University of Virginia Library

Listeneth alle þat ben in live,
Bothe Cristen man and wive.
I wil ȝou tellen a wonder caas,
How Jesu Crist byhatede was
Of þe Jewes felle and kene;
Þat was on hem sithen seene.
The Gospelles I drawe to witenesse
Of þis matere more and lesse;
And the passioun of Nichodeme,
If þat ȝe take þereto good ȝeme;
And of the geestes of emperoures
That tellen of þese aventures:
How Jhesu Crist was doon to deed
Thurgh þe Jewes false reed.
Firste they deden hym grete despyt
Er þat he dyede, I telle ȝou ȝet.
I trow þat þei bilogh hit noght;
For after they hit dere aboght,
As ȝe may heereafterward lere.
Listeneth lordes and ȝe shall here.
ȝe wite well, and sooth it is,
That many man gylteles hangede is.
Right soo byfell on Jesu Criste,
As us shewed the Evangeliste;
For oure trespas, and noght for his,
He soffrede here grete shame, I wys.

Firste they were wrothe with hym,
As false men and ful of venym,
For he prechede and taght gode lore
Amonge þe Jewes lesse and more;
And much þe more þei gan hym greve
For he had of hem noo leve.
And ofte he tolde hem in his sawe
Whan þei trespassede agayn þe lawe,
And þat þei deden in fele manere.
He chargeth noght, þogh þei it heere;
He provede it wel by holy wryt,
Þat þei couthe not agayne seyen it.
Also he tolde everywhere
Þat þei ypocrites were;
For þei maden right such chere
As þei lyveden in gode manere;
The pore they deden robben and reve.
For all her lawes þei nolde noght leve.
The grettest maistres werst it kepeth.
Her wronge with hem to longe slepeth.
ȝet hem he tolde her owne thoght,
Þat þei ne might withseye it noght.
This was noo maistry to Jhesu Crist.
They wondrede all how he it wist;
Graceles þei were and dym of sight
To knowen þe strength of God allmyght;
Al if they hym in manhode sawe,
His Godhed myght þei noght knawe.
They sheweden after here mysdede.
Forth anoon they fell in drede
For the wondres þat þei sawe.
Of his Godhed þan had þei awe,
For no man myghte such maistries kythe
As he dede for hem ofte sithe;
As Nichodemus witenesseth right,
That come to Jhesu Criste by nyght
And seide, “Jesu, we witen hit wel
Thou art moost mayster of Israel,
And þat knoulachest þou noght to be
For all the mervailles we seen of the.
Amonges couthe we never fynde
Any soo worch by mannes kynde,
Neither lewede man ny clerk,
But God were with hym in his werk.
Forthy [we] wolde som token see,
To shew if þou Goddes sone be.”

Than seide Jesus to Nichodeme,
“ȝe taken of me ful litell ȝeme.
Thogh I ȝou all þe aventures telle
Of þis worlde þat ȝe in dwelle,
Þat beth goon and shull byfalle,
ȝe ne bileveth a worde of alle;
For thogh I of heven ȝou tolde,
Of all þing þat ȝe wyten wolde,
How shulde ȝe þerof trowe oght,
Whan ȝe þat other troweth noght?
Nevertheles the aventures alle
Þat I say ȝou shull bifalle.”
Nichodemus hym trowede well,
And privelich heelde with hym everydell.
And in þe gospell as men reede,
The Jewes Crist temptede oft indede;
Þei askede hym mony a wonder sawe,
And ofte opposede hym in her lawe,
That þei myght by som juggement
In som manere have hym yhent.
Aȝeynes hym þei wroght in vayn,
Þat al unbyndeth and byndeth agayn.
This worlde it nys but folye
Agaynes Goddes grete maistrye.

Ones þei askede hym, “Maister dere,
To whom shull we ȝeelden every ȝere
All þe truage of oure lande?”
How he unswarede, now understande:
“Of whom ȝoure monee hath ymage
With name iwriten, ȝeldeth hym truage.”
This was askede of hym in skorne
For the wordes he seide biforn,
That he was God and Jewes kyng.
In hym þei had noo trewe levyng.
“Oure money, sire, we make þe war,
Is made aftur oure kynge Cesar.”
“Þan,” seide he, “ȝelde Cesar his right,
And þat is Goddes to God almight.”
Here thei were confoundet anoon;
Concludet they were everychon.
By a womman þei temptede hym ȝet.
From peyne of stonyng fair he hir quyt
For avowtrie, þat foule synne;
Þei accusede hir to hym þerinne.
Jhesu stoupede doun right anoon;
These wordes he wroot þe erthe upon:
“This wrecched erthe þis oþur biwriede,
But God forgaf þat mercy cryede.”
Þoo he had unswared what he wolde,
“Goth ȝe þe lettres for to biholde.”
Whan þei had seien it as he bad,
I sey to ȝou, þei were adradde:
“Taketh þis womman þat hath do mys
Whosoo withouten synne now is,
And casteth on hir þe firste stoon.”
Þan þei stale out everychon,
All but þis womman þat stode alone.
And Jesus sat and lokede hir one;
“Where ben þese men, wymmen,” he seide,
“Þat þis blame soo on the leide?”

“Sire, I not noght sikerly.”
“Dame,” he seide, “no more wot I.
Goo now, þou dame, with joie and wynne,
And kepe thy wyl from dedely synne.”
Alwey thus on hym þei soght,
But evermore þei fonde it vaillede noght.
For Goddes myght and mannes witte
Mow not wel togeder syt.
Þan þei gan hym to diffame,
And lyede on hym and dede hym shame.
Tho þat myght spede with no resoun
With falsehed þei þoght to brynge hym doun,
And seide, “Thou seist amys we leven
Aȝeynes the lawe þat is us ȝeven.”
They seide, “Sire, we have the lawes
That Moyses taghte us by his dawes,
Þat he of Messias godelich toke,
Alsoo we fynden in oure booke.
Soo heelde oure fader Abraham
And hiderward þat after hym cam.
Þat we can wite we breke it noght
In werk, in worde, ny in noo þoght.”
He wyst ful wel þat þei mystolde,
Þat made þe lawes newe and olde.”
Þan spake Jesus þe Jewes unto:
“Moises and Abraham I sawe alsoo.
To Moises þe lawes I bitaght,
Þat fro me to ȝou hit broght.
I sawe Abraham and he me;
He was joiefull me to see.
ȝe ben wel harder þan þe stone,
Þat of ȝou wil knowe me none.
Thwey dombe beestes, the ox and asse,
Þei segh me and wist what I wasse,
And þe bestes wilde under lynde,
They knewe me all but mannes kynde.”
The Jewes seide þat he mystolde;
He was not fifty wynter olde:
“Moises and Abraham þou hast seen?
This may in no wise ben.
Thou ne semest but a ȝonge man.
How myghtes þou have seen hem þan?”
“Forsoth,” he seyde, “I telle ȝou can.
I was longe er þe worlde bigan.
I shall be withouten ende
Thogh all þinges in sundry wende.
I am Jesus, Goddes sone.
I segh Abraham and Salamon.
I come the lawes to fulfille,
Not oon poynt þerof to spille,
Ny of the prophecies alle
That han ibe or shull bifalle.
And also trewely I ȝou telle,
ȝoure mychel temple I may doun felle
And reisen hit up the thrid day.”
“Þat myght not be,” þei sweren ay.
In al þis woorde he hem blent,
For by his owne body he hit mente,
Þat he shulde dyen and assaye
To risen up þe thridde day.
For þis worde they were negh mad,
For ever þei founden hym trewe and sad.
Nevertheles they unswarede this right:
“Er þat oure temple were all ydight
ȝeres were sex and fourty fulle.
How þan þe trowe we shull?”
Cursede folke men myght hem call,
For the miracles he shewede hem all.
But all þat Jhesus wold and thoght
Most som tyme to ende be broght.
That folke was ordeyned to doo þat dede;
Þerfore þei myght þe more drede.
He blamede hem for her bileve,
And seide it shulde hem sore agreve.
He myght sone suche thynges han wroght,
Þat maked all þe worlde of noght.
And for he kepte not her Sabaot day,
To doon miracles every day,
The seke to heele of evell and synne,
For her lawe he nolde not blynne.
Worldes werkes were þei none,
But God almighty dedes aloone.
Þei askede hym why he wroght þan;
And he unswared, as God and man,
“Is there noon of ȝou alle,
If þat ȝoure beest were ifalle
Doun in a pyt or in a lake,
Wheþur hit shulde ben up ytake,
Er hit were lorne ȝe wolde updrawe
On þe Sabot day, for all ȝoure lawe?”
Þei stode abashed everychon,
Þat þei ne couthe unsware hym none.
Anoon þei askede hym with grete tene
What his miracles wolde bymene;
Þat was whan he heelede þe seke,
Or seide or dede wondres eke.
Ofte þus þei come hym to,
And askede why þat he dede soo.
He unswarede aftur her thoght,
That þei ne couth withsey him noght.
The grettest of þe princes bolde
Agaynes Jhesu ful harde þei holde,
And ichon makede oþur present
For to ben at oon assent.
But smale folkes there aboute
Folweden hym with grete route;
Wonder thicke þei fell hym to
For the miracles þei sawe hym doo,
Þat þei despyt doon hym ne might;
Þat made þei token hym by night.
Whan Jesus segh þe tyme þerto,
Þat it most nedes ben ydoo,
He bad þei shulde hem sone amende,
Or stronge vengeance he shulde hem sende.
He byhight to fordoon hem all,
And her citee it shulde doun fall,
Jerusalem, þat was stronge and hye.
Tho gan waxe þere grete envie;
But whil it stode þei had no doute,
Hit was soo riche and strong aboute.
Nevertheles of his grete sawe
All þei were in muchell awe.
For his prophecies þei hatede hym sore,
For þei were trewe wel þe more;
And for his witte þat was soo grete,
For his unsware and for his threte,
And for he bare so noble a fame
Þat men honurede hym all by name,
And clepede hym Jesus þe verrey propphete,
Where he walkede in toun or strete.
Oft þei waitede hym to sloon,
And for drede þei let hym goon.
By day þei myght hym not hent
For the folke þat with hym went.
Wel mony thousandes for his sake
Wolde han dyede er he were take;
If þei had toforn all wiste
Þei wolde soo foule have pynede Criste,
Alle þe princes þei wolde have slayn
And all þe contrey have brent ful fayn.
God wolde noght þat hit were soo,
But oþerwise it moste goo,
Whan tyme and terme was ycome
Þat he soffrede to ben ynome.
Ful wel pan he toke is merke
What manere men shulde doo þis werke;
And sithen it shulde nedes be doo
Somme manere of folke most go þerto.
ȝet was it better þei had þe gylte
Þan any oþur nacioun had be spylte;
For in the booke thus we it fynde,
They were out-castynges of all mankynde.
He preiede for hem on rode tree,
“Forȝeve hit hem þat it shulde soo be,”
In ensaumple of all Cristen men
Þat here in any envye ben,
That we forȝeve as he forȝave,
And michell mede þan shull we have;
For he is soo greet of curtesye
He nyl noo synfull man dye,
But space and grace he wil hym sende
And he wil hymselfe amende.
Soo myght þe Jewes have hade grace
Of her grevose and grete trespas.
Jhesus soffrede a longe stounde,
Fourty ȝere (hit is wel founde);
For token ny for noon opur sight
Repentede þe[i] never by day ny nyght.
But in the passioun as we rede,
As þei were gadrede in every stede,
Ofte biforn þei spake þis deed,
How to doon þei couthe no reed.
Þei seide, “Whan shull we us wreke
Of þis prophete þat þus can speke?
For if we leten hym þus goon
He shall fordoon us everychon.
The Romaynes and oþur shul come us on,
And all oure lawes þei wil fordoon.”
Þei seiden sother þan þei wende;
For þei were never in wille to mende.
Ofte þei soghte wey to fonde,
How þei myght drive hym out of londe
Thurgh her lawes by juggement
Oþur thurgh coyntise have hym shent.
Ones þei had hym hem bytwene;
Than þei thoght to wreke her tene.
In a place at an hegh hille
Þei wolde have slayn hym by her skylle;
They wolde have doon hym to sterte,
But quyt awey he went and quert.
And ones þei wolde have stonede hym,
And al to-drawen hym every lyme.
Þei seide he blasphemede hymself þan:
He made hym God, and was a man.
And ofte her boyes after hym lepen
For to take hym with her wepen;
But for men þat ȝede him by
Durste noon of hem ley hand hym nye.
And ones at fleme Jordane,
There hym baptized seint Jon,
There þei wolde hym have slayn;
Qwyt he went with myght and mayn.
And whan þe[i] sawe þei might not spede
Þei þoght to doon an evell dede.
Thei made þere a conspiracy
Amonges the poeple with vileny,
That ones Messias seide
(Þat is Jesus in oure tonge leyde)
Out of her synagoge he shulde be doo,
And for a cursede man iholde alsoo.
This was to hym noo vileny,
All were hit doon with grete envie.
Allweyes þei failede of her cast;
Till Jesus wolde soffre at þe last
Þat þe certeyn day were set,
Þei had no myght hym to let.
Whan he wist hit most nedes be,
Þan wolde he hem nothing flee.
Caiphas propheciede þere,
As in the passioun men may here,
Þat a man shulde dye hym bifore,
So þat þe poeple ne were forlore.
The Holy Goost had broght hym þis,
But he was never þe better, I wis;
Thogh it were seide with gode resoun
Hit turnede hym all to confusioun.
For thurgh hym and his felonye
Encresed fast þe Jewes envye;
For þat þis woorde was seide on hye
Þat in all maner he shulde dye.
Her eyen were blynde, þat noght hym knewe;
Þei mow þat now evermore rewe.
Therefore he went anoon hem froo;
Amonges hem more nolde he not goo.
He went a litell here biside,
Out of her sight hym to huyde.
Noȝth for drede toke he þis wey;
But for to stable us in the fay,
To abiden his tyme wel and faire.
He was to us soo gode saumplaire,
To prelates and to other men
Þat in any anguysh here ben,
To kepen us out of her way
Þat oure enemys us ne say.
Whan men hem seen, þe more þei synne;
If they be fer, þe more þei blynne.
Þus turnede Jesus from hem þe bake,
Þat þei not mychel of hym ne spake.
Into desert he passede streght
To a citee þat þere was neghste
(The story clepeth hit Effraym),
A litell wey from Jerusalem.
With his disciples he dwellede þere,
Noght for drede þei myght hym dere,
But for þe poynt I seide byforn.
And ȝet were somme of hem forsworn,
Þan all the company, þere þei ȝede,
Þei seiden he was fled for drede.
But truely þei lyede everychon;
Þei ne wyst not whi he was goon.
Þei were not worthy his counseill to wyte
Þat thoghten to doon hym despyt.
Byhynde his bak þei on hym lyede,
After his kynde þei aspyede,
ȝet ofte þe shrewes were forsworn,
In leccherye þei helde hym born.
Þere were twelve þat herden þis;
Þei tolde hem þei seiden amys.
Þei witnessede all, with oon sawe,
Þat he was born with right lawe.
Þei seiden þei sawe Joseph wedde
Mary, þat clene life ay ledde.
They holden hym Josepes sone right
(A Wryghtes sone he was yplyght:
His Fader made all thynges of noght.
Þere is noon oþur þat soo hath wroght).
These twelve names tellen I can
That with Jesu heelden þan:
Lazarus, Asterius, and Antonius,
Ysaac, Finees, and eke Cripais,
Jacob, Samuel, and Joras,
Agrippata, Amos, and Judas.
Twey riche men there were alsoo
That holden wel with Jesu [t]hoo,
Ever in wordes and dedes bothe;
Þerfore þe Jewes wern wrothe.
And for her wrath þei nolde not leve
For drede for love ne Jesu to greve.
Nichodemus was þat oon,
Prince of þe Jewes everychon.
At his dome and at his dede
He preisede hym in every stede.
Þerfore þei enprisonede hym sone,
And wolde hym to deth have done.
And soo þei wolde his oþur felawe
For þat werk and for that sawe:
Þat was Joseph of Aramathie,
A riche man of kynde wel hye.
These men [þei] thoght to have slayn,
As ȝe shall hereafter heere me sayn.
Þese were þe poyntes of her envie
Wherfore þei deden hym to dye,
Withouten oþer many thynges,
Upbraides, assaies, and skornynges.
But love berst Jesu Cristes hert,
And noon oþur pynes smert.
Love hym droof and love hym broght
For to fynden þat he soght.
Whan love thyrlede heven Kynge
Þan love passeth alle þinge.
Love is hevede and love is ende.
Loveth love as ȝe ben hende!
But whan Jesus was broght of live
Þan fell wondres als bylive.
Centurio byhelde and seide þus,
“This is Goddes sone Jesus.”
As also dede Longens þe knyght
After þat he had is sighte.
Her grete temple in two to-cleef;
And buryede men, dede and deef,
Risen and walkede all aboute
From town to town, a grete route,
Þat wel were knowen out and inne
With men þat wer[e]n of her kynne.
Þei tolde why þei risen þore
For Jhesu þat diede hem byfore.
Þe sonne also leste all his lyght,
And stones and trees lest her myght;
And every thynge in his kynde
Of Jesu dethe had a mynde,
Out-taken man, þat shulde be chief,
Þat moost shulde be to Jesu leef;
The shrewes shewede moost unkyndenes
Agaynes all his godenesse.
All þis was wittenes agaynes man
Þat he had ytrespassede þan.
Sithen all qwhoke, but mannes hert,
Was he not þan worthy to smert?
Adam þat firste bigan the shame;
Þe Jewes endeth hit with blame.
But God Lorde, þat curteys is,
Dede þis labour for mannes blys,
And also for the Jewes, for why?
If þei had soght his mercy.
