The Story of England by Robert Manning of Brunne, A.D. 1338. Edited from mss. at Lambeth Palace and the Inner Temple, by Frederick J. Furnivall |
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| De propheciis Aquile, Sibillie, & Merlyny. |
 | The Story of England |  |
De propheciis Aquile, Sibillie, & Merlyny.
Þey soughte þe prophesies of Aquilee,
At Chestre was hit seid schuld be;
Sybiles sawes forþ þey leyd,
& what þe clerk Merlyn had seyd,
And þe sawes of Sephonye,
Of whiche non ne wolde lye;
But þey acorded alle til on,
Þe voys & þer bokes ilkon;
Non seide seer for to blame,
But as þe vois þey seide þe same.
To Cadwaladrus seide Aleyn þe kyng,
“I conseille þe to fulfulle þat þyng.
“Syn God of heuene haþ seid hit so,
“His wille, y rede, þat ȝe do:
“ffor couetyse of no lond,
“To don his wille ne schaltow wond.”
Cadwaladre bad Iuor his sone,
& Iny his neuew, “wende & wone
“In to Bretaigne, & meintene efte
“Þo þat were of Bretons lefte,
“Þat þey ne lese þat er was myn,
“Þeyr fredam, for no Barbaryn.”
(A barbaryn, as seyþ seint Bede,
Ne had neuere merci for no nede.)
At Chestre was hit seid schuld be;
Sybiles sawes forþ þey leyd,
& what þe clerk Merlyn had seyd,
And þe sawes of Sephonye,
Of whiche non ne wolde lye;
But þey acorded alle til on,
Þe voys & þer bokes ilkon;
Non seide seer for to blame,
But as þe vois þey seide þe same.
To Cadwaladrus seide Aleyn þe kyng,
“I conseille þe to fulfulle þat þyng.
“Syn God of heuene haþ seid hit so,
“His wille, y rede, þat ȝe do:
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“To don his wille ne schaltow wond.”
Cadwaladre bad Iuor his sone,
& Iny his neuew, “wende & wone
“In to Bretaigne, & meintene efte
“Þo þat were of Bretons lefte,
“Þat þey ne lese þat er was myn,
“Þeyr fredam, for no Barbaryn.”
(A barbaryn, as seyþ seint Bede,
Ne had neuere merci for no nede.)
Cadwaladres al þys world fursok,
To God & to penaunce hym tok.
To Rome þen wente Cadwaladrus,
Vnto þe Pope Sergius,
Þat receyued hym wyþ mikel wynne,
& til hym he schrof his synne,
Wyþ wyl of herte þat he myght mene;
& þe Pope assoillede hym clene.
In langour lay he many a day,
& deyde þe twelfte kalende of May;
Þe date of Crist was euen in lyne,
Sex hundred ȝer, four score & nyne;
& his soule wente to blis,
Þe body at Rome ffertred ys.
Þanke we God þat grace hym gaf!
Þyse vers are his epitaf:
To God & to penaunce hym tok.
To Rome þen wente Cadwaladrus,
Vnto þe Pope Sergius,
Þat receyued hym wyþ mikel wynne,
& til hym he schrof his synne,
Wyþ wyl of herte þat he myght mene;
& þe Pope assoillede hym clene.
In langour lay he many a day,
& deyde þe twelfte kalende of May;
Þe date of Crist was euen in lyne,
Sex hundred ȝer, four score & nyne;
& his soule wente to blis,
Þe body at Rome ffertred ys.
Þanke we God þat grace hym gaf!
Þyse vers are his epitaf:
579
Exuuias, proceres, menia, castra, lares,
Queque patrum virtus, et que congesserat ipse,
Cadwal armipotens liquit amore Dei;
Vt Petrum, sedem-que Petri, Rex cerneret hospes,
Cuiusfonte meras sumeret almus aquas, [&c.]
Now haue we told of þe Bretons,
Of kynges, & of somme barons,
How þey mayntened þys lond
Syn Brutes tyme þat first hit fond,
Vntil Cadwaladrus tyme.
Of Bretons þere leue we to ryme,
& now of Englische wil we telle,
Syn þe Bretons here gan dwelle,
Þat toke þe lond þorow Godes heste:
Þeyr tyme we calle al ‘Englische geste’;
Al ys cala geste Englische’
Þat on þis langage spoken ys.
ffrankysche speche ys cald Romaunce,
So sey þis clerkes & men of ffraunce.
Peres of Langtofte, a chanoun
Schauen y þe hous of Brydlyngtoun,
On Romaunce al þys story he wrot
Of Englishe kynges, as we wel wot,
He wrot þer dedes alle þat þey wrought;
After hym in Englische y hit brought;
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But his fair speche can y nought seye;
I am nought worþy open hys bok,
ffor no conninge þer-on to lok,
But for to schewe his mykel wyt,
On my spekynge þat ys but skyt,
How he was queynte in speche, & wys,
Þat swiche a bok made of pris,
And gadered þe stories alle til on,
Þat neuere er was mad for non.
When Peres first bygan his werk,
He bisoughte an holy clerk
To gyue hym grace wel to spede,—
Þat holy man highte seint Bede,—
flor in his bokes mykel he fond;
He made ffyue bokes of Engelond,
And y schal prey hym þat ilke weys,
Als he ys corseint & curteys,
He gyue me grace wel to seye,
& rightly þys in rym to leye,
Þys story þat ys seyd þorow Peres,
Þat alle be payed þat hit heres.
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