73. TIMOR MORTIS CONTURBAT ME.
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[MS. Harley 2255, leaves 128, back, to 131.]
1
So as I lay this othir nyght,
In my bed tournyng vp so doun,
Whan Phebus with his beemys bryght
Entryd the signe of the Lyoun,
I gan remembre with-inne my resoun
Vpon wourldly mutabilite,
And to recoorde wel this lessoun
Timor mortis conturbat me.
2
I thoughte pleynly in my devise,
And gan considre in myn entent,
How Adam whyloom in Paradise
Desceyved was of a fals serpent
To breke Goddys comaundement,
Wheer thorugh al his posteryte
Lernyd by short avisement
Tymor mortis conturbat me.
3
For etyng of an appyl smal
He was exyled froom that place;
Sathan maade hym to haue a fall
To lese his fortune and his grace,
And froom that gardeyn hym enchace
Fulle ferre froom his felicite;
And thanne this song gan hym manace,
Timor mortis conturbat me.
4
And had nought been his greet offence,
And this greet transgressioun,
And also his inobedience
Of malice and of presumpcioun;
Gyf credence ageyn al resoun
To the Develys iniquite,
We had knowe no condicioun
Of timor mortis conturbat me.
5
This lastyd forth al the age;
Ther was noon othir remedye,
The venym myght nevir aswage
Whoos poysoun sprong out of envye,
Off pryde, veynglorye, and surquedye:
And lastyng til tyme of Noye,
And he stood eek in iupartye
Of timor mortis conturbat me.
6
Froom our forn ffadir this venym cam,
Fyndyng nevir noon obstacle,
Melchisedech, nor of Abraham,
Ageyn this poysoun by noon pyacle,
But of his seed ther sprang tryacle;
Figure of Isaak, ye may rede and see,
Restoore to lyff by hih myracle,
Whan timor mortis conturbat me.
7
Moyses with his face bryght
Which cleer as ony sunne shoon;
Iosue that was so good a knyght
That heng the kynges of Gabaoon;
Nor the noble myghty Gedeoon
Had no poweer nor no powste,
For ther ffamous hih renoun,
Ageyn timor mortis conturbat me.
8
Sampson that rent the lioun
On pecis smale, thus stood the caas;
Nor Dauid that slowh the champyoun,—
I meene the myghty greet Golias—
Nor Machabeus the strong Iudas,
Ther fatal ende whoo so lyst see,
Bothe of Symon and Ionathas,
Was timor mortis conturbat me.
9
In the Apocalips of Seyn Iohn,
The chapitlys whoo so can devyde,
The Apoostyl thoughte that he sawh oon
Vpon a paale hors did ryde,
That poweer hadde on euery syde,
His name was Deth thorugh cruelte,
His strook whoo so that durste abyde
Was timor mortis conturbat me.
10
Rekne alle the Wourthy Nyne
And these olde conquerours;
Deth them made echoon to fyne
And with his dedly mortal shours,
Abatyd hath ther fressh[e] flours;
And cast hem doun froom hih degree,
And eek these myghty emperours
With timor mortis conturbat me.
11
These ladyes that were so fressh of face
And of bewte moost souereyn,
Ester, Iudith, and eek Candace,
Alceste, Dido, and fayr Eleyne,
And eek the goodly wywes tweyne
Marcya and Penelope,
Were embracyd in the cheyne
Of timor mortis conturbat me.
12
What may all wourldly good avaylle?
Strengthe, konnyng and rychesse,
Nor victorye in bataylle,
Fame, conquest, nor hardynesse,
Kyngdammys to wynne, or oppresse,
Youthe, helthe nor prosperyte?
All this hath here no sykirnesse
Ageyn timor mortis conturbat me.
13
Whan youthe hath doon his passage
And lusty yeerys been agoon,
Thanne folwith afftir crookyd age
Slak skyn, and many a wery boon;
The sunne is dirk that whyloom shoon
Of lusty youthe and fresshe bewte,
Whan othir socour is ther noon
But timor mortis conturbat me.
14
In August whan the levys falle
Wyntir folwith afftir soone,
The grene of somyr doth appalle,
The wourld is chaungeable as the moone;
Than is there no moore to doone,
But providence in ech degree
Of recure, whan ther is no boone
Saaff timor mortis conturbat me.
15
Ech man be war and wys beforn
Or sodeyn deth come hym to saylle,
For there was nevir so myghty born,
Armyd in platys nor in maylle,
That whan deth doth hym assaylle
Hath of diffence no liberte
To thynke afore what myght avaylle
On timor mortis conturbat me.
16
Enpreente this mateer in your mynde,
And remembre wel on this lessoun,
Al wourldly good shal leve be hynde,
Tresour and greet pocessioun.
So sodeyn transmutacioun
Ther may no bettir socour be
Thanne ofte thynke on Cristes passioun
Whan timor mortis conturbat me.