Þese deede men bigan to telle
Why þei risen in flessh and fell,
And Jesus wolde rise þe thrid day.
The Jewes were in grete affray;
But þei ne dredde not on right,
In her purpos hem failede myght.
Tho he was risen þe þridde morn
(As his passioun seith toforn),
Aggeus, Fines, and Astadas,
Þese thre tolde hem how it was.
Two clerkes witnesseth hit alsoo,
Þat seint Michell shewede hym to,
Caryne and eke Leuteyn;
Bothe þese in certeyn
Doumbe þei were til swete Jesus
Was risen from deth, I tell ȝou þus,
From þat he roos and stye to heven;
And þan tolde þei full even
Al þat was doon everydel
Of þe lore of seint Michell,
In erthe, in helle, in paradys
What Jesus Crist had doon, I wis.
Also it witnesseth in oþur stede
Þere men of þe stories rede.
Þoo spake Nichodemus anoon
Unto þe Jewes everychoon:
“ȝe wickede men, what have ȝe wroght?
To mykel sorwe ȝe have us broght.
All þat Joseph and I ȝou seide
Hit miȝt not standen in no stede.”
Þan gan Joseph to speken hem to:
“Agaynes Jesu ȝe have misdoo,
For gylteles ȝe have hym slawe;
Þerfore ȝe may be unfawe.”
Upon Joseph hit was borne
Þat he was to Jesu sworn.
“ȝe,” quod Joseph, “to hym I take,
And all ȝoure lawes I forsake.
I wot wel ȝe be wroth with me,
For I buryed his body free.
And I ne recche, so Crist me save,
If I ȝour wrathe þerfore have.
I warne ȝou wel, ȝe shul abye
Þat ȝe dede hym such vilenye.”
Þan were þe Jewes wel negh wode.
And þogh he seide it for her gode,
He nys not my freende, ȝe have herd tolde,
Þat seith all so myn herte hit wolde.
Joseph, withouten more sake,
Sone on hast þei gan hym take.
Þei put hym in a stronge prisone
With double lok, all for tresone.
Bothe Anne and Caiphas, þese two,
Beren the keyes þe dore to undoo.
The hous was hool withouten hole;
For þei þoght hym to a stole,
Þat never freende ne shulde have wiste
Where ny how he had be myste.
But Crist, þat is curteys at nede,
At nyght þer come hym out to lede.
The Jewes senten hym on the morwen;
His deth þei had amonges hem sworn.
Anna and Caiphas unclosede þe dore.
Þei clepede and soght and haveth hym lore;
Þei wepen and were þan sory men,
Out of lande þei thoght to fleen.
Body for body þey maynprisede hym
To kepen hym upon life and lyme.
And as þei stode in all þis care,
Where þei shulden dwell or fare,
Amonges all þese come þe knyghtes
Þat woken Jesu by daies and nyghtes,
The whiles þat he in toumbe lay,
Till it was on the thrid day
Þat he out of þe toumbe aroos;
Þei were negh wode, soo hem agroos,
And tolden þe Jewes þat he was risen,
And for an aungell þei were agrisen,
Þat put adoun þe grete stoon
And set hymselfe þereupon.
For drede, þei seide, þat þe[i] had
They fell adoun as þei were mad.
Alsoo wymmen comen þere thre
That soghten Jesu for to see.
The aungell tolde hem where he is,
“Into Galile goon, I wis.”
Þan unswared þe Jewes blake,
“Why ne had ȝe þe wymmen take?
Were ȝe not armed swithe welle
Alle foure in eiren and in steele?”
The knyghtes seiden, “Blame us noght.
We had noo myght hem to have broght.”
Þan askede Pilate hem anoon,
“Why lete ȝe þan Jhesu goon?”
Þan unswared þe knyghtes bolde,
“Why ne had ȝe Joseph withholde?
We have bothe failede of our pray:
Jhesus and Joseph ben goon her way.
Deliver us Joseph nowe,
And we shul take ȝou Jesu.
For he is arisen as ful of myght.
We drede hym ever both day and nyght.
Þere cam no man hym to stele,
Þogh he be risen with gode heele;
And ȝet we mowe drede þe more
We shull abye his deth ful sore.”
Than wex the Jewes all as mad;
To make her gree þei were ful glad.
Þan þei ȝaf hem grete tresore
Þat þei ne shulde speke no more.
All helpede noȝt þat þei tolde,
Where þei come with wordes bolde;
Hit myght in noon wise ben hydde,
But hit most nedes be kydde.
Þan seide þe knyghtes, “Seerche ȝe,
For Joseph is now in his citee.”
Þan sente þe Jewes Joseph unto
Lettres of pees to come and goo.
Joseph come and spake hem with
Alle þe Jewes in pees an gryth.
They went aȝeynes hym with honour;
They kysten hym, grauntede hym her socour.
Anoon þei put hym in resoun
How he come out of strong prisoun.
“Sires,” he seyde, “I telle ȝo ryght,
Cryst me fat out þe firste nyght.
Whan he come þat firste stounde,
Þe hous roos, me semede, from þe grounde
Up into þe eyre agaynes hym right,
For he is verrey God almyghte.
Ful the hous, me thoght, he spradde
With þe grete light þat he hadde.
For drede of hym I fell adoun
As a man þat lith in swone.
But sone he toke me by the hand
And bade me þat I shulde up stande.
My face he wipte and sithen me kyste;
ȝet what he was I ne wiste.
‘Drede not, I am Jesus,’ he seide,
‘Þat þou buriedest in þat stede.
Þou madest my grave in ȝone orchard.
By þat token be not aferd.’
Anoon he ledde me to þat grave;
Ful gode mynde þerof I have.
‘Joseph, here þou buriedest me,
And þat I shall wel ȝelde þe.’
And whan I had þe grave seen
I ne wist how he com þenne.
In myn owne hous he me sette,
Þat noon of ȝou might hym lette.
In pees he bad me dwelle þere,
And bade me come out no more
Unto sexty daies were come and goon.
He bade I shulde drede of ȝou noon;
And at the lx daies ende
Wheder I wolde he bad me wende.
Upon the mounte of Olivete
Þere my Lord, þat is so swete,
Stihede to heven faire and wel,
Almighty God in flessh and fell.
He shall come at domesday
To ȝeelde þe gode and wicke her pay.
There was a swete companye:
Firste his dere moder Mary,
And his apostles and oþur moo,
Þat were wonede with hym to goo;
And somme rysen whan he aroos,
To bere witnes tofore his foos.
I hope ȝe have herde of this,
And but ȝe have ȝe shul, I wys.”
Whan Joseph had al þis seyde:
“Jesus upon myn heed he leyde,
Er he stye up, I understande,
Wel faire and wel his right hande;
He me kyste and blessede alsoo,
And faire he toke his leve to goo,
And bad me drede noght for no Jewe.
By þis I wyst hit was Jesu.
And in þis manere I come ȝou fro.
Sires, what can ȝe seye þerto?
By this, me thinketh, it may acorde
That he is God almighty Lorde.
Til þe lx daies were went
I nolde not come þogh ȝe had sent.”
Anoon he thought hoom to goo;
He toke his leve and dede alsoo.
Whan Joseph had ytolde hem þis
Þan þoght hem þei had doon amys,
And seide, “What chaunse is this byfalle
Of þis prophete amonges us all?”
Joseph went into his contree,
And prechede and taȝte þe Trinite.
Michell poeple he turnede and lerede
With þe wordes þei of hym herde.
And whan þe Jewes herden this
They were sore agrevede, I wys.
Eftesones þei toke hym coynteliche,
And sperede hym up ful priveliche;
In her toun wall þei shetten hym
In an close þat was ful dym,
And þere he dwellede vij ȝere.
Our Lorde hym kepte leef and dere;
Þat nede was he had every day
Of Jesu, þe whiles he þere lay.
But wel I wot, at þe laste
With michell honour he was outcaste,
And his foomen hit boght ful dere,
As ȝe shull sone hereafter heere.
Listeth and I shall ȝou rede:
I shall ȝou telle a wonder dede,
How curteys Jesus Crist was
To hem þat dede hym þat trespas.
And soo he is ȝet every day
Unto us all, I telle ȝou may.
We wrathen hym with many synne;
Gode hit were som tyme to blynne.
All þat he may for us he doth,
All day we may seen þe sooth,
In mony manere he us fondeth.
To wrathen hym þerfore withstandeth.
For in his hande he hath þe knyfe
Bothe of oure deth and of oure life.
Alsoo we redoun of þis resoun
Thre ȝere bifore þe passioun
With his disciples hou he cam
Toward þe citee of Jerusalem;
And how he wepe ȝe shull see,
And spake þus toward þe citee:
“If þou wist as myche as I
Þou most wepe, I seye þe why.
The day bigynneth faste to hye
(But al þat is hyd fram þin eye),
Such a day shall come þe on
Thou shalt have enemyes many on
Þat al aboute þe shull becaste
And destruye þe at þe laste.
Michell sorwe mow ȝe have
ȝou thar noo mercy of hem crave.
There shall noo stoon on oþer bi leve,
But doun þei shul þe to-dreve.”
Foure prophetes seiden right þus
Longe byforn oure Lorde Jesus:
Bothe Moyses and Ysaie
And Ely and eke Jeremye.
He stode on þe mounte of Olivete
Whan he toward þe cite gan grete.
But his disciples wenden ay
Þat he had spokene of domesday.
Petre unswared for hem alle:
“Lorde,” he seide, “whan shall þis byfalle?”
Jhesus wist what he wolde mene.
He seide to hem, “ȝe shull ȝet seene
Many a token upon hye
Of sonne and mone in the skye.
Londe shall werren aȝeynes londe,
Þe fader agayne þe childe shall stonde,
The childe agaynes kynde alsoo;
Manslaght shal be, honger and woo;
Moreyne of beestes and of oþur kynde
Þurgh every londe men shal hit fynde;
The fruyt shall in erthe faille;
Men shall live in tene and travaille.
ȝe shull be drawen more an lesse
Bifore tyrandes in distresse,
And fele for my love [þei] shulle sleen
And somme al qwyt þei shulle fleen.
Grete tribulaciones men shall see
Mony men soffre for þe love of me;
And I myself shall goo to deed
Bothe beten, bounde, bak and heved,
Arysen up þe thridde day
To glade all myne þat I may.
And many oþur tokenes shull byfall,
I may not nowe sayn hem all.
ȝet cometh not þe day so sone
Þat þe grete dome shall be done.
Heveth up ȝoure hevedes from slepe!
Here may ȝe for þis mater wepe.
The dome shall come with grete ire,
As a theef þat steleth, or wildefuyre;
And all þei shull to joye wende
Þat trewely kepen hem to þe ende.
By tokenes þat have be seyen tofore
Drede þat is to come þe more.
Heven and erthe shall passen both,
All but my wordes, þat ben soth.”
Whan þis was seide, to towne þe drogh,
Þere he wrathede somme ynogh.
In the temple he gan byholde
How þe Jewes boght an soolde.
He wex on hem ful wroth and ȝare
For þei solden þere her chaffare,
Oxen, kyn, and other stoor,
Withinne þe temple, and oþur tresour,
As golde and silver, þere þei soolde
To alle men þat biggen wolde,
And all for usure to make chevaunce
To men þat comen out of Fraunce.
Nevertheles þei shulde not selle noo thynges
But þinges þat shulde to offrynges,
To pilgrimes sekand þat cite,
That comen from diverse contree.
Hym thoght þat þei gan apaire
Of holy chirche to make a faire.
“A chepynge” he seide “be þere it is,
Þis hous is for bedes, I wys.”
A roope he broght þat he fonde
With many knottes full his honde;
He droof out all þat þere stode.
Þei were all dred as þei were wode;
Hem thoght his lokyng was as a fyre.
And þus he seide þerto with ire:
“ȝe maken þis hous a gret denne
Þat firste was set for Cristen men.
An hous of oresoun dight it is;
I wil noon oþur hit be, I wys.”
The beestes from hym þei gan to flee
And fallede doun boordes with her monee
And oþur þinges þat stode to selle.
Noon durste abide ny longere dwelle.
Þere ful faire he hem techede,
And sithen ful oft he hem prechede,
Til þei toke hit to envie
And conspirede his deth with vilenye.
Wherfore sithen whan þei hym toke
(Alsoo we reden in the booke),
Fifty knyghtes with Judas came
With her meyne þat hym name,
By þat enchesoun þat he everychone
Out of þe temple droof aloone.
Nevertheles whan they hym toke
For his woorde so sore þei qwhoke
Þat þei fellen all adoun
As dede men oþur men in swone.
He reisede up as þe hende;
For þat dede most be broght to ende,
To saven þerby all mankynde,
As we in prophecies fynde.
Gode men, understandeth nowe,
And I shall telle ȝou all and how
Þe Jewes, þat dede Jesus to deed
Þurgh counseill and þurgh false reed,
Þei were in soo grete combraunce.
Tofore þei hadden all meschaunce;
Þat had Jesus toforn hem hyght,
And ay þey token it full light,
But sithen it fell in her owne necke;
Þei wolde noon oþur who thar recke
ȝet fourty ȝere he ȝaf hem space,
To assaye if þei wolde seke grace;
To vengen hym wolde he not sende
If þat þei wolden hem amende.
Thre þinges þere were in Israel
(Whech þei were, hereth hem wel,
As in stories we rede and fynde),
Þat fellen on þe Jewes kynde:
The firste was cleped pilgrinage,
Þat oþur thraldam and servage,
Dispersion þe thridde was tolde,
Þat is to-drevynge ȝonge and olde.
Þus bygan her pilgrinage,
Þan Jacob went with his lynage
Into Egipte for mychell nede;
Longe þei livede þere in grete drede.
Þan Jacob myght no lenger lyven
His kynde was out of londe ydryven
Þurgh þe Rede See, as ȝe han herde,
Þere Pharao and is folke forferde
(Moises was her loder þan),
Into þe lande of Canaan;
That was the lande þat he hem hight,
Soo he kepte is heeft aplyght.
With aungeles mete he fed hem.
Her clothes lastede without wem
Fourty wynter in desert,
Þat was a myracle faire and pert;
ȝet for all his curtesye
Þei wroght agayn hym with grete foly.
They maden hem goddes of metall
And honurede and worshepede hem all.
Þan ȝelde þei to Jesu for his godenesse
Right full mychell unkindenesse.
Now shall I touchen of her servage,
Þat ever shall lasten þe worldes age;
Ne shull þei never dwell in toun
Withouten truage oþer raunsoun.
In Babiloyn firste þis thraldam
Upon her forme fadres cam,
For they dwellede fifty ȝere
Er þe[i] most goo qwyt and skere.
Þe fifti ȝere was her solace,
Forþi it is now þe ȝere of grace.
Þan were þei let out of prison
Soo is þat ȝere to us pardon.
Dispersion was þe þridde þing,
Of Jewes kynde þe droving,
Þat is now fallen in þis case:
Þurgh Vaspasian and Titus it was,
As Jesus seide þurgh prophecie
“I shall deliver hem for her envie
Under lordeshep and such honde.”
Þere þei shull dwelle, I understande,
Withouten any scapyng of prisoun;
For golde, ny fee, ny noo raunsoun,
For noo mercy quyt shulde wende
Hethen to þe worldes ende.
Mesure ne mercy was noon in hem,
Suche shall þei have in her barnetem;
For þei Maries Sone forsoke
Þat was right heire, soo seith þe book,
For Mary come of þat linage
Þat she shulde bere þe heritage.
Of þis chaunce was spoken and fonde
Er þan it fell a longe stounde.
Þe noble clerc, Maister Josephus,
Amonges þe Jewes he seide þus:
“The day wil come þis toun shall falle
And þe Jewes ben confoundet alle.
Þis citee shall ben overthrowe,
The hegh paleys shall be ful lowe.
Messias shall sende ȝou amonge
Sorwe, meschaunce and wrech stronge.
From Rome shul come prynces two,
The fader and þe sone alsoo;
Þei shull destruye al þat þei fynde,
This toun with all þe Jewes kynde.
Þis shalle falle by her werkes,
Take þei never so wel her merkes;
For þei slogh Jesu Crist, I wys,
Þat God almightefull sone is.
And þis is her rightefull juggement,
But if þei come to amendement.
Þe fader gat þere suche honour
Þat he shalle be emperour.
Another tyme witnesse ȝe
Whan þat ȝe sothenes see.”
Thus wroot he in the Jewes booke
Þere þei may it alwey loke.
After Jhesus deth fellen wondres thicke,
Faire and gode and somme wicke.
Sithen þei slogh ȝonge Seint Jame,
For he prechede of Cristes name,
Seven ȝere aftur Jesu was deed.
Soo dyede Seint Jame in þat stede;
For whech deth God was wroth also.
For amendement he was sent hem too
With counseill, bedes and gode preching,
In token of þe firste warnyng
To amende hem þat þei dede hym dye.
Me semeth þis was grete curtesye,
For it was þe hyest trespas
Þat ever in erthe yherde was;
Forthy skile it is non reuthe to have
Of hem þat ne kepte hemself to save.
Þei ogh to make bothe joy and game
Þat hem bifell bothe sorwe and shame.
Jesus he graunt, for his mercy,
Þat eche synfull be quyt þerby!
God sent þus James to Jerusalem,
As I seide ere, to prechen hem
To repenten of her grete synne
Þat þei were acombrede inne;
And soo he dede þere alwey,
He sparede noght þe sothe to saye.
He wex so grete of renoun,
Þei made hym bisshop of þe toun.
He was a man of grete penance,
And dede his body grete grevance:
He werede never wolle ny lynnen cloth,
Ny ete never fisshe ny flesshe þat goth;
For chaungyng, waschyng ny oþur þing
But a gowne of heer to his clothyng;
And kneled soo to God alday
For þe poeple, nyght and day,
With his knees bare upon þe stoon,
Þat his huyde wex harde hym upon,
His knees semede hym biforn
As cameles knees, þat ben of horn.
This come hym of grete charite,
If þei myght þe better have be.
Wicked þei were ay, and þan
Þat prevede þei in þat gode man.
Hit was upon a Paske day,
Þe Jewes assemblede in grete array
And seiden þus to Seynt Jame,
All in ernest and with grete grame:
“Out of þis contre, fer and hende,
Michell folk wil þider wende
For to heren þi prechyng.
We bydde þe speke of noo thing
Agaynes our lawe with Jesus,
If þou wilt any thanke of us.
For if þe folke after þi sawe
Þurgh þi prechyng fram us drawe,
Michell peyne þan shalte þou have,
Þat grete lorde shal þe not save.”
Þei bad hym þat he shulde despise Jesu
Whan he prechede, and his vertu.
And if he preisede hym well tofore,
He preised hym þan michell more.
And as he prechede upon a day
In the temple aȝeynes her pay,
Oon went to hym þere he stode
And drowe hym doun as he were wode;
Another caght a fullyng staff
And in the heved a strook hym ȝaf.
He smote hym þere with grete mayn,
Þat in the temple shed his brayn.
And þus þei ȝelden hym his mede
For his travaill and his gode dede.
Þere arisen up fele, þat lovede Seint Jame,
To take þese men to doon hem shame;
Þoo þei sawe þis, þei fledde anoon,
And at þat tyme quyt þei goon.
But þei abiden þe grete vengeance
For Cristes deth and for þis chaunce.
Alwey þei were ylike wicke
Til þe wreche come unto þe pricke;
For Goddes right hit wil noo wronge,
Þat dampnede hem sithen to pyne stronge.
Þei þat wolde seint Jame socour,
They buryed his body with grete honour.
The Jewes clepede hym, oon and oþer,
Noght but Jhesu Cristes brother.
Of body, of face and of feete
He was liche hym evere ȝete.
For the firste token he was sente,
To turne þe poeple was his entent.
Listeneth now, I wil ȝou telle,
Of wondres and selcouthes I may ȝou spelle.
Another token þat cam þere þan
To showen amonges þe Jewes þer gan.
Þere were ygaderede at a fest
All þe Jewes, moost and lest,
Þat grettest were of þat citee,
And riche men fele of þat contree.
At þe morwe, whan þei dede ryse,
Þei deden to her goddes grete sacrefise,
Soo þat noo þing ne shulde hem greve;
Soo hit bifell, as þei bileve,
For þe pruyde þat þei were inne,
All encombrede þei were in synne.
At þat fest roos such a stryfe
Þat echon slogh oþur with his knyfe;
Wel thrytty thousand þere were slayn.
Þat made many a Jewe unfayn.
The thridde token nexte was þis
(Agaynes kynde it fell, I wis):
Into þe temple an oxe forth was broghte,
Þat to þe sacrefice was soghte.
All sodeynlich aforn hem all,
Er men it wiste, it gan to fall.
Þere come out of þe beestes wombe
In stede of a calf a lombe;
Þat abashed all þat þere stode,
Þat þei were all welnere wode.
The firþe token bifell on nyght,
Þat in þe temple was suche a light
Þat all þe Jewes þat hit saye
Wend hit had ben þe light of day,
On Paske-day withinne þe nyghte;
Hit was þe nyente houre ful righte.
And as I rede of þis caas
This þe fifte token was:
Another nyght bifell at cockes crowe
Þat all þe gates gan up blowe
Þat wern of iren ysperede faste,
With a grete dene þei upbraste.
Thurgh þe toun was such a dyne
Þat pei wende, þat þere were inne,
Þat her toun wall was fallen doun
Þat all enclosede up and doun.
The sexte token: þei herden a cry
In the temple all on hye,
Þei seide “Goo we hethen, goo we hethen.”
All þei hit herde and noȝte ne seyen.
Hit was upon þe Witsonday
Withinne þe even, I telle may.
The preestes comen þe temple unto,
Als þei were ywonte to doo,
For to doon her service;
But ful sone þei gan to grise
For þe cry þat was byfore,
Þei flowen out, all þat þere wore.
The vij. token: aftur þat cry
Þei seyen a sterre lighte in þe sky;
Shapen as a swerd it heng,
Þe poynt doun righte as a stryng.
Right soo it henged til it was day,
Þat all þe citee wel it say.
And soo it hengede þere all a ȝere
Þat alwey it semede yliche nere.
The viij. token sithen þer kem
Over þe citee of Jerusalem:
Þei seyen in þe eyre hem above
Men on horse all armede hove,
Þat sometyme faght and somtyme reste.
What þat bitokenede ofte þei keste.
They seiden hit bitokeneth werre strong,
Bothe manqualme and honger long.
Þei seiden sother þan þei wende;
ȝet wolde þei noȝt hem amende.
Had þei tho turnede to penaunce
Þan had þei scapede her vengeance.
The ix. token after þis,
ȝe shulle here which it is.
Chares and weynes also þei say
Comyng in cloudes, hem thoght ay.
Righte now alle þei it sawe;
Er þei it wist, away was blowe.
The x. token was þe last,
Þat made þe Jewes sore agast:
The forthe ȝere er þe sege bigan
Of Juwery þere was born a man,
His name was hoten Ananus sone.
For alle þe Jewes he nolde shone.
Ones upon an Witsonday,
When Jewes gaderede on her lay
For to maken her joie moost,
As hit fell to þat hye fest,
He stode up amonges hem all,
On þis worlde he can loude call:
“From þe est soo over all þis werde,
From south and north ich have yherde
Of þe iiij. wyndes a voice cam
Upon þis citee of Jerusalem
And on our temple for grete synne
And on the poeple þat were þerinne.
Me thinketh þat it bitoken may
Us wil bifall a greet affray.
Come whan it come shall,
Ful sore I drede me of þat fall.
Þus me mette by a visioun
Þat shall bifalle of þis toun.”
Þe Jewes token hym for þis,
Beten hym, bounden hym harde, I wis,
Biforn Pilate þei broght þis man.
As he seide ere, soo seide he þan.
And þo þei beten hym fele at ones,
Þat men mighte seen his nakede bones,
Nevertheles he criede for þis caas
“On Jerusalem allas, allas!”
Of þis myghte noo man hym stynte
For betyng, thretyng, ny for noo dynte,
But seide alwey thus anoon.
Þan þei soffrede hym all to goon,
For þey ne might hym not at holde,
But alwey seye as he erst tolde.
Of þese tokenes had þei none awe,
But mayntenede faste her false lawe.
Of her synne þei nolde byknowe,
Whatsooever þat þei sawe
In toun, in felde, oþer in place;
For þei had noo better grace.
Nevertheles her lawes fast gan blynne
And the newe lawes to bygynne
Whan Jesus his hed doun laide
And “Consummatum est” he seyde,
Þis tokenede “Þe olde lawe is went
And þe newe I have ȝou sent,
And my purpos is broght to ende
For man, þat is my dere freende.”
Her owne bokes witnes þis;
Þei were þe more to blame, I wys.
For alle þinges þat were done
Sir Pilate dede writen echon,
And þat was sithen agaynes kynde,
As men may nowe in stories fynde.
Whan seint Elene þe croys fonde
Sithen longe in that ilke lande,
Agaynes hir þei hit forsooke,
Þei levede neither woorde ny booke;
ȝet wolde noghte hem repent
Whan God all þese tokenes sent,
Ny ones of mercy þei hym bysoght
For [that] they hym to dethe broght,
But all his wrath turnede to vayn
For all þe tokenes þat þei sayn.
Þei þat will noo mercy crave,
Thei be not worthy for to hit have.
Þei deden foly to hurtle with hym
Þat kepeth þe soule, lif and leme.
Þe erthen vessell lasteth noght
To hurtell with þat of metall is wroght;
No more may mannes kynde fight
Agaynes þe power of God almight.
Lete we now þe Jewes dwelle.
Here gynneth her wrech for to telle.
Jesus a messager hath sent,
Þat swith upon his message went,
To þe kynge sire Vaspasian
Þat was a swithe noble man.
In meselrye soo depe hym cast
Þat body and face foule out to-brast
And in his nose a cancre smot
Þat bothe is lippes al to-bote;
And for no cost þat he couth laye
He sawe noon oþur but þan to dye.
Nevertheles in his nose wore
Waspes sithen þat he was bore;
Out of þe holes þei hem fedde,
Bothe hevedes and wynges out þei spred.
And for þese waspes he was clepede þus
By right name Vaspasianus;
For tho was to man noo name ȝeven
Til men segh þe childe shulde liven.
Of þese waspes his name he toke,
As clerkes it fynden in her boke.
This meselrye God hym sent,
Þat all his body over hit went.
Fele ȝeres soo on hym it lefte
Til Jesus wolde it were hym birefte;
For ȝe witen it well all,
Of all þing þat shulde bifall
From the bigynnyng to þe dome
He hath set whan it shalle come
In werkes, in wordes, and in kynde,
In holy wryt as men hit fynde.
The resoun, as I ȝou tellen can,
Why God sent þis on this man,
God doth nothing aȝeynes skyll,
Who it understande will;
But as Jewes with false reed
Deden hym þat is God to deed
Of heven, of erthe, and also of helle,
Þat weldeth all þat þereinne dwelle,
As God is Lorde of alle þinges,
Soo is the Emperour kynge of kynges,
And alle londes þurgh righte resoun
Soo ben all his handes subjectioun;
Forthy by grete skile it was kest
To wreken Jhesu bycam hym best:
The grettest lorde in erthe right
Bicam to wreken God almyght.
And soo he dede ful faire and well,
I shall ȝou shewen ilkadell.
ȝet had he noght þe empire in hande,
But afterward sone þurgh Goddes sande.
The evell was on hym soo ranke
Þat on his folke so foule stanke
From amonges his men he flegh,
And helde is chambre biside negh,
Þat unnethe his men for his stynke,
Mighte hym brynge mete or drynke;
At a vice þei turnede in his mete
Whan he shulde anythyng ete.
And þus in his bed he lay,
That he ne might out, nyght ny day,
To þe tyme come atte laste
Þat Jesus Crist hym wolde outcast.
All eveles comen of Goddes sonde;
Righte soo dede his, I understonde.
Alle þe Sept Sages us tellen
Þat clerkes in her stories spellen,
Whan Jesus dyede amonges us
Was the Emperour sire Tyberius.
Of dughtynesse he bare the fame
And þerfore men writen his name.
For in his tyme Jesus dyede,
As men þat tyme wel aspiede;
In tyme of his eghtene ȝere
Jesus toke his dethe here.
Of Rome he bare þe dignite,
Thre and xxxti ȝere regnede he.
In his tyme þe Jewes sent
A lettre enditede by one assent,
Þereinne þei biwriede sire Pilate
His grete pruyde to abate;
For hem thoghte in werke and sawe
Þat he trespassede agayn the lawe.
Of his misberyng þei writen þus
To þe Emperour sire Tiberius:
Þat he ȝaf counseill agaynes þe pees
To slee þe children gylteles,
And in the temple with grete rages
Of false goddes set up ymages,
And of her temple the tresoure,
Þat was of offrynge þe store,
Withouten her allere assent
In his owne nedes hem spent;
He made a conduyt wel merveylous
With pipes comand unto his hous;
And other fele wickede outrages
He dede agaynes her usages.
And þurgh his sonde and þis pleynt
In these defautes he was ateynt;
He was yjuggede to exile
For his trespas, þat was soo vile.
Of þis Pilate herde wel telle
Þat he ne myghte not dwelle;
He ordeynede a riche present
And with his lettre he hath it sent,
Þat was enditede fell an harde,
As ȝe mown heren here afterward.
After hym regnede sire Gayus,
And aftur hym sire Glaudius,
And sithen sire Nero, þat cursede sowle,
Þat slogh bothe Petre and Poule;
And aftur hym cam sire Vaspasian,
Þat was an honurable man.
God grantede hym thorgh his sonde
To wreken his deth with his honde.
Of Galice and Gascoigne þe kyngedome
Was his er þat he come to Rome.
And ȝet þe stories telleth me þus,
He had a sone þat hight Titus.
In the citee of Burdeux on a day
Sire Titus out a wyndow lay;
And as he lokede in the streem
A shipp þer come from Jerusalem.
He segh where þat þe shippe went
In the see, as Crist hit sent.
Anone he sent a messagere
To come to hym þat þereinne were.
The maister come tofore his knee.
“Felawe,” quod Titus, “wel þou be!
Felawe,” he seide, “what hattes thou?
And fro whethen comest þou nowe?”
“Sire,” he seide, “I hat Nathaan.
Of Jude I am a borne man.
Leve sire,” he seide, “I prey ȝou telle me
Wheþur I now at Rome be?”
“Nay,” quod Titus, “withouten any soigne
Þis is Burdeaux in Gascoigne.
Hethen to Rome, for sothe to say,
Men holden it a wel fer way.
Have ydoo and telle me sone
What haves þou at Rome to done?”
“Sire, þider me sent sir Pilate
(A wynde me hath driven anoþur gate)
To sire Tiberius, soo is his sonde,
To beren hym truage of her lande.”
“Felawe,” he seide, “Tiberius is deede;
There have ben sithen in his stede.
Natheles, my freend Nathaan,
I schall doo bryng þe to þat man
Upon my custages I shall fonde,
Þat hath þe empire in his hande
(For us, I hope, and oure lettre
Þou shalt spede wel þe bettere),
In a covenant þou shewe me
How my fader myght hoole be
Of a sekenes þat hym greveth.
For we hopen here and bileveth
Men þat in þat contree wone
Of all manere sekenes þat þei cone,
Oþer with gres oþer with stoon,
And oþur medicynes many oon.”
“Sir,” he seide, “I am noo leche,
But of oon I can þe teche,
Þat highte Jesus of Nazareth;
The Jewes deden hym to þe deth.”
He tellede hym aplight
Þat Jesus soffrede with unright.
“He was a prophete over all;
He seide alwey þe soth as it is fall;
He clensed men of evell and synne
With his woorde to hem þat levede hym inne;
He reisede Lazare, þat was a knyght,
Þat foure dayes lay dede yplight.”
All he tolde hym of Jesu deed,
As men in the gospell rede,
And of his deth and his uprist;
And of his apostles þat he wyst,
And how he þe Holy Goost hem sent
Aftur þat fourty daies were went.
“Sexty and ten langages I herde
Þat þei of her maister lered.
He bad hem goon into every lande
To prechen his name þurgh is sonde.
Of all eveles he ȝaf hem myght,
To hele þe seke þat bilevede righte;
And þo þat will not to hem wende
Shull be lorne withouten ende.
I wot well fele of hem ȝet liven,
In what lande þat þei be dryven.
And I am siker and wel bileve
Noon evell shall þi fader greve;
Þat if he wil bileven aright
I dar byhoten hym hele upright.”
His fader steward, sire Velosian,
Þat was a welle crafty man,
He stode and herde her wordes alle,
And fayn he wolde hit might bifalle.
They toke and gafe hym his mede
And to þe Emperour dede hym lede,
Sire Nero, þat cursede man,
Þat slogh hymselfe sone þan.
Þoo he had hymselfe slayn
The courte of Rome was ful fayn;
Anoon þei chosen sire Vespasian
To ben her Emperour þan,
For the noblest man of þe worlde,
And nexte of blode, as ȝe have herd.
Aftur Nathaan was comen and goon
Hit was two ȝere er hit were doon.
Thus fell it hym for þis wonder caas,
Right as God wolde, it was.
But all þat knewe hym, more and lesse,
Maden grete moon for his sekenes,
On aventure if he shulde amende
All his empire for to defende;
But þei hopeden and well þei kest
His sone shulde doon hit with þe best.
Whan Nathaan come to þe Emperour,
And shewede his nedes with honour,
He broght truage of fele ȝere
And Pilates lettre, as ȝe may here:
“Sire, I grete þe as my freende.
Understande þat I the seende
(I have perceivede and provede well)
Of Cristes dethe every dell,
What wondres han sithen bifalle
In Jerusalem amonges us alle.
The elde Jewes kynde byhight
Þat Jesus shulde to þe erthe alight
Into a maiden of her kynde,
As we in oure bokes fynde
Þat of a maiden [he] shulde be borne
Þat þe poeple ne were forlorn;
And seide he shulde be kynge of hem
And eke of alle her barneteem.
And soo he come as he seide.
Agaynes him alle they gunne plede
Þe prophetes whan he seide hem to,
As her eldres hadden ydoo;
And for he withtoke hem in her lawe
Þei wratthede hem sore with his sawe.
All þat he seide þei toke in vayn;
Þus they heelde hym longe agayn.
Soo they token hym at þe last,
Beten hym, bounden hym wel fast,
And come and deliverede hym to me,
And demede hym to hange on tree.
I durste noght agaynes hem be,
But if I shulde out of lande flee.
I sat as justice in domes stede,
I had noo gylte of his dede.
Riche and pore ȝaf up þe tale
And made hym foul, both gret and smale.
I drad and verrailich lovede the,
And durste noght agaynes hem be;
And þeiȝ I fonde in hym noo gylte,
Wherfore þat he shulde be spylte,
In my pretory and in my mote-halle
The princes of þe Jewes alle
Þere þei ȝeven hym þe dome.
Þat tyme I wolde hit had be undone,
For he dede noon oþur wicke
But shewede wondres fele and thicke:
Doumbe to speken, blynde to seen,
Deef to heeren, feendes to fleen
Fro wode men many oon,
And crokede men also to goon;
Full fele miracles dede þat man,
Moo þan I tellen can.
Wherfore, sire, by noo resoun
Haveth me in noon suspectioun
Þat it was noon oþer way,
Whatsooever þe Jewes say;
For peraventure hit may so be
Þat þei wolde pytte þe werk on me,
And forthy, sire, leve hem noght.
Hit was her dede and her thoght.
Hit was her dede, and noght myn;
Þat wil I prove by all her kyn.
Þei buryede hym and dede hym kepe
With her knyghtes, þat fell on slepe.
In the thridde day he aroos,
Almighti God amonge his foos.
The knyghtes comen hoom anoon,
And seide he was risen and goon.
They ȝeven the knyghtes mede þoo
To seye þat he was stolen hem froo;
And þei ne myght not hem withholden,
Where þei were þat þei ne tolden.
All þe soth and all þe caas
Of þis prophete, also it was,
I have doon writen, grete and smal,
Þat þis matere toucheth all,
Soo þat of hym þat story
Ever may last in memory.
Holdeth me excusede, sire, herby
For any tale oþur for any cry.”
He was never the better excusede þan
Agaynes God and agaynes man,
For all his feithe was al in wynde
And noght in herte ny in mynde.
He ne myghte excuse hym, in noo wise,
Of þat falsehed in noo gyse.
For many miracle he say,
And hymself wytnesseth ay,
And Joseph hym warned of Aramathie,
And Nichodemus with curtesye,
And alsoo dede Centurio,
Fele other men and wymmen alsoo,
Þat all þat Jesus dede echadele
Hit was truely doon and well.
Nevertheles he toke al to lyght
Þat he shulde ben God almyght.
He was warnede alsoo by his wyfe
Þat he ne rafte Jesu his life;
So bad hire the feende in a vision,
For to han lettede his passion.
Feende and man bothe God blent,
Soo þat þe prophecye forth went.
Wost þou why he dede soo?
For þat his deth shulde forthe goo.
Elles the feend wolde have hade alle
Þat hadden ben in synne falle.
But Jesus rather þe deth wolde chese,
Þan he shulde mannes soule lesse.
Any man þat hath not herde
How Pilate came into þis worlde
[ȝif þat ȝe wyll lysten now
I shall tell ȝew where and how.]
Hit was a kynge þat highte Tyrus,
Of Spayne, I understande þus.
A mylners doghtur of his lande
He knowlached, I understande.
She hight Pila, her fader Atus.
Her sone was sithen merveillous;
Pilatus þei clepede hym þoo
Aftur hem boþe two.
The kynge on his wife dere
Gate a sone the selve ȝere.
This Pila sithen broght hoom hir sone,
With his fader the kynge to wone.
These children were togedre longe,
Til þat þei were bigge and stronge.
In alle dedes, thurgh kynde,
Pilat was alway byhynde;
This agrevede Pilate sore,
He slogh hym privelich þerfore.
Þe kyng it herde, and sorwe he made.
To sleen Pilate men hym bade;
The kynge wolde not doon her reed,
He sent Pilate to another stede.
He shulde by lawe and by dome
Uch ȝere sende a childe to Rome.
Þere þoght þe kynge to make a sonde,
And soo to delivere hym of his honde;
In truage he sent hym for þis chaunce.
For truage also þe kynge of Fraunce
To Rome alsoo sent his sone;
He and Pilat, togedre þei wone.
The kynges sone was michell praisede,
More þan Pilat, and upreisede
For genterye, thewes, and curtesye.
Pilate had of þis envie;
In prive stede togeder þei drogh,
And þere þe kynges sone he slogh.
Þe Romaynes token her counseill þoo
What þei myghte with hym doo:
“Biforn he slogh his owne brother,
And now he hath slayn anoþur.”
Oon spake of þat assemble:
“Wickede and fell man he wil be;
He wil be bolde man of thewes
For to daunte fele shrewes,
For he hath doon to dethe twayne.
He were worthy to dyen in peyne;
Ne can I ȝeven noo better rede
But senden hym on anoþur stede,
Into Peyntes, þat wickede ilde,
To abaten þat is soo wylde,
To kepen þat wickede contree.
The folke is fell and so is he;
Other he shall hem overcome,
Oþur he shall be sone ynone.
And þere hym may soo ben ȝelde
Þe pyne þat he to shulde.”
Þei setten hym to commission
To holde þat ilde under his bandon.
What with peynes, what with ȝeftes
All þat ilde at wille he shiftes;
Alsoo he dede her pruyde abate,
Þat men clepeth hym Pontes Pilate.
He was kyd soo koynt in pruyde
Þurgh þat ilde, on every side,
Þat men dred hym fer and nere
For to comen in his daungere.
Tho Heraudes herd of Pilate þis fame,
And of his qoyntenesse and of his name,
He sente hym gyftes and messageres
And prayde hym to ben with hem cheres;
And Pilat anoon to hym cam,
And he made hym keper of Jerusalem
And justice of all þat cuntree
Þat now men clepeth Jude.
He pynede hym longe with hym to dwell,
For they wern bothe fell;
But Pilate wex soo riche þan
Of þe tresour þat he wan,
And for they ne partede her wynnynges bothe,
Þerfore Heroudes was with hym wrooth.
And soo þei liveden in ire and onde
Til Crist come thurgh his holy sonde,
And was taken and to Heroudes was sent;
Herodes was glad of þat present,
And þus þei weren bothe dere,
As ȝe mown in the passioun here.
Every man þat liveth in hate
May be likenede to sire Pilate,
That wes hondes and noght his herte;
Þat dede hym sithen sore to smerte.
And ȝet smerte Pilate noght allone,
But þe Jewes everychone;
For þei bad his blood shulde falle
On hem and on her children alle.
I shall shewen ȝou, it is sooth,
Everych Friday so it doth:
A flour of blode cometh hem on
And holdeth hem til þe day be goon,
And namelich on þe Gode Friday
Wel harder þan þei have hit ay
Þan þei have it thurgh þe ȝere;
Þat day durste þei noght stere.
But whan þei taken our Cristes lawe
Þat ivyl bygynne to withdrawe.
Þat i[vyl] shall no more hem greve,
So longe as þei wil bileve.
By this token þei ben clene.
Þis is a faire miracle, I wene.
For all þat wil hym mercy crave
He is soo full þat þei shull have.
And also mighte sithen sire Pilate;
He bode to longe and bade to late,
Þerfore he it aboghte full dere,
Als ȝe shullen hereafter here.
God come to seken þat was forlorn,
To gladen þoo þat to deth worne.
Lucifer first, sithen Adam
Maden þat he into þe erthe cam;
For he wolde þurgh his grace
Fulfyllen agayn þat empty place
From þennes þat þe aungel felle
Into þe deppest pytte of helle.
Forthy Adam and all his kynde
He wolde have theder, as we fynde,
For to beren hym company.
This gyle Godus sone aspye;
And for þat he fonde noon of us þan
[For þis siker he bicom man
And dyed on þe rode tre]
For to maken us alle free.
And sithen he aroos and helle brast,
And his owne out he cast,
And ledde hem to þe joye thoo;
In helle, I hope, ne comen noo moo,
But goostes, þat kepen ay þat stede,
And þo þat deden hym to deede.
Heere may we seen God was our freende.
Agayn to þe story wil we wende.
Whan Nathaan had is erand idoo,
“Sire,” he seide, “ȝeve me leve to goo.
The day is gan, sothe to sayn,
Þat I shulde have ben at home agayn.
I have soo be lettede by the weye
Þat I not what is best to saye.”
Þoo seide Nero, “Drede þe noo dell.
I shall þe excuse faire and well.”
In his lettre he dede to write
To witnesse Nathaan, and aquyte
Of all þat fell sithen he out went,
And of the tresour þat Pilate sent.
He ȝaf hym ȝyftes grete alsoo,
And þerwith leve for to goo.
Now wendeth hoom Nathaan;
Now hereth of sire Vaspasian.
Sithen bithoght sire Velocian
What Titus had herde of Nathaan;
Of his lorde he had grete care,
And sore byment his evell fare.
Biforn his lorde he gan doun falle,
And tolde hym Nathaans wordes alle
(Titus upon a day and he
Rehersede þis, as ȝe may see).
For rewth of hym sore he grette,
And seide he wolde his bale bette,
Thogh he shulde of his body take,
If he wiste his peynes slake:
“For lif ny deth wolde I lette
To wenden ful fer þi body to fette;
For Titus and I þis oþur day
Herden wordes to oure pay.
Sire, hereth me, I wil ȝou telle
What in Cesares tyme byfelle.

There was a prophete in Jude,
Þat prechede in þat contree;
Of all sekenes þe poeple he helede,
And [þus] þe Jewes with hym delede.
He ne dede but greet curtesye,
And toward hym þei had envie.
His owne dissiple his traitour was,
A wickede thefe þat hight Judas;
His maister to þe Jewes he solde
For thritty penyes þat þei hym tolde.
Þat ilke theef hymself dede henge
Upon a tree with a grete strynge;
His grace was noo better to spede,
For he dede þat wickede dede.
And þan [þe Jewes] with felonous rede
Pursuede þe gode man to þe deede
Byforn þe shrewe sire Pilate,
A false traitour, al for hate.
With wronge, all at oon voice,
Þei naylede hym fast upon þe cros.
He dyede, and roos þe thridde day.
Þat dethe we may rewen ay.
If he had lyvede, and forth went,
ȝet myght we for hym have sent,
Weyther ȝe myght have hool be.
Loketh here now grete pite!
Sire, was noght Pilate to blame,
Þat dede hym gylteles all þis shame?
Þis prophete, þat þei deden to deth,
Hight Jesus of Nazareth.
And all þis nyght me met a dreem
Þat I was at Jerusalem;
Me thoght I stode witerly
Byside þe temple of Kyng Davy,
And þere bothe I herde and say
Fele thynges to my pay.
And, sire, if ȝe wil doon aftur me,
I shall doo wenden to þat citee,
And brynge ȝou tiþinges, if I can,
If I may heren oght of þat man,
And if oght of hym might be founde
Þat myght make ȝou hool and sounde.
And eke also speken I wolde
With sire Pilate, þat traitour bolde,
For he was shirreff, and longe had be,
Of Jerusalem, þat riche citee.
And if he aske whennes I come,
I shall tell y come from Rome,
From Vaspasian, þat hath powere
Of Rome, and is Neros vikere.
If he aske aftur Nero oght,
Wheþur he be seek or doun ybroght,
I shall seye Nay, but he grauntede þee late
To unsware for hym and for his state.
Thurgh þe prophetes helpe it may be soo
Þat we may seen the come þerto.
To knowen Pilate, sire, have I thoght,
Þat I ne faille of hym noght;
Soo þat we may oon of the dawes
ȝelde hym all his false lawes.
I wil seye he holdeth of ȝou despyt,
Sithen he doth ȝou noo profyt;
Als men in registre fynde
Of longe tyme it is byhynde,
And þat wil be a grete raunsoun
Þat wil come of such a toun.
I wil wende to heren and sayn
Why he hath of ȝou despyt þan.
Gladnesse in herte ne gete I noon
Til þat I be comen and goon.
Me liketh þis wey to fulfylle.
Seye me, sire, what is thy wille?”
Þan seide Vaspasian hym to:
“I prey þe goo and doo right soo,
And hye þe swithe and come agayn,
I be noght glad til þou come þenne.
And loke þat þou noo tresour spele
To have som crafte me to hele.
To have myn heele ȝeve I wolde
More perry and more golde,
ȝe more þan I can of telle
[So sore I smerte and foule smelle],
I wolde fayn be holpen þerfore,
For me smerteth swithe sore.
And þerfore for þe love of me
Hye the fast to þat citee.”
Þe steward dight hym as the hende,
And to Jerusalem he gan wende.
An aventure fell faire and well
Aftur his dreem every dell.
For his in was taken fast by
Neghste þe temple of Kyng Davy.
The lorde of þat in Jacob hight;
He was a Jewe, but I the pliȝt
He was a prive Cristen man.
Full fair he gret sire Velocian;
Jacob hym askede whennes he cam,
And what he soght þere, and whom.
“Jacob,” quod sire Velocian,
“I am with sire Vaspasian;
Gascoigne and Galys [he] hath in honde.
From hym I come into þis londe,
For he hath an evell stronge
Þat hath holden hym ful longe.
He roght never what he gave
Soo þat he myghte his hele have;
And it was tolde both hym and me
Þat oon was deed in þis citee,
A noble prophete, þat hight Jesu,
Thurgh sire Pilates and [thurgh] ȝow,
Þat he heelede all seke and soore
In þis contre everywhore;
And now, if he were unslayn,
My lorde wolde of hym be fayn.
Now sire, I preye þe, seye me this,
Where anythyng be lefte of his,
And where it is, and in whech stede,
And þou shalt have full riche mede.”
Þan spake Jacob, the gode man:
“ȝe be welcome, sire Velocian.
Ful wel I shalle counseille þe,
But loke þat þou ne wrye me.”
“Nay, hardelich, arst wolde I dye
Er to any I shulde the wrye.”
Jacob seide “Now I am glad.
Hit is ful lange þat I hit bad,
Þat I shulde þat tyme heere
Þat Jesus deth yvengede were;
And ȝet I hope shall come þat day,
Þat ich þerof here wel may.
ȝet hope I, thurgh þi lorde and þe,
Þat I shall þat tyme see.
Sire, hereth now a mervaillous,
I telle, þat is amonges us:
Sire, a fole walketh in þis toun
Al day with children up and doun.
He seith wel ofte on his game
Þat þis toun shall goo to shame;
And þe more we dreden hym all,
For as he seith wel ofte is fall.
Sire, I wil þe tellen, as I can,
How Jesu dyede, þat gode man,
Als I sawe it with myn eyen,
How þei deden hym to dyen.
They bounden, beten hym as a theef
All a nyght in paynes greef,
And on þe moru with oon voice
Þei nailede hym fast upon þe croys.
He dyede, and roos þe thridde day
Out of þe grave there he lay.
Mary my doghter, I telle it þe,
Was oon of the Maryes thre,
Þat to Jesus toumbe went
With buystes full of oynement,
To have alithede his body with,
Þere he was soore in lyme and lith.
And if þi lorde bileve hym upon,
I dar warant hym hool anoon;
And to his feith [if he] wolde swere,
Litell while shall his evell hym dere.
Trowe ȝe, sire, he wil soo doo?”
“Nay,” he seide, “I trowe not soo.
Ere he wolde be deed and [in] grave,
But if he wist his heele to have.
Soo þat he myght have heele sone
He roght nevere what to doone.”
Þan spake Jacob as a kynde man
To þe steward, sire Velocian:
“Sire,” he seide, “I knowe a wife,
A curteys lady of clene life;
I hope she be my grete freende.
I shall tomorue for hir sende,
Þat under hire and under me
We shall doo soo counseill the,
Soo þat þi nedes shull be spedde.
Þe thar no more ben adredde.”
And whan the steward þis herde
With myche joye þat nyght he ferde.
He seide to Jacob þoo anoon
“Tomorwen þou most with me goon,
To leden me to sire Pilate.
I hope we shull his pruyde abate.
My lorde me hath to hym ysent
To fecche from hym Neroes rent.”
“Sire,” quod Jacob, “per ma fay
I graunte hit well tomorwn day.”
On morwn hym roos þe gode knyght,
Armede prively and wel ydight;
He and Jacob, bothe two,
To þe synagoge gan goo,
Þat was by þat ilke dawe
The chirche of þe Jewes lawe.
Sire Pilate þei fonden þere,
Þat stode his service for to here,
And all aboute enviroun
Stode þe grettest of þe toun.
Jacob drowe hym out of þe weye
To heren hem bothe what þei gan seye.
Sire Velocian forth spronge
On his stede, styf and stronge,
But doun wolde he noght aliȝte
Til he come to Pilate right.
“Sire,” he seide, “wel þou be!
My lorde þe greteth wel by me,
The Kynge of Galys, Vaspasian.
He holdeth þe oon of his man,
And askes wher þou wilt ben aknowe
Of þe truage þou shuldest owe.
All þe truage is byhynde
Þat þou shuldest Vaspasian the Kynge.
Under hym þou holdest þis citee,
I understande, þi lorde is he.
All þe truage is byhynde
Of his tyme, all soo we fynde.
In þat wil ben a greet raunsoun,
Þat shulde falle of such a toun.
And þerfore gladlich wyte I wolde
Why þou hast his right withholde.
I rede, if þou wilt ben his freende,
By me þe truage þat þou seende.
But he it have, he wil it fatte;
Thou ny noon oþur shall hym lette.
Have doon, and unsware me anoon,
For hoomwardes agayne most I goon.”
“What,” quod Pilate, “is Nero deed?
How longe hath he hade þe lordehede?”
“Sire [he is] bycome his lieutenant,
And þat I dar þe wel warant;
And if þou wilt noght leve me,
ȝet somtyme þou shalt hym see.”
“Perfoy,” quod Pilate, “þou seist amys.
And hit were soo, I had wist er þis.”
Thus seide Velocian the while
Sire Pilate for to bigyle,
That he ne sholde another throwe
Faillen of his visage to knowe.
I byhete ȝou, he went þis viage
To knowen Pilates visage;
He forȝat hym never a dell,
Soo he toke his merk full well.
Pilate starede, as he were wode,
Upon Velocian, there he stoode.
“What?” he seide, “have I noo men?
Þis knyght is comen me to sleen.
Helpeth me, þat I vengede were
Of þe theef þat hoveth here.”
Þan spake a knyght hight Barabas,
That out of prisone deliverede was
That ilke tyme þat Jesus dyede.
Forth he sterte and loude criede:
“Sire,” he seide, “þis knyght is one.
Hit were shame to us echone
To doon hym any vilenye.
I bihete þe, he nys noon aspye.
He semes to ben a doghty knyght,
For he seith his erande aryght.
But sire, be þou of hardy chere!
For thou art moost maister heere.
[Vaspasyan drede þou noþing,
For we shullen make þee oure kyng.]
