Wher seint Austin mihte ben.
And he seide: he was an heih,
As a wys clerk and a sleih
Disputyng in diuinite
Of þe heinesse of þe trinite.

ALso sum tyme men of Papye
Weren itake for envye
Of þe marchiun of Malaspyn
And in a prison put strong wiþin;
For couetyse of heore moneye
Þei forbed vppon al weye
Þat men schulde ȝiue hem no drinke,
Nouþour swet ne sour, in hem to sinke.
Þerfore summe diȝed þer in
And summe dronken heore oune vrin.
Amongus hem was a ȝong felawe
Þat of seint Austin stod gret awe
And worschiped him hedde ofte tym:
Þerfore he preyed he schulde helpe him.
Þe nexte niht at heiȝ midniht
Austin apeered to him ful riht
And lad him bi þe riht hond
Forþ wiþ him vppon druyȝe lond,
Til he com to þe flod of Grauel—
Þat mony a mon knoweþ riht wel;
Þer Austin dupped a leef of a vyn
In þat flod wel ofte þerin,
Þerwiþ his tonge he moysted þan:
Þerof was he a wel fayn man,
He þhouȝte him so at ese, verreyment,
Þat he tok non hede of pyement.

A prouost of a chirche collegial
Loued seint Austin wiþ his herte al.
But at a tyme him tok seknes,
Þat þreo ȝer wiþouten les
He kepte his bed as mon beddered,
Þat mihte not sture out of þe sted.
Tyme of ȝeer com þen, parde,
Of seint Austines day þe solempnete.
Vppon his euen to euensong
Men rongen þo þreo peles long.
Whon þat he herde þe swete soun,
Wiþ god herte and deuocioun
He dressed him to seye his preyere
To seint Austin wiþ gode chere.
Seint Austin apeered þo to him
Al in whit, þe same tym,
And called him þries bi his name
And seide to him: »her I ame
Þat þou hast cleped so ofte siþe.
Þat i nou seie, to me nou liþe:
Arys vp swiþe, and dwelle not long,
And go to churche and do euensong!«

And so he dude anon riht:
And was al hol þorwh Godus miht
And þe preyere of seint Austine,
þat grete clerk is of dyuyne.

A schepherde bitwenen his scholdres twein
A gret bocche hedde and a uylein,
þat him dude so muche wo
Þat his mihtes were neih ago.
But to seint Austin he preyed fast
To sende him hele, atte last.
Seint Austin in a uisioun
Apered to him in his deuocioun
And leide his hond vppon þe sore:
And hit was hol for euermore.

ÞAt same mon afturward þo
Lost þe siht of his eȝen two.
To seint Austin his herte he lende
And preyed, his siht him forte sende.
Vppon a day aftur þe meridien
Austin apeered to him þen
And wiped his eȝen wiþ his honde:
And he was hol þorwh Godus sonde.

ABoute niȝene hundred ȝer
And twelue of þe date of vr lord in fer
Þer bifel such a chaunce
Þat fourti sum of men of Germayn in Fraunce
Toward Rome wente wiþ gret dilyte,
Þe holy apostles to visyte:
Summe were crupeles in carres led,
And summe were blynde and harde bisted,
And summe wiþouten staues miȝt not stonde,
And summe hedden lost boþe fot and honde:
Þat passeden ouer hulles monye
Til þei come to þat place, called Carbonarie.
Whon þei weoren comen almost þan
To a place, men clepen Can,
Þat is fro Papye but þreo mile,
Þer þei rested a luytel while,
Out of a chirche—þat mani a man
Knoweþ:—of seint Cosme and Damian
Com seynt Austin in bisschopes wede
To þis cumpaigni and bad god spede
And asked hem whodur þei scholde.
Þei seiden to Rome þat þei fayn wolde.
Þen he hem bad þat in hiȝe
Þey schulden wende to Papye,
Þat »aftur seint Petres churche wiþ mylde steuene
Askeþ, þat men calleþ »þe guyldene heuene!«
Þer schul ȝe fynden þat merci«
He seide, »þat ȝe sechen, sikerli«.

Þen þei him asked what he hiht.
Þen onswerde he anon riht:
»Mi nome is Austin, wite ȝe wel, men,
Þat sum tyme was bisschop of Iponen«,
And þenne anon from heore eȝe-siht
He vanissched þorwh Godus miht.
Te Papye whon þei weren come,
To þe munstre þe wey þei nome,
Anon þei liften heore vois at ones
And cried riht þus for þe nones:
»Seint Austin confessour glorious,
Haue merci nou and help þou vs!«
At þis cri þer comen anon
Monkes and oþur men mony on:
Þer mihte men seo þe traces of bledyng
Of heore veynes streynyng,
From þe churche dore wel a fyn
Til þei come to þe tumbe of seynt Austin:
Þere þei weren heled alle, parde,
Þat no sore on hem men mihte se.
From þat tyme forþ þe grete fame
Encresed of seint Austines name,
Þat muche pepele afturward
Þat seke weoren wenten þiderward,
And of heore seknesse feir and wel
Weren iheled eueridel.
And þer weore laft so mani
Signes of wax, verreyli,
Þat seint Austines chapel
And þe porche þerof eueridel
Weoren so ful, þat no wiht
Nouþur in ne out passe miht.
Neode drof þe monkes to take away
Mony of þe signes, day bi day.

HIt is an old notabilite
Þat þreo þingus þer be
Þat worldliche men disiren here:
Riches, delices, and worschipes in feere.
Þis seint was of so gret parfecciun
Þat he of þeos þinges hedde abhominaciun.
Þat he dispised so riches,
Þe bok »Soliloquijs« he bereþ witnes;
Þer Resun askeþ him þus:
»Of richesse wheþur þou beo couetous?«
Seint Austin þer onswereþ him
And seiþ: »þis nis not þe furste tym,
For i am now of þritti ȝeer
And seþþhe fourtene ben passed her
Siþen i hedde no coueytyng
But onliche to mete, drinke and cloþing:
For vppon Ciceronis oune boke
I lernde wel whon I dude loke,
Þat i schulde on none wyse
Of richesse haue no coueytise«.

REsun him asked also
In þe same bok þerto:
Wheþer he tok ouht to gret kepe
To eny worldly worschepe.
Þer he onswereþ godliche
And seiþ: »I knowleche outurliche
I haue hem laft for euermo,
Whil niht and day mai come and go«.

LVst also and dilytinge
Of fleschlich likyng or tastinge
He forsok, as þe same bok telleþ vs,
And seiþ and telleþ riht þus:
Resun him askeþ of a wyf:
Wher he hedde lykynge in þat lyf,
Ȝif þat heo weore feir and clene,
Feir-manered, wiþouten wene,
And ȝif þat he wuste sikerliche
Þat heo weore wondur riche,
Nomeliche ȝif he wuste sikerliche his ese,
Þat he schulde soffre no disese.
Austin onswereþ anon riht:
»Þauh þou hire peynted neuer so briht
And rikene as muche goodnesse
As þou const, boþe more and lesse,
I haue icast ouer alle þing
To fleo flescliche doyng«.
Qwaþ Resun þenne: »I aske þe nouht
What to do þou hast cast in þi þouht,
But wheþer wiþ loue oþur wiþ awe
Þyn herte þerto weore ouht idrawe?«
Austin onswerde wiþouten ire:
»In such þing haue I non disyre;
And ȝif hit falle out to my mynde,
Hit is wiþ horrour a(n)d dispisynge«.

REsun him asked: of his dilyt
In mete and drinke hou stod hit.
And he onswerde wiþouten scaþe:
»Of mete, drinke ne of baþe
Nouþur of oþur bodiliche lustus
Aske me nouȝt, as þhouh þou nustes;
I ne aske no more, my lyf to lede,
But onliche on such þinges þat me doþ nede«.
God ȝiue ou grace wiþ herte glade
To preye for him þat þis lyf made.

AMEN.

University of Virginia Library

6. S. Augustin.