And if he come the oght to lete
I hope he shall ful wel be mete;
And er þat he have of us maistrye
He shall hymself wel dere abye.
[And lete we now þis gode man go,
And grete hym wel and seie hym so.”]
Velocian grette hym þat þere stode,
And out he spronge as he were wode;
Unto his inne he come full ryght,
And of his stede adoun he lyghte.
Tho Jacob segh hym lighte adoun
He come to hym, as was resoun,
And seyde “Sire, welcome hiderward!”
“ȝo, Jacob freende, I am ascaped hard;
But nowe I wot þat I hym knowe,
Well I holde bysot þis throwe.
Whan tyme cometh sewen I can
To knowen hym from anoþur man.”
“Sire,” seide Jacob, “I have seen
How ȝe have agrevede ben.
And Jhesu ne lete me never dye
Er þat I may seen hym dere abye!
Sire, be now glad, I preye þe,
And welcome be þou to me!
Comforte þe, and drede þe noght!
Þat I þe hight I have þe broght.
Sire, take dame Veroigne here;
She oweth well to be þi dere,
For she wyl shew þe every dell
How þi lorde shall have his heele.
Pilate hateth hir and me,
For we have longe freendes be.
Whan she is grevede she cometh me to,
And I wende to hir alsoo,
For we ben cristenede pryvely.
And upon us he setteth grete spy,
For soo he weneth witterly
To doon us grete vileny.”
Þan they eten and made hem gladde.
Velocian grete joy made,
For he hath þis womman founde.
Þus þei soupede in þat stounde;
After he shewede hir al his caas,
Of his lorde al how hit was,
And seyde “Jacob, I prey hit the
Þat þis lavedy goo with me
Unto my lorde, seeke and sore,
And she shall have grete tresore.”
“Sire,” seide Jacob tho,
“I prey hir þat she with þe goo.
I hope ȝe wil hir savely lede,
And alsoo ȝelden hir wel hir mede.”
Þan seide Velocian hym to
“All þat she wyl I wyl alsoo.
Dame,” he seide, “I prey þe
Þat þou wilt graunte to goo with me,
And saye me alsoo som dele
How my lorde may have his heele.”
“Sire,” she seide, “ne drede þe noght,
Þerto shall it wel be broght,
Als fer forthe as we coon,
If he wil bileve in Goddes Sone;
Als Jhesu Crist helede me,
Soo shall I nowe shewe the.

I dwellede fer byside þe see
In þe lande of Galile.
With þe flux I was smyten,
As Jacob and oþer wel it wyten.
Jhesu Crist I lovede and dredde,
And þerfore my hele I hadde.
The evell astynt evere, me thoght.
To speke with Jesu hider y soght.
Whan I was to towne icome
Þan had þe Jewes hym ynome;
Whan I hit herde, it was me looth.
Anoon I toke a pece of cloth;
Toward a peyntour I gan goon,
To peynte his ymage þerupon,
That I mighte every day hit seen,
And ever in my mynde to been;
For I was, my sire, wonder woo
Whan I had my Lorde forgoo.
And als I toward þe peyntour come,
I met my Lorde, toward þe dome
Upon his shulder berand þe crois.
I cryede to hym with loude vois
‘Me reweth, Jesu, for þi pyne,
[And] þat I shall þe soo sone tyne.
I had grete nede to speke with þe.
Swete Lorde, loke ones on me,
For I have lovede þe herebifore,
Forthy I triste on þe the more.’
A litell biside went Marye,
And herde me so lowde crye;
Anoon þe clooth from me she kypte,
[And] þerwith Jesus visage wipte,
Soo harde swetande þan was he
For the burthen of þe tree.
I sewede aftur, also he ȝede,
And handlede a litell of his wede;
I knelede wepand, and kyste his fete.
He blessede me and þere me lete.
Mary bekenede me, soo gode,
Als she went under þe rode;
My cloth me toke, and I hit kyste.
Anoon I felde me hool and tryste
And in my cloth, þurgh his grace,
Lefte þe ymage of his face.
In my cooffre I have hit sperede,
And sithen I have þe better ferede;
And every day I knele þerto,
As I was wonte to Jesu doo.
The more certeyn þat I hit see,
Muche the better fele I me.
And ay sithen dwellede I thus here,
Þat hoom agayn wolde I not stere.
Nevertheles, sire, I the telle,
Here might I not longe dwelle,
For Pilate is my stronge foo;
Þerfore me is lever with þe to goo.
To fecche þat ymage I wil goon,
I shall me hast and come anoon.”
Velocian was swithe glad
Þat he hath sped of þat he bad.
“Jacob,” he seide, “here þou me,
A tithyng I wyl telle þe.

If I live, Pilate shall abye
For þat he wolde do me so dye.
If my lorde be hool and fere
Hederward he shall hym stere,
And on Pilate he shall be wroken
For the wordes þat he hath spoken.
Wel may he be a shrewe agaynes us,
Þat gylteles slogh swete Jesus.
Hoolde þe covert til þou it see;
I bihote þe wel, it shall soo be.”
“ȝe, sire,” quod Jacob, “Criste graunte I may
Abide to seen þat ilke day,
And alsoo sende hym heele sone,
Þat þe viage myghte be done!”
“Lorde,” seide sire Velocian,
“Jacob, knowest þou any man,
Þat is on live in þis toun,
That were at Cristes passioun?”
“ȝe, sire,” quod Jacob, “forsothe I wys
Many of hem on live is;
I may hem seen every day
Goo tofore me in the way.
If ȝe will, I shall for hem sende,
And þei wil seye ȝou woorde and ende.
Her dede nyl þei nothyng hyde,
But make þerof ȝelpe and pruyde;
To speke þerof þei be wel glad,
And þerof be þei nevere sad.”
And þan to Jacob seide Velocian
“My leve freend, for hem sende þan.
I prey þe, sire, þat I had herd
With Jesu Crist how þei ferd.”
“Sire,” quod Jacob, “þis graunte I the.
Ful sone, sire, þou shalt hem see.”
He sent prively for hem alle,
And sone þei comen to his halle.
He welcomede hem and dede hem glade
And greet semblant unto hem made.
“Lordynges, welcome mot ȝe be
Here until my gest and me!
This is my freende, he wolde fayn lere
How Jesu Crist dyede here;
Þat were to hym grete joye and game
That myghte here telle of his shame.”
Anoon þei sette hem doun and logh,
And þerwith were þei glad inogh.
“Sire,” seide two, “we hym bounde
To a peler of marbell rounde.
Þere we hym beten and [sore] hyrte
With longe scourges and with smerte,
Tyl þat he fomede all on blode;
And sithen we dede hym on þe rode.”
Forth sterten þan oþur two:
“Wilt þou heer what we have doo?
We blent and buffet hym all nyght,
ȝet reweth it us he had soo light.
Biforn Pilate we herd hym telle
Þat he myght oure temple felle,
And make it rise on the thrid day;
Amonges us we seiden ‘Nay.’
For why we shewde Pilate þis pleynt;
Amonges þe Jewes he was ataynt.”
He was þus holden by oon and oon,
Til þat þei had knowlechede everychon
All þe peynes þat þei dede hym
At all tymes in every lyme.
Ever sat þe steward to byholde,
Til all was seide þat þei wolde.
“Lordynges,” [he seide] “bothe grete and smale,
I thanke ȝou of þis faire tale
Þat ȝe have tolde me of þis man.
I shall rehersen hit, if I can,
In another stede, all hou hit was,
Where men desiren to here þis cas.”
Than were þei [alle] swithe glade
Þat þe gode man suche joye made;
For þei wende wel to have ydoo.
Mikell myrthe þei made hym to;
But I hope þat suche game
Turnede hem sithen unto shame.
Þei token her leve and went her wey;
He thankede hem of her faire play.
“Now,” seyde sire Velocian,
“Jacob, ȝet if þat I can,
And þou live and here dwelle,
Of þis thyng þou shalt here telle.
Grete wondres shall fall and be
Amonges þe poeple in þis citee.
For hit was never in noo stede,
In all þe stories þat men rede,
Þat wrech ne cam of mannes deed.
Soo wil falle of þis, I drede.”
“ȝe,” quod Jacob, “Crist graunte hit ay
Þat I may seen þat ilke day!
A freende of þe I hope to have.”
“Per fay, Jacob, I shal þe save
Whan tyme cometh þou art in nede;
Þan ogh men frenshep to shewe in dede.”
Forth anoon dame Veroyn cam.
Þei token her leve and forth þei nam;
Hem lyst not stynte withouten oon soine
Til þat þei comen to Gascoigne.
Velocian was of hir gelous,
And bad hir hoom unto his hous,
Þere he hopede to esen her best,
Aftur her travaill to have gode rest.
He wente hym als swythe þan
Unto his lorde Vaspasian:
“Sire,” he seide, “be noȝt adred;
For well, I hope, þi nedes be sped.
Have now gladnes in þin hert,
Forȝete þi penance of sorwe smert.
A womman I have broght þe of þe best;
She is at myn hous to rest.
Þi bote she hath broght, I understande,
From Crist, þat saveth mankynde in lande.
Alsoo I spake with sire Pilate,
Soo þat I knowe hym by his state;
From hym I skapede, I am ful fayn,
For I had almoost be slayn.
Sire, all þis is sooth verrement
Þat I tolde þe, er þat I went;
Of Cristes deth I have soght
Of hem þat þe dede wroght,
Byfore Jacob, my gode freende,
In myn in er I wolde wende.”
And þus he tolde hym in rowe
Of all þat he had herd and sawe.
Thoo þe Kynge is arme out caste,
And byclipte Velocian faste,
And kyste hym ofte, mouth to mouth,
And michell þanke he hym couth.
“Þese woordes þat þou hast me broght,
They steren myn hert and my thoght.
Þese wonder wordes herebiforn
Ne herde I nevere, sithen I was born.
Wheþer I live or dye, I most prove
Somtyme þat prophete for to love,
That I to hym þus am cast;
A lorde he bysemeth ful studefast,
Sithen he doth all dedes at wille
And þat hym likes to fulfylle.
By this hit semede, Velocian,
Þat he was pereles, þat eche man.
Thy wordes I have in recorde,
Þat if I be hool þurgh þat lorde
I shall bringen hem to confusioun,
Þo þat deden hym þat passioun.”
“Sire,” quod Velocian, “have noo care,
For I am siker þou shalt wel fare;
And þat, I hope, shall be tomorwe
Þou shalt be quyt of all þi sorwe.”
Þe morwe cam, þe day spronge;
Vaspasian hym thoght wel longe.
To croune his sone þei were aboute,
For of his lif he was in doute.
Of all landes þat wern þe beste
Þat comen to þat Kynges fest.
To Titus all he dede hem swere
Þat þei shulde feaute to hym bere.
Þat day þere men myght ysee
Of myrthe and game grete plente.
Þere was ynogh of all þynge,
As fell to coronement of a kynge.
Now a stounde I most dwelle,
And of dame Veroyne forth to telle.
In her in she stode, and say
How seynt Clement cam by the way,
Þat in þat tyme was Pope in Rome,
And his clerkes with hym come.
And by his beryng þan þoght she
An holy man þan he myght be;
For wise men drawen to þe wise,
And foles to þe foles gyse.
She praide hym in pees and gryth
He wolde come and speke hir with.
He cam, and sat doun by hir stille,
And asked what þat was hir wille.
“Sire,” she seide, “I prey hit þe,
A Cristen man if þat þou be,
Now say me if þou be or noon?”
“ȝys, dame,” he seide, “I am oon,
Such as I am witerly.
Seint Petres disciple was I.
I servede hym til he cam to Rome,
And þere he soffred hard dome.
From Jerusalem we cam theder,
I and Poule bothe togedre;
And Nero was Emperour þan,
And ȝet liveth, þat cursede man.
He slogh bothe upon a day.
Þus þerfore I dwell alwey,
To seen ȝet if God wolde sende
Þat þe folke wolde hem amende.
Full longe I have preiede soo.
God graunte þat it come þerto!
Forþi from Rome hider I flay,
And soo I holde me here alwey.
If Nero might sone dye,
Or comen out of his heresye,
Þat were for us now tiþinges gode,
For Vaspasian is negheste of blode.
And ȝet may it falle as I seye,
For God is ay þere thre or tweye
Ben gaderet to speken in his name
And in his worshep for soules frame.”
“ȝe, sire,” seide dame Veroyne,
“As God wil, soo be it doone!
Sire,” she seide, “now am I glad,
I have founden þat I bad;
Glad am I þis ilke stounde
Þat I have þe here yfounde.
For Petre and Poule both y knewe,
Þat wenten with my Lorde Jesu
All þurgh þe lande of Judee;
Þere I knewe hem and þei me.
Forthy, sire, I prey now the
Þat þou wilt my freende be.”
Anoon she tolde hym al the cas
Why and wherfore she comen was.
“Dame,” he seide, “I wil þe kythe,
Of þi comyng I am ful blithe.
I hope thurgh Goddes helpe and þin
We shul ascapen all our pyne.
Noo Cristen man ne dar hym shewen,
But if he wil ben al to-hewen.
Wherfore wil we ful prively
Speken of God, bothe þou and I.”
“Sire,” she seide, “for þi lore
I wil be with þe evermore,
To dwellen in thy companye
Til my Lorde wil þat I dye.”
And þus þei speken of holy wryt,
As þei in company togeder sitte,
Þat of grete while wel litell hem thoght
From þat þei were togedere broght.
Þan Vaspasian in his palace
Waitede aftur hir in all waies;
Noo wonder þogh hym þoghte longe,
His evell agrevede hym so stronge.
He clepede Velocian anoon:
“Whan shalt þou goo for dame Veroyn?”
Þe steward he goth hoom als swithe
Aftur hir with hert blithe.
“Dame,” he seide, “þou and þi fere,
Well be ȝe bothe ifounden here!
Now, dame, þou most goo with me,
For my lorde hath sende for the.”
“Gladly,” quod she, “if þat my freende
Wil with me to courte wende.
For he hath power by nyght and day
To doon an[d] seye þat I ne may,
And if we [may] hym with us lede
I hope þe better we shull spede.”
“Sire,” seide Velocian thoo,
“I pray þe þat þou wilt with us goo.”
Thei risen and wenten as swithe þan
Til þei come to Vaspasian.
On knees ychoon þei hem sette,
With mikell honour þei hym grette.
“See, sire,” seyde Velocian,
“Heere I bryng the þis womman
Þat I bihight þe, þi bote to bringe.
Worshep now hir in alle thynge;
Alsoo þis clerc with hir here,
Þat can the bothe wisse and lere;
For dame Veroyne here seith
But if þou knowe wel þe faith
Þou shalt never be hool aryght
Þe whilest þou livest, day ny nyght.
ȝet is wol better to lere her lawe
Þan with þis evell to ben yslawe.”
Sire Vaspasian for the more socour
Welcomed hem with honour:
“Dame, welcome mot þou be!
And sire clerc, I prey now the
Þe right faith þat þou me kenne
Here aforn alle þese menne.”
Seint Clement was þoo ful glad
Anoon to doon þat he bad.
Pees anoon he made to be
Þurgh all þat grete assemble.
“Lordynges,” he seide, “I wil ȝou pray,
Listeneth now þat I shall say.
In awe hath ben al to longe
Cristendom al with wronge,
And God wil now þat it sprede
Amonges hem þat hym loveth and drede.
My Lorde God, of whom I spelle,
He made heven, erthe and helle;
And all þat ever is hem withinne
At hym bygan, at hym shall blynne.
Þis is the admissioun
Of thre maner of habitacioun.
Heven he made with joy and blys,
Þat ever shall laste withouten mys;
Þere aungeles and mannes soules wone
Evermore with Goddes sone.
The erthe he made to mannes swynk,
To husband hem with mete and drynk.
Five wittes [he] hath man [ȝ]even
To kepen hem with, wyles þei lyven:
With eeres to heeren, with eyen to seen
All þinges þat about us ben,
With nose to smellen swete from sour
(Þat is to us a grete honour),
With mouth to chesen drynk and mete,
Which is to take, which is to lete;
And ȝet he ȝaf us felyng alsoo,
With handes to handlen, with fete to goo.
And noon of all þese, soo we rede,
Ne may stande in oþur stede.
If a man with þese wil hym lede,
Heven blisse he hath to mede;
And if he doth evell, as I ȝou telle,
Withouten ende he gooth to helle.
Þat is þe thridde habitacioun,
For wickede synfull man a prison.
And þider went þe first man,
For he firste synne bygan;
And þere he and his kynde ley,
And shulde han doon to domesday,
But God of us þan toke pitee,
And for to save us þan þoght he.
Wher mannes synne were soo grete
Byfore God, at his fadres seete,
Þat if man shulde to helpe be broght,
With mannes deth he most be boght.
The synne was soo foul, as we fynde,
Þat it defoulede al mankynde.
Thouȝ God had an aungell sent,
He myght not dyen verrament;
Man dede þe trespas, man most dye.
Thurgh pite God sawe þis with his eye.
God myght not dye ac bicome man,
And þus [he] dyede for us þan.
With aungeles and his Fader þe Lorde
Þus broght he man to acorde.
He defendet hym with noon oþur staff,
But þe manhed for us he gaff.
For mannes love þus toke he deed
Þurgh þe grace of his Godhed.
Of þe maiden Mary he was born,
Maiden clene sithen and biforn;
In þe lande of Jude he gan dwell,
Ther fele men to hym fell,
For his woordes sothe þei founde;
Þat were seke, he made hem sounde.
With þis þe Jewes had envie,
Þerfore þei deden hym to dye.
Judas for xxxti pens hym solde
To þe Jewes breme and bolde;
Of his disciples he was þat oon,
Þat with hym was wont to goon.
He hengede hymself, þis was his ende.
He had noo grace hym to amende,
For he nolde noo mercy seke
Of his Maister, þat is soo meke,
Þat salve is to every sore;
Over any synne his mercy is more.
Man is neghste hym of any kynde,
As we in holy writte fynde.
Forthy if any man trespas
Hym faileth not, if he seke grace.
Leve sire, þis man was wode,
Þat solde his Lorde þat was soo goode.”
Than spake Vaspasian soo free:
“I byhote to þat God and the
Þat if he wil me hool make
I shall be cristenede for is sake,
And I shall sleen all þat I fynde
Of all þe Jewes in her kynde,
And xxxti of hem I shall sell and give
For oon peny, if þat I live;
For þei hym boȝte, for despyt yplight,
For xxxti penes with oonright.
And Jesus ne lete me never dye
Til I have wroken þat felonye!”
Þan seide Clement to hym stille
“ȝet I hope þou shalt have þi wille;
For thurgh þis evell, y understande,
My Lorde wil þat þou shalt fonde
To wreken hym, sire, of his foon,
And þat shalt þou seen anoon.
For thurgh is vertu shalt þou see
Þat hool and sounde shalt þou be.
Þ'ensaumple I telle þe as it sytte
Righte in þe [boke of] holy wrytte:
He come to seche þat was forlore,
And gadrede þat to-dryven wore,
To restoren þat was falle.
Forthy he dyede for us alle
To confermen us in our fay,
And synfull men to clense, I say.
The Jewes seide þat he cam
In the destructioun of hem;
But now I understande me
Þat þei seiden hit by the.
The prophecies han herof speken,
Þat ȝet shall his dethe be wreken.
A grete joye hit were to us alle
If hit might þurghe þe bifalle.
Kynges hym worshepe at his berthe
With offrynges and mikell myrthe;
Kynges were sithen twyes in wille
Þurgh dynt of deth to doon hym spille.
Herodes first, whan he was born,
Herodes efte to his deth was sworn.
The firste Herodes the children slogh.
I wot he soffrede pyne ynogh:
All maner of evels, seith þe book,
He had er þat þe deth hym took,
Withouten þe stronge peyne of helle,
For evermore þereinne to dwelle.
Withouten gylt he hatede Jesus;
Gilteles þe Jewes slogh hym þus.
Kynges þei kest to wreke his deed
Þurgh þe grace of his Godhed;
Such knoulaching of kynges he nam,
Whan he into þe erthe cam.
If þou wilt wel bileve in hym,
Þat he may heele þe, lif and lyme,
I dar warante he shall heele the.
By ensample þou myght see:
Þere was a knyghte deed in lande
(Lazar he hight, I understande),
Þat foure daies in grave lay;
He reisede hym, þat many it say.
And alsoo, as we of hym rede,
He dede many another deede.
Twelve disciples had he,
Þe best men þat myghte be.
Whan he out of þe erthe went
The Holy Goost he hem sent.
Sexty and ten langages I herd
Þat þei of her maister lered.
He bad hem goon to everych lande,
To prechen his worde þurgh his sonde;
Of all eveles he gaf hem myght,
To helen hem þat bilevede on right;
And þoo þat nolde noght to hem wende
Shull be lorn withouten ende.
Such wondres herde ich never noon,
Þat ever hat ȝifte of man to goon.
For bothe God and man he is;
Þere nys noo God but he, I wys.
Þerfore, sire, bileveth in my sawe,
And all þin hert to hym drawe,
For all þat I say I dar witnesse.
Sire, þis is þi feith, noþur more ny lesse.
I was with hem þat were hym by,
And þus þei tolde me witterly;
And þis lady, þat here stant,
I wil hir take to warant,
For she segh my Lorde Jesus.
Now, dame, I prey the, was it þus?”
Þan seide dame Veroigne at a braide
“I witnes all þat he hath seide.
Ful welle tellen ich it owe
Þat I have Jesu Crist ysawe.
Of grete evell he helede me
(Somtyme I shall telle hit þe)
For love of faith þat I hym dradde;
Þerfore my heele of hym I hadde.
Knele adoun with herte free.
This gode man shall assoille the.”
Whan þis was doon every dell
She took þe vernycle faire and well:
“Þis had I of my Lorde so kynde,
Þat I shulde have hym in mynde.”
Seint Clement went to hym revest
With riche vestiments of þe best.
Tho she bytoke hit sire Clement,
And [he] receyved hit with gode entent;
And all þei knelede hem adoun
Þerto with greet devocioun
Biforn the Kyng sire Vaspasian,
Þat lay full sore seeke þan.
“Sire, þis is like þe Savyour.
With all þi myght doo hym honour!
Bylevest þou þat ich have seide ich dell?”
“ȝe,” quod Vaspasian, “ful well.”
“Kysse þis þan, I bidde þe,
In vertu of þe Trinite,
And hool be þou for evermore!
Stande now up us bifore,
And Lorde God þe blesse most,
Fader, Sone and Holy Goost!”
Whan þe gode man had þus yspoken
Out he gan his lymes streken;
He stoode up all hole toforn hem all,
And as a slough gan from hym fall,
He bicam clene, smethe and mylde,
As the body of a childe.
And when he felde hym hool and clene
Men myght mychell joye þere seene
Of all manere of mynstracye.
And he helde up his hand on hye
And seide “Jesu, I trowe hit well,
Þat ich have herde, every dell;
And certes, Lorde, if þat I live,
To þi service I shall me give.”
Anoon he fell on knees adoun,
With grete wille and devocioun,
Biforn sire Clement, þere he stode,
And þankede hym with mylde mode;
And dame Veroyn he dede alsoo,
Þat from soo fer soo come hym to:
“Preyeth for me, nyght and day,
I wot þat ȝe doon to his pay.
To myn herte ȝour wordes goon,
And ȝoure speches everychon,
For I see by my grete nede
Þat þei arn of noble spede.”
Þus seide his sone and all his men:
“As is bifallen forsothe we ken.
Thoo Naathan come he tolde it us.”
Velocian witnesseth alsoo þus.
Þoo seide Vaspasian “Woo all away,
Þat I ne had my Lorde Jesu say!
Tiberius Cesar, woo þe be!
Þat I am bounden to bidde þe,
Þat Pilat þe false knyght
Slogh þus my Lorde with unright,
Þat þou ne haddest take þat theef
And done hym dye with peynes greef.
Hit semede wel þou were noo man,
Þou soffredest hym soo taken upon.
God wolde noght it shulde bitide.
May I hym see, but he me byde!
Þat I shall vengen hym I am glad,
No better bedes I ne bad.
Well is me þat I shall fight
For such a Lorde and for his right;
A better enprise myght I noon have
Ny noo man, hymself to save.
I thanke it God þat noon biforn
Might doon hit, þat was born,
But he hath grauntede hit to me.
Lorde, yblessede mot þou be!
I prey, Lorde, if it be þi wille,
Graunte me life þis to fulfille,
And I shall hye all þat I may
Þat it were done, nyght and day.
Whan I have doon, and come agayn,
We shull be cristenede as we sayn.”
They toke hym up bytwene her honde,
And made [hym] up toforn hem stonde.
“Dame,” he seide, “if I may spede
I shall aquyte full wel þi mede.
Of what þing þou wilt me crave
Sikerlich þou shalt it have.”
“Sire,” she seide, “saumfaille
I vouchsauf all my travaille,
Þat I have had hider for the;
And al þat þou wilt give me
Now gyve it to þis gode man,
And mikell þanke I the can,
For with hym I wil wone and wende
Ever unto my lives ende.”
Landes and rentes he hem gaf wide,
Clothes, tresour, hors on to ride;
He made her dedes, þat soo speken,
Þat he shulde hem never breken.
Seynt Clement seide “Hereth me!
I rede þat ȝe cristenede be
Sone in hast, and ȝour men alle,
For any chaunce þat may bifalle;
Thyn ost þou may þe sikerer lede,
And þerinne comes þe better spede.”
“Nay,” he seide, “þat wil I noght.
Heere ȝe now what I have thoght:
Doo me come Titus my sone,
And all my folke, þat noon do shone.”
Titus cam his fader to,
And many a greet lordyng alsoo.
“Now, sone,” he seith, “I wil þou swere,
And all my poeple, þat is here,
With me to wenden to Jerusalem
Over þe see, þe grete streem,
To destruyen hem, and all þe stede,
That dede Jesu Criste to deede;
For I ne shall never be right fayn
Till I see þat kynde be slayn.
Þeder to wende we have enchesoun
Sikerlich, and for þis resoun.
Þider we most goon þis gate,
For to wreke us on sire Pilate
For my Lorde Jesu, þat is soo free,
Þat þus faire hath heelede me.
ȝet dede I never þat Lorde fore;
Forthy myn hert is fulle sore.
I were to blame, bothe I and mynne,
If þat we lesen þat wither wynne.
I hote ȝou, þat shall never bityde,
Whil þat I may goon or ride.
Þis other day ne myght I stere,
And now I am hool and fere.
I thonke al God, thurgh whom it was;
I wot he helede me for þis caas,
For his deth shulde vengede be.
I graunte to goon now, what sey ȝe?”
“Sire,” quod Titus, “right soo doo I,
And all þat here ben sikerly.”
Whan þis was grauntede, men mygh[t] see
Bothe songe and play, gamen and glee.
“To haste us hennes I wil sende anoon
To sire Nero, to laten us goon.
All, I prey ȝou, dight ȝou fast,
Þat we were redy, all in hast,
Of men, of armes and of vitaille,
Soo þat us nothynge faille.”
Þan seide he to þe Emperour,
Sire Nero, þat cursede creatour,
By a lettre, as ȝe may see:
“Sire, Vaspasian and Titus greten the.
For grete nede we ben in wille
At Jerusalem to fulfille;
Of a grete vilenye
To vengen us we most hye,
For a trespas þat is us done.
We pray ȝou, ȝeve us leve to goon.
Graunt it us, withouten fayntise,
Þat it be doon in all wise.
Hit shall the torne to profyt
And to noon other maner despit.”
Þe Emperour dede him to say
“Goth, whan ȝe will, ȝoure way,
And on ȝoure-enemys avengeth ȝou,
Soo it be not aȝeynes my prow.”
Þan seide Vaspasian and Titus
“Iblessed be oure Lorde Jesus!”
Als tyt þei made hem ȝare
In her way for to fare.
Seint Clement and dame Veroyn
Were full glad þat þei shulde gone,
And seide “Sire, er þat ȝe goon henne
Graunteþ ȝour pees to Cristen menne.
For Goddes love dooþ hem to wyte
Þat noo man do hem no despite
From þat ȝe goon til þat ȝe come,
But thurgh trespas he soffred dome.”
“Perfay,” quod he, “þat I graunte.
And the, Clement, I shall warant,
Þat þou shalt have large commyssioun
For all þis contre and þis toun.
Alle þat bileven in God almyght
My men shull kepen by day and nyght.
Þou and Veroyn, bothe twayn,
Ne dredeth not til I come agayn.”
Whan þis was criede þurgh þis contree,
Þat holden for siker it shulde be:
“And, sire, kepe wel the clergye,
And al þat þou hast in þi bailly.
Aȝeyn whan I come, at certeyn terme
I shall þe and her state conferme;
I shall comaunde hem þat dwellen here
Þat þou and she over all were.
Pray for us, til we come agayn;
And whan we cometh, for certayn
I wil be cristenede right anoon,
And all my men everychoon.
Prey ȝet for us, þat God us spede,
And haveth now noo more drede.”
“Sire,” he seide, “I am now bolde.
Crist of heven þi lif holde
Right longe, þat I it mot see,
And namely til þat þou cristened be!
And elles hit were a grete rewth,
Sithen ȝe be in wey of trouth.”
“Þurgh Cristes holpe I hope to goon,
To doo þis dede and come anoon.
Al þat I may I wil me rape,
So þat Pilat noght ascape.”
Anoon he dede his shippes dight,
Well a thousand, I þe plyght,
With hym and with his sone alsoo,
An C. thousand men and moo.
Seynt Clement and dame Veroyn
Toward þe see þei gan goon,
Til þei were yshippede all.
Þan Vaspasian to hym can call:
“Blesse us, sir, and lete us goon,
And turneþ bothe agayn anoon.”
“Sire,” he seide, “now God þe save!
And with his blessyng myn ȝe have,
And þe water þat ȝe in wende,
Til þat Crist agayn ȝou seende!”
And sithen þat blessyng dede hem gode,
To all men þat passede the flode,
Þurgh Goddes helpe and seynt Clement,
Sithen ne was noo man ysent.

They drogh up seyll bifore and byhynde,
And God hem sent ful gode wynde,
Soo in sex wekes over þei comen,
And at Acres up þei nomen.
The toun wondrede what þei wore,
And were adrad of hem ful sore.
Þei deden anoon as þei sholde;
Withouten strife þe toun þei ȝolde.
Vaspasianes lefte þere his wardeyn,
And on þe morwen þei went þain.
He went forth into þe londe;
He slogh and brent all þat he fonde,
And dreven forth bestes, with grete route,
Þat þei founden þeraboute.
From Acres þei comen þe firste day
To Japhet, as I ȝou telle may,
And bykeston aboute all þe toun
With many a rich pavyloun.
Þei foghten withouten and withinne;
Þere myght men seen wondres bygynne.
God hem shewede suche chaunce
Agaynes her allers vengeance:
Bothe rayn and hayll, frost and snowe,
And stiff wyndes þat loude gan blowe,
Honger and thurste and grete coolde,
And oþur evels manyfolde.
And Vaspasian with all his oste
Hadden joye, bothe lest and moste,
Of weder, of gamen, grete plente
Of all myrthes þat myghte be;
And soo he had from þat he come
Til he turnede agayn hoom.
Vaspasian þe sege heelde
Full longe, er þat þei wolde hem ȝelde.
Þei withinne dede swere ychoon
Þat þei ne wolde ȝelde hem noon
For nothyng þat myght bifall,
Þouȝ þei beten doun her wall.
Vaspasian swore þat he ne sholde
Þennes, unto þe toun were ȝelde.
Whan þei withinne herde þis oth,
Everych agaynes oþur gooth
With swerdes, speres, knyves ydrawen,
Soo þat icheon oþer slawen,
Þat þere ne lefte man ny wyfe,
But twey knyghtes abiden on life;
Right doghty men þei were bothe,
For nother was with oþur wroothe;
They hadde longe felawes ben,
Þerfore her nother wolde oþur sleen.
Sire Japhell, I wot, hight þat oon;
Of þat oþur name have I noon.
They ȝolden hem to þe kynges socour;
He resceivede hem with grete honour.
He drogh Japhell hym soo nere
Þat he bicome his counsellere;
And for sire Vaspasian was war
Þat he was sybbe to Cesar,
And alsoo of his owne blood,
He seide hym als he understode,
And (for he knewe wel the contree)
His lodesman he bad hym be,
And [he] ful gaynly þan lad hem
Til þei comen to Jerusalem.
He lefte at Jaffe kepers gode
To kepe þe cite, feelde and wode.
Here I may telle ȝou, as ȝe knowen,
How Jhesu ay thenkes on his owen,
Biforn þe tyme of þis wreche
Þus he gan his folke knowleche,
Þat cristenede were in þat contre;
Þei were warnede þennes to flee,
Thurgh þe Holy Goost, for þis vengeance,
But if any wolde stande to his chaunce
(As somme deden, þei lefte stille
All to abide Goddes wille).
The Cristen flowen or ran
Anoon over þe fleem Jordan,
And þere þei dwellede stille and cam
At þe castell yhoten Pelham;
Þere þei helden hem everychon
Til þat þe vengeance were ydoon.
Þe Jewes were trappede and holden inne,
For þei were combrede all with synne.
Þere nys noo gode dede unȝolde,
Ny no wickede be ne shulde.
Þoo Pilat wist þat Jaffe was take,
For tene and drede he gan to whake;
For ay he was in mychel drede,
Sith Velosian from hym ȝede;
For þe wordes þat he had spoken
He wolde have ben in erthe biloken.
He was in soo grete a doute
Þat he sent all aboute,
And bihyght hem grete mede
To come and helpe hym at is nede.
Sire Archelaus cam hym to,
Þat Kynge of Galile was tho
(Herodes sone men dede hym calle,
He þat slogh þe children alle),
With mychel dene and greet boost;
He broght with hym a stronge oste.
And for drede, I wot, alsoo
All þe contree fell hym to,
And every man fled from home,
And to Jerusalem þei come
With wife and childe and all her fee,
Þere in sikernes for to be;
For Vaspasian and all his oste,
Þei slogh and brent by every coste.
Pilate sente tho his aspyes
Sikerly, by fele styes,
For to wyten hym to seye
Where þei comen, and by what weye.
Archelaus and sire Pilate
Riden bothe out atte gate,
With her oste, her horses to prove
If þei were to her byhove.
And ȝet had Pilate noo grace
For to fleen out of þe place
The hard qued þat he shulde have,
Þogh he myght hymself þus save;
For los is better, as it is founde,
In wode þan in toun ybounde.
And soo ferde he by this tresoun,
Whan he fledde agayn to toun.
But God wolde not þat he shulde scape,
But to his bale for to rape;
For he had hym space ylent,
Fourty ȝere, to amendement.
Þan come his aspies hoom,
And tolde hym wel þat þei come,
Þe moost folke þat ever þei seye.
Þan was Pilat in grete affray.
Þoo seide þe Kynge Archelaus
“Sire, þou art maister of us.
I rede þe, sire, be bolde ynogh,
For I dar make þe þis avowe,
Þat þou shalt be soo wel biforn
Of men, of vitailles and of corne,
Þat nothynge shall faille the;
And her borwe dar I wel be
Þat þei ben oures every man.
So mykell I the telle can:
Nothynge but holde us stille
And lete hem comen at her wille.
For fresshe water is þere noon
From hennes to þe fleem Jordan;
For if thei wil hemselfe save
Water fresshe þei most have,
And whan þei seyen þere nys noon
Hoom agayn þei most goon,
For þei arn nothynge ware.
Alle þe lasse it is oure care.
And if þei turne ones þe bak
Þei ben oures, all þe pak.
Hit is all for þe prophetes sake,
Þe sorwe for hym þat þei doo make.
They shull with shame turne agayn,
For þei worchen all in vayn.”
And whan he had is wille þus tolde,
Over þe wall þei gan byholde;
And all þe feelde and eke þe fen
Þei seye bicast aboute with men,
With her baners brode yspred,
Þat all þe citee was adred.
In every wyndowe þei hem biholde.
Anoon her hertes bigan to coolde,
And aukeward her belles roonge.
Þere was houthest of many a tonge;
With horn and mouth þei crieden out,
Þe oste bicast the toun aboute.
Þat was four and xxxti ȝere
Aftur þat Jhesus dyede here.
Withinne þei maden sorwe and care;
Withouten, joye and mychell fare.
Withinne her handes þei gan wrynge;
And þei withouten loude synge.
On Paske day þe seege bigan,
As þe story me telle can.
Vaspasian was tho ful blithe;
He pyght his pavelon als swithe.
And whan þei were pight everychon
He sent aftur sire Japhel anoon.
He seide “Japhell, I wil the telle,
Right here we mot nedes dwelle,
Til we have wonne þis citee,
And have all þat þereinne be.
What is to doon best þou wost,
For þou knowest þis contree moost.
Þerfore, sire, I þe preye
Þat þou take anoon þe weye,
All aboute þis ilke citee,
To ordeigne for myn oste and me,
And loke and caste wat we have nede
Of alle thinges þat may us spede.”
Japhell rydeth by every coost
To ordeigne in araye þe oost.
Aboute þe toun sette þei engynes,
To destruyen all her wynes;
And ofte to þe toun þei caste
And shete with bowes and alblaste,
With tarbarelx and with wildefyre,
With stafslynges and with oþur atyre;
Sonder weyes to hym men made slye,
And berffreys to risen on hye,
Þat þei myght seen into þe toun
What men dede up and doun,
Men of armes þereinne to stande,
To fighten with hem hand by hande;
Laddres of lether and of corde rounde
From þe corners to þe grounde;
And maistres þer were full slye of keste,
To kepen þe spryngals of þe beste;
And many anoþur quaynt engyne
To shenden hem þat were withinne.
Nevertheles, for all þis woo,
Hit was wel lange er it were doo.
Of all þe saute þat was without
Þei withinne ne had noo doute.
Þe citee was soo large withinne
Þat hem ne drede noo maner gynne;
For to hem ne raght no cast,
But of quarell and of alblast,
Til all þe subarbes of þe toun
To þe grounde were cast adoun,
And swept all clene over all
Into þe bare toun wall;
Þan bigan her woo withinne,
And her folke fast to thynne.
ȝet last þe seege seven ȝere,
With michel drede and grete awere,
For all þat Goddes men myght doo,
But for to lengthe her pyne soo.
Þoo Japhel had doon, he come agayn.
“My lorde,” he seide, “I wil the sayn,
Thurgh, þin oste, by Cristes myght,
Þi men ben alle wel ydight;
But of oo thyng I have grete þoght,
For water fressh ne have we noght.
But I have cast by my skyle
Where to fecche it and ȝe wil.”
Þan seyde Vaspasian hym too
“Alsoo þou wilt, I wyl right soo.”
“Sire,” quod Japhell, “þis is my reed,
How men shull oure water leede;
For fressh water nere nys noon,
Þan hennes to þe fleem Jordan.
For[þi] we shull slee oure pray,
Þat we tooke by the way,
Horses, asses, oxen and kyne,
Mules, cameles and grete swyne;
Many a thousand we have ybroght.
Of hem, I telle ȝou, in my thoght,
I shall doon sewen þe hydes fast
With stronge seemes, þat wil last,
And doo sowden every skyn,
For to lede oure water in.
Of somme we shull bulges make,
And somme skynnes we shull take,
And overcasten all þe vale
Of Josophat, þat depe dale,
And þus in her valey we shall fonde
To doon oure watur to withstonde.
Foure hundreth somers, if I may,
Shull fecche us water every day,
Alwey til þe valey be hilde
And with our water soo fulfilde.”
And whan he had seyde alle sone
He lefte not til hit were done.
He let make pipes many oon
In every side, out for to goon
The olde water þat was astonde.
Þer come ay newe to her hande;
Þat þurgh þe oste eche man and best
Had ynogh, both mest and lest.
This come hym of a nobell wyt,
To do water stande withouten pyt.
Thurgh ordeynance gode and wys
Make men ofte to wynne þe prys.
But all was doon with Goddes wille,
For to make þe Jewes spille.
Þoo þei withinne þe water sawe
Stonden soo fulle in þat lowe,
Mikel wonder was hem amonge
How þe water þere outspronge.
Þei ran to Pilate and hym tolde;
And he went þider to byholde,
And with hym went Archelaus
And þe gode clerc Josephus.
Þan seide þei all thre
“Whethen may þis water be?”
Þan spake þis maister Josephus:
“Messias he is wroth with us.
Þei have is helpe, I am wel ware.
For late now was þis place bare;
Of fressh water nere was noon,
Þan is the fleem of Jordan.
I not whennes it cometh, ny how,
But þurgh þe prophetes vertewe.”
Þan unswarede sire Archelaus
Anoon to sire Pilatus:
“Sire,” he seyde, “be not aferd
For noght þou hast seide ny herd,
But kepe þe in þis citee stille,
And þou shalt have all þi wille.”
And as þei stode and out byhelde,
Vaspasian stode there in the felde.
He sogh hem on the walles goon
Up and doun full gode woon;
And sire Japhell stode hym by,
And sire Velosian witerly,
Þat of Pilate was sounest war
How þat he his mace bare
Over his werkemen þat wroghten
And þe walles þorghout soghten.
Tho seide Velosian “Sire, I see
Þat is Pilate, soo þenketh me.
Speketh to hym, sire, I þe pray,
For to assayen what he wil say.”
Vaspasian lokede up to þe wall,
And to Pilate he gan call:
“Þou Pilate,” he seide, “speke with me.
I am þi lorde, as þou may see;
And þat I shall doo þe for to knowe,
If þat I may liven a throwe.
Loke out, traitour, with þin eye,
And aknowe þi vilenye,
And all þat þiself has doon
Agaynes Jhesu and hisen ychone;
And alsoo þou dedest us outrage
To withholden oure truage.
For þou art Jesus traitour and myn
Þou shalt have þe more pyne.”
ȝet was not sire Vaspasian
Pilates lorde, ny he his man;
But soo he dede to maken hym dred,
If he myght þe better have sped.
Nevertheles for siker in þat ȝere
Pilat come into his daungere.
Pilate ne unswared right noght.
He was agrevede in his thoght.
And Vaspasian was grevede þo
Þat he nolde not speke hym to.
Þoo seide Vaspasian þus
To þe Kynge Archelaus:
“By all þinges þou art forsworn;
Þi fader Heraud also biforn.
Þou aghtest better to be with me
Þan þerinne, þere I the see.
Þi fader dyede in sorwe ynogh,
For he all þe children slogh
Whan Jesus Crist here was born;
For he wolde hym have forlorn.
And þou art soo now in wille,
Þiself þerinne for to spille.
Þi fader diede in peyne stronge;
And so shalt þou, er oght longe,
Be þou and Pilate not ful bolde.
Þat I have seide, I wil hit holde.”
But all þat he seide, þei toke it in vayn,
And Vaspasian tho went agayn.
Archelaus seide to sire Pilate
“Þis Kynge, to us he hath grete hate.”
“ȝe,” quod Pilate to Archelaus,
“Hit semeth he wil be wreken on us.
To be fel hym cometh of kynde,
And þat, I drede, we shul fynde.
He is of Cesar kynde, I wys;
Of þe more felonye he is.
And þat he bihoteth, he wil byholde.
He wil not leve for hoot ny colde.”
Quod Archelaus “Ne have noo drede!
Michell is bytwen worde and dede.
Þis holde is stronge ynogh aboute.
Þogh he us threte, ȝet is he oute.
Make he nevere soo mykel adone,
ȝet cometh he not in soo sone.
But goo we to þe wall agayn,
And doo þou as I shall þe sayn:
Take up a flour upon þe wall,
And to Vaspasian fast call,
And sey to hym, þat all isee:
‘Batayll, sire, I wage to þe.’”
Sire Pilat went with hert glad,
And dede as Archelaus hym bad.
Þoo he had seide what he wolde,
Vaspasian gan to byholde,
And seide “Pilate, I hit take.
Þis wed nyl I not forsake.
Such a shame I bihote þe,
Þat þou shall dyen but þou flee.
Sorwe have he, þat ȝou spare!
Myn engynours, make ȝou ȝare!
Kythes nowe all þat ȝe beth myne,
For Jesus love to doon hem pyne.
Loketh þat þei ne have noo rest,
And lete now Pilate doon his best;
For, soo Jhesu Crist me save,
I shall not leve til I hym have,
If God wil grante me lif þerto.”
And all his freendes seiden alsoo:
“Be þei withinne nevere soo stronge,
Þat we ne shull dwelle also longe
Til we have wreken þe grete wronge
Þat Jesu soffrede hem amonge.”
He comandet to trompen anoon,
To arme is men everychoon.
Into þe toun þei shoten and cast,
And slowen men withinne fast.
Þei foghten soo til hit was nyght,
Þat hem wantede daies lighte.
[And happeliche a quarel drouȝ]
And a pore knave it slogh,
Þat went and pleide in the strete;
And he was holden a prophete
Of all þe Jewes of þe lawe,
For many wondres, for many sawe.
Vaspasian hem longe assailede,
But litell ȝet it hym availlede.
Nevertheles mony of hem þei slogh,
And deden withinne sorwe ynogh.
Hit was withinne þe fifte ȝere;
From Rome þere cam a messager,
Als he at þe sege lay
At þat tyme, aȝeynes his pay,
And broght worde to Vaspasian
Þat Nero was deed, þe cursede man,
Þat was Emperour of Rome:
“And all her counseill þei have nome.
Upon þe, sire, is gyven þe dome
Þat þou most nedes þider come;
For all þei have chosen the
For to bere the dignitee.
Sire, take not þis worde in vayn,
For þou most wende and come agayn.”
He went hym forth, lyst hym not shone,
And lefte þere stille Titus his sone.
Suche joye gan Titus to undertake,
Þat hym toke a cardiake,
For his fader[s] grete honour,
Þat he shulde ben Emperour.
With overdoon joye cometh þat woo;
With overdoon sorwe it most goo,
As ȝe mown heren in a stounde,
Þare Josephus sithen was founde.
Whan all þoo þat were in Rome
Wyst of Vaspasianes come,
Þei riden and ran hym agayn,
Kyng, erle, baron, knyght and swayn.
Þei coronede hym þere Emperour
With solace, fest, and grete honour.
Þei coronede hym, in his palays,
In the gyse of Sarazenys;
But afturward seint Clement
Confermede his coronement.
He gladede his freendes everychon.
To Jerusalem he went anoon,
For hym þoght ful longe at Rome,
Til þat he were agayn ycome.
And soo he dede, I telle it þe,
With hidous oste and grete plente.
Hereth now, lordinges efte,
For I mot telle þere y lefte,
Of þe knave, the prophete,
Þat was slayn in þe strete.
Þoo Jacob of þis knave herde
Unto Pilate anoon he ferde.
“Sire,” he seide, “now is bifalle
(I wene we shall seen it alle)
Þat þis Jew seide us to,
Thrytty wynter gon and moo,
Þat þis citee shulde be lorn,
And all þat þerinne were born.
For now I wot hymself is slawe,
Wel þe better I leve his sawe.
I rede þou doo, sire, after me,
And ȝeelde up swythe þis citee;
For ever þe lenger þat we abide
Þe more shame us wil bitide.”
Þis was Jacob, þe gode man,
Þat herbared sire Velosian,
As hit telleth herebifore.
But Pilate was agrevede sore,
And seide “On þe I shall be wroken
For þe wordes þat þou hast spoken;
For thurgh þe counseill of hym and þe
I leve þat all þis sorwe be.
Velosian and þou, þat ȝere,
ȝe kesten þis, þoo he was here.
He spake to me woordes smerte;
Þei comen not sithen out of myn herte.
And if I may, I shall þe sette
Þat nevere freende ne shall þe fette.”
He dede fetren hym ful fast,
And in such a stede hym cast,
And swore he shulde þere lye
Withouten mete til þat he dye;
And in þat ilke foule dongeon
Þere he lay sperede in prison.
Whan Mary his doghter hit wist,
Þat she hir owne fader myste,
Anoon she seide þis oresoun
To Jesu Crist, Goddes sone:
“Lorde,” she seide, “now here me,
If hit, Lorde, thy wille be.
Als wys as I the soghte
With þat oynement þat I broght
Until þi toumbe, þere þou lay:
If hit were until þi pay
Þat ich dede þat ilke dede,
Hereth me now at þis nede.
Þou helpe my fader als wys
Out of þe sorwe þat he inne is;
And als wys as he lovede þe,
I prey þat he unbounden be.”
Whan she had seide þis oresoun,
God sent anoon an aungell doun,
And come to Jacob, þere he seete,
Þat for sorwe sore gan grete.
“Jacob,” he seide, “come with me.
My Lorde wil þat it soo be.
Take to þe comfort and solace,
And thanke Jesu of his grace.”
He toke hym out of þat prisoun,
And ledde hym forthe without þe toun,
And bad he shulde noo man drede:
“Goo, farewel, there God þe spede.”
Tho Jacob þanked God anoon,
Þat he felde hym louse to goon,
Faire on knees, with bothe honde,
Þat lousede hym out of is bonde.
Toward þe oste he toke is way,
Soo þat Velosian hym say,
And seide “Sire Emperour, I see
Jacob my freend, as semeth me.
Now, sire, I wot it is he right,
Ithanked it to God almyght.”
Þei welcomede hym faire and well,
And of his fare askede everydell;
And he anoon hem tolde þe case,
Of the Jewes how it was,
And how he was doon in prisoun;
And how he cam out of þe toun.
Þei thanked God all þe wise,
Þat soo þenketh upon hise.
Tho seide Velosian to Jacob right
“Sire, wost þou what I the bihight,
At nede þat I shulde be þi freende,
As I shulde hoomward wende,
Whan þe Jewes her tales tolde
How Jesu þei slogh and soolde?
As þei be worthy, þei shull have.
No kynnes tresour shall hem save.
We owe to doon þe grete honour,
And namely my lorde þe Emperour
(Thurgh Goddes helpe and counseill þin
He is askapede mychel pyne),
As on my bihalf I thanke the
For greet honour þou dedest to me.
If my lord were helede, I þe hight
To brynge hym hider with michel myght.
Loke hym here, as þou hym bad.
Sire, thanke Jacob and make hym glad,
For þou art gretely holden þerto.”
I plyght þe Emperour dede alsoo:
He seide “Jacob, þou getest honour,
And þe Jewes sorwe ful sour.
I see hem falleth michel shame
Þat þus bilokede Goddes grame.
God is with us, and hem agayn;
All þat þei doon, it is in vayn
(Such is myn hope and myn bihest).
Heres is þe travaill, oures is þe rest.”
The Emperour of hym was glad,
And preide Jacob and hym bad
Þat he tolde hym som resoun
How he myghte best wynne þe toun.
“Forsothe,” quod Jacob, “and I shall.
Doo make a diche aboute þe wall,
Soo þat noo man away ne flee
But if all þe ost hym see;
And do hit palace by the brynke
Right hegh and stronge in all þinge.
I wil myself þerover be
Til hit be doon, I bihete it þe.
Fyndeth me werkemen and cost þerto.
I shall not leven til it be doo.”
The Emperour seide “Graunt mercy,
I graunte it þe, wel sikerly,
All þinges þat þou wilt have;
Tymber, water, man and knave.”
Þan þe Emperour sende is sonde
For dikers þurghout þat londe,
And bade ȝeve everiche to his pay
Foure pens upon the day;
Every maister twey shelynges had.
So he comandet and bad.
Whan þe dike was made everydel,
Hit paide þe Emperour ful wel.
Alsoo Jacob dede þan make
Twey charnelx for þe ostes sake,
For to bury hem in þat stede
All þe folke þat þere were dede,
Þat [t]he quike dyede not for hem.
And soo þei dede in Jerusalem;
Nevertheles þere were charnelx two
In middes þe citee alsoo.
But þan þe Jewes lokede out,
And sawe þe diche made hem aboute,
Wel mychel sorwe he myght have seen,
Whoso had withinne ben.
Anoon þe Jewes everichone
Token her reed what to done.
Þurgh þe counseill of Archelaus,
Barabas, and eke Josephus,
They seiden to Pilate her avys:
“For us is fairere and more pris
To fighten with hem þerout, I gesse,
Þan for to ben here in distresse.
Fairer it is for us on hem dye
Þan here as cowardes for to lye.”
Þei putten plankes overe the dike
Alle by nyght ful privelike.
Pilate anoon dede hym out
With xxx.ti thousand in a route
And L. thousand men on fote
To helpen hym þe toun to bote.
Þere was swithe stronge metyng,
With speres and swerdes kene kervyng,
As we in story of hem rede.
On either party greet folk was dede,
Ac with þe Emperour þe felde bylefte.
Fourtene thousand he hym byrefte;
All þe opur þei made to flee
Agayn hoom to her citee.
And all þe whiles þat þei foghte
God lengthede þe day, as hem thoght.
Maister Josaphus was woundet þore,
Þat noble clerc, swithe soore.
He couth moost, in dede and sawe,
Of all þat fel to Jewes lawe.
But oon thyng wel helpe hym than,
Þat he was a prive Cristen man,
And for his kynde was not soo,
Þerfore was hym wonder woo;
Þere often he hem bysoght,
But þerof, I wot, ne sped he noght.
Whan þese Jewes seyen þis fare,
Þan had þei sorwe and grete care
Þat þei soo overcomen were;
And alsoo such hanger hem gan dere
That þe stronge the febell ete,
The gres, the erthe under her fete,
And her owne donge alsoo.
Hors and hounde þei lete noon goo,
Ni other best þat ran on fete,
And ychon bi lote oþer ete.
Whan two ȝere were all agoo,
Þat to þe seege gan come þis woo,
Þurghout þe toun bigan to faille
Of all manere of vitaille,
Soo þat þe strengre slogh oþer;
Þe fader þe sone, systour þe brother;
Men and wymmen her children ete,
And yche man oþer by every strete.
A riche lady of þat contre,
Of large landes and eke of fee
(Mary she hight sikerly,
A Cristen womman prively),
She had acoyntance in Jerusalem,
And þerfore she þider cam:
A gode lavedy þat she dede knowe,
With whom she thoght to dwell a throwe.
Dame Clary was þe wommanes name,
Of gode vertues, of holy fame.
Þei liveden þere togeder longe,
Til þis woo bifell soo stronge.
Oþer werk couthe þei noon werke
But dwellande mychel in holy chirche
And ligge þere in afflictiones,
In penance and in oresones;
Soo hit byfell, what more or lesse,
Þei were bothe broght in grete distresse;
For defaut of mete and drynke
Þei dyen moost of alle thynge,
Hem ne was noo liflode left,
But all forrobbet and forrefte.
This Mary had a doghtur dere,
Þat for hunger dyede þere,
For whom she made michel sorwe,
Bothe on even and on morwe.
Hemself soo grete honger had
Þat wel negh honger made hem mad.
“Ete we now þis childe anoon
For the hongre þat is us on.”
“Nay,” quod Mary, “þat wil I noght.
Er wolde I dye in my thoght.
Our Lorde God, þat is soo hende,
Of his grace he may us sende.
Be we not for þis sory!
Hit stande us to purgatory.
Soo shall all, þat wel bileve,
Þat noo woo ne shall hem greve.”
In þis talkyng right as þei sat,
Jesu Crist hem noght forgat.
An aungell come from heven shene,
As God hym sent hem bitwene,
And seide to hem “Leteth þis strife.
All þat ȝe may, holde ȝe ȝoure life.
Mary, loke þat þou doo
As Clarice here seide þe to.
God wil it soo, er þan ȝe dye,
To fulfillen the prophecie
Þat speketh of þis, by wey and strete
Þat wymmen shulde her children ete.
Gryccheth ȝe noght to fulfille
All þat is to Goddes wille.
Þogh ȝe dyen in þis nede,
Heven blisse shall be ȝour mede.”
Whan þe aungell had speke þis sawe,
Agayn to heven he gan hym drawe.
Þei put þe childe upon a spite
Agaynes a fuyre to roosten hit,
And deden als þis aungell hem bad;
They ete þerof, and made hem glad.
As Pilate sat in his tour,
Of roost he had a grete savour.
Whare it was anoon was soght;
He bad hit shulde be to hym broght.
Þei went and fonde where it was,
And come and tolde hym all þe caas.
And whan þei had tolde hym þis sawe,
Þan was Pilate nothyng fawe.
And then þe Jewes þider ronne,
Upon his erand they bygonne,
And her liflode bare hem froo.
Þan þese wymmen had mych woo,
And bilefte in mychel drede,
For noo more store þei ne had at nede.
But Pilat ne had hunger noon,
Þogh his vitailes were all goon,
Ny noon of þe oþur grete,
Þogh þe pore dyeden for mete;
For they had þe noble stones
Of vertu upon hem for þe nones,
[For whenever on hem they deden loke
Heore lyst was fyllyd, as seyth the boke;]
And þat made hem live soo longe,
Til al þe poeple hem amonge
Ne myght noo lenger soffre þat fare.
As God hit ordeynede, þoo com her care.
Tho Pilate in the toun dede crye,
And forbede þat vilany,
Þat noo man ne shulde noo more eten
In þat wise her bigeten;
But golde and silver eten he bad
To alle þoo þat any had.
And soo þei eten her tresour all,
Bothe hewen and kerven it small,
And in som stede it is yfounde
Þat þei eten her tresour ygrounde.
ȝet they diede many oon,
By every strete wel gode woon,
For hit was no kyndely fode,
Soo þat in no stede it hem stode.
But to hem alle it was vile,
Whan the toun was ȝoulde þat while;
For to have out þe tresour
Men dede hem pyne wel þe more.
Yche oþur man his neghbour ete,
As for deynte þei helde hit swete;
The wif þe husband, þe husband þe wife,
Þat everyche byrefte oþer life;
Somme with teth oþer to-gnowe,
And somme with hondes oþur drogh.
Soo thicke þei dyeden, by strete and weye,
For stynke of dede men þere þei leye;
And of þe comyn raunsoun
Þei buryede þe bodyes of the toun.
And whan hem failede of her tresour,
Þan were þei buryede noo more,
But þan were þei leide on hepes, all
Þat for hongre deed gan fall;
So þat þe stynke þe toun fulfillede
Of careynes þat lay unhelede;
Þat fader and moder, syster and brother
Dyede, þat noon myght bury oþur.
But sithen, whan þe toun was take,
Titus michel mone gan make,
For the poeple soo thicke lay
On hepes ded by every way.
Adoun he fell wel sone on knee:
“Lorde, forȝeve my fader and me,
For þurgh us lye þei not deed,
But for her owne feble reed.
Hadde þei erst hem ȝolden to us,
Ne shulde þei noght have leyn þus.”
Somme right deed liggeand þei fonde,
Bityng her hosen and shoon in honde;
And þerby he wist right anoon
Þat for honger þei dede echon.
Diches he dede make and bylde
Þan for the bodyes of man and childe.
Pilate anoon his counseill toke.
For grete drede soore he qwoke.
Þei seide to hym “We rede þe
Lete ȝeelde up swithe þis citee.
Þis, us thynketh, is al for our best;
In hit shul we never have rest.”
“Nay,” quod Pilate, “þis is my reed.
I wot þer nys noo way but deed;
ȝet we shull awhile abide,
For to seen what wil bytide.
Þis lordes dyen, þat ben withoute,
Or elles we, in myddes her route;
Þan thar us care ful litell all
On whether side soo it fall.
Oþur we wil doon as I shall seye,
To sechen us helpe another weye.
Doo what we wil hem gyve,
Þat we may dwelle still and live.”
Herto þei grauntede everychon,
And casten all how þei wolde doon.
Þe whiles þat þei casten soo,
Þe Emperour seide to Jacob “Goo
And speke to somme of þat citee,
And loke what governance perinne be,
And loke wheþur þei wil ȝelde þe toun
For to come out of her prisoun.
For þei have not al her wille;
I trowe for hunger somme do spille.
Goo now sone, for weten I wolde
Wherto we shulden us holde.
Þei ben streyt bystad in every strete.
Þei have hunger, and we have mete.
Seye hem þei come and ȝeelde us to,
For atte last þei shull doon soo.”
Tho Jacob wente to þe wall,
A Jewe he sawe, he gan hym call:
“Clepe me,” he seide, “þere Josephus,
Bid him come and speke with us.”
He went forth and broght hym swithe.
Jacob of hym was ful blithe,
And he of hym was blithe alsoo.
Quod Josephus “Hou come þou us fro?”
He tolde hym þan, all as it was;
And he seide “Deo gracias!”
“What,” quod Jacob, “art þou Cristiene?”
“ȝe, felawe,” he seide, “wilt þou listene?
I am a privy Cristen man,
And my feith ful wel I can
To love Crist right wel y owe,
And þat I am to the aknowe.
Þis oþer day, thoo we outnam,
Whan ȝe all us overcam,
I was woundet þere ful sore,
Þat I was negh deed þerfore;
And þurgh þe miracle of Jesu
I am waxen wel ynowe.
My fader and moder I have tolde
To turnen, and þei ne wolde;
And þat I ne may come þerto,
Certes, Jacob, me is full woo.”
“ȝe,” quod Jacob, “holde þe stille,
And þou shalt have all þi wille.
I shall be fore þe, if I can,
To my lorde sire Vaspasian,
And for all þoo þat cristened be;
Whan all is doon þou shalt it see.
Say me nowe, hou ȝe fare withinne,
And whanne we shull þis toun wynne?”
“Mafay,” he seide, “I dar þe seyn,
For thicke our folke gynne to dyen,
And for the stynke, þat cometh hem froo,
Herinne þei dyen wel þe moo.
And þerfore we have doon make
In myddes þe toun a greet lake;
And evermore, as þei deed doun falle,
Þereinne sone we cast hem all.”
“Perfay,” quod Jacob, “and so do we;
And þat was,” he seide, “first þurgh me:
Þis diche, with þe hye paleys,
And ȝonder two hye charneys.
Me thynketh þei doon a grete foly
To holden aȝeynes God and our partye.
And ȝet I hope atte last
To wynnen þis toun þurgh my cast.
As Pilate seide inmyddes þe toun,
Þoo he dede me in depe prisoun,
Þat I and Veroigne, wel goode spede,
Haden procurede all þis dede,
Forsothe he ne gabbed right noght;
I wene þerto it wil be broght.
Forsoth, my brother Josephus,
I wisshed þat it shulde be thus,
And dame Veroigne, þe gode womman.
Bifore the steward Velocian
I made þat dame Veroigne ȝede,
To beten þe Emperoures nede.
Forþi I am with hym prive;
Soo hope I ȝet þat þou shalt be.
Soo helpe me Crist, as I am glad
Þat hit shall be alsoo he bad.
For the Emperour was wonder seke,
And wende to have dyede eke;
And God hath helede hym, þurgh his grace,
For to doon him sechen þis place.
He wil all þe Jewes shende
Er þan he wil hennes weende.
He wil never leve þis toun
Til he have beten hit adoun.
Thou myght seen, it is Goddes wille
ȝoure vengeance in ȝou to fulfille;
By many tokenes men may see,
And þou wilt bithenke þe.
Alle þoo þat ben hereinne
Ben acombrede in foule synne,
But it be any Cristen wyght
Be late comen to God almyght;
And for thei wil noo mercy crave,
I byhote þe wel, þei shul noon have,
Neyther of God, ny of man,
Ny of my lorde sire Vaspasian,
For he and Titus his sone, bothe
With all þe Jewes þei ben so wrothe
Þat othe þei maden, þei wil not breken,
To leven þe seege til þei be wreken.
Þerfore, y prey the, seye me sone
What þei þenken for to done:
Wheþur þei wil þe toun helde,
Oþur hastelich up hit ȝelde?”
Josephus hym unswared ful stille:
“Jacob, hit was not last her wille
Þat þei wolde alle doon soo,
Whan I come to þe hem fro.
I wot forsothe, I byhote the,
Hit dureth not longe, thynketh me.
Leef me were þat we were out,
For we liven in much doute.
I wene þei casten to maken gree,
If þei mowe, with any fee.
Prey for us, and be us fore,
Þat noo Cristen be forlore.
For had þi lorde Vaspasian
Ymade hymself a Cristen man,
And his sone, with all his oste,
Er þou come hider, wel þou wost
For hym, hit had ben sikernesse,
Þan had we ȝolden, more and lesse.
ȝet is us lever to dye hereinne
Þan ȝelde us to a Sarazyne.
But [we] holde us ful worthy more,
Til nede drive us to soffre sore.
Farewel, Jacob, my leve brother,
ȝe shall weten oon or other.
God of heven with þe be,
And all þat ever cristened be!”
Sone to þe Emperour he gan goo;
Worde for worde he tolde hym soo.
And þan unswarede þe Emperour:
“Sone hope I scapen þis errour.
By these wordes now I see
In haste þei shull ȝolden be.
Jacob, wake we what we may!
Hit neȝheth negh her terme day.”
Josephus come þe Jewes unto:
“Lordynges,” he seide, “what wil ȝe doo?
Vaspasian and Titus his sone,
For wrath leve þei, ne cone,
Til þat þei han wreken her tene,
And þat shall newely be on us sene;
Soo mykel I wot, sire Pilate,
As I it have aspyede late.
I cannot seen noo weye but oon,
Þat we ne be deed everychon.
Loke what all oure folke wil say,
And doo we right as I ȝou prey;
For þei of þe communalte
Felen þis woo more þan we.”
A crye was made, þe folke come all,
Bothe þe grete and þe small.
Pilate seide “What rede ȝe now?
For we doon us all up ȝowe.”
The poeple biforn him kest a cry
Ful ruwefull and ful grisely,
And seide “Feirer it were to dye,
Þan þus soo longe here to lye.”
And som seiden hem amonge
“We ben here spered all to longe.
We dyen here in grete distresse;
And þat is for oure wickednesse,
And for we deden Messias to dye,
Hit is his wille we shul abye.
And [þat] shewen þe Romaynes well,
Þat struyen us and oures everydell.
Somtyme was, we seiden soo,
Þat þe Romaynes shulde þus doo,
Þan we and all our kynde ran
For to destruye þat gode man.
By this we may knowe and see
Þe tyme is comen hit shall soo be.
Hit semeth þat Messias may fulfille
Of all þinges to doon his wille;
For noo lenger, with noo maner gynne,
Mown [we] lasten for our synne.
He sheweth wel þat he is God almyght.
We dede as foles with hym to fyght.
We biddeth hym mercy al to late,
And þou alsoo, sire Pilate.
Therfore lat us all out goon,
To enden all oure sorwe anoon.”
And ȝet þei seide hem amonge
“Better is short sorwe þan longe.
To sleen eche oþur fairer it is
Þan ȝeelde us up and fare amys.”
Þoo .xj. thousand leten her life,
As ech slogh oþur with his knyffe;
And for the stynke þat of hem cam
Ful mony of hem þe deth þere nam.
Þan þei crieden, all at a cry,
To Jesu Crist þat sit on hye:
“Agaynes ȝou, Lorde, we have mysdoon,
Þat such a wrech cometh us on.
Now mowe we seye, as he dede,
Whan he towards þe croys ȝede:
He bad us [not] wepen for his peyne,
But for oure [self] and for oure kynne.
We may waryen in our thoght
Hym þat us forthe broght.
We aghte for to bidde and wille
Þat þe hilles wolde us hille,
Þat we ne seyen þis vengeance all,
If it so now myght byfall.
We may waryen all oure kynde
For þe sorwe þat we fynde.
We þat be now abye it sore,
Þat þei wroghten us bifore.
Withouten ende mot þei have care,
Þat maketh us so evell to fare!
Now is comen, þat he us hight.
Ageyn our wronge he doth us right.
Forþi, Pilate, ȝeelde up þis toun,
And delivere us of our prisoun;
Or we shull þe smertely take,
And all þe grettest, for þi sake,
And we ourself shall ȝelde þis citee,
Howsooever of us be.
Of þis avise the, sire Pilate,
Oþur elles þou shalt bewar to late,
For we ne may no lenger liven.
Hye þe, þat it were up ȝeven.”
Whan Pilate segh þis, and Josephus
And Barabas and Archelaus,
Þei and þe poeple wenten alle,
And on þe Emperour þei gan to calle:
“Have mercy on us, sire Emperour,
And take us, sire, to þi socour!
The tyme is comen, as we þe telle,
Þat we ne mowe noo lenger dwelle.
We han doon alle þat we may.
Of vij ȝere þis is þe last day.
And þerfore, sire, we the pray,
Whether shull we live or dye?”
The Emperour þis wordes herde;
With mykel joye forth he ferde.
Als swithe he gan doun falle
On [his] knees, biforn hem alle,
And seide “Welcome be Goddes sonde!
For he is Lorde in þis londe.
Now I see he wil fulfille
Þat I shall have al my wille.”
He roos and spake to hem all:
“Hereth now, what shall ȝou fall,
Þat ȝe shul heren speken and see.
Noo mercy shull ȝe fynde in me;
For ȝe slewen, in þis stede,
Jhesu Crist in his manhede.
Without alle maner of gylte
ȝe demede hym to ben yspilte.
And evermore rewen it I owe;
Ne had ȝe ben, I had hym sowe.
ȝe have yfailede of his grace;
So shull ȝe of myn in þis place.
All myn wille I have ȝou tolde,
Wherto ȝe shall ȝou holde.”
Þan seide þe Kynge Archelaus
“Sire Emperour, shal hit be þus?”
He gan to rippe a gap wide
Adoun evenlonge aftur his side;
Anoon his swerde out he drogh,
And þeron hymself he slogh.
He fell doun deed, toforn hem all,
Into þe dike over the wall.
“Forsothe,” seide the Emperour,
“Sire Archelaus was a traitour;
Forþi on suche dethe he stervede,
As he hath of right deservede.
Goo buryeth hym” he seide “up all þinge
With honure, for he was a Kynge.”
Pilat and alle wente adoun
To oon gate of þe toun,
And oute at þe gate þei wende.
He toke þe keyes in his honde.
The gate was open in þat cost
Þat Titus lay with his ost,
Whan þe toun shulde be ȝolde and take.
In þe prees he gan out shake,
Josephus, with many a man,
Into þe citee of Jonoporam,
For to ascapen al the woo
Þat to þe [Jewes] was ordeynede þoo.
Þe Emperour wist þis on hast;
And sone, I wot, he was bicast
With armede men, with many wepen,
Bothe nyght and day þat toun to kepen.
And Josephus strongelich he stode,
Er þat he wolde shede his blode,
To þe Emperour sir Vaspasian,
For he ne was noo Cristen man.
But I am siker, at þe last
The Emperour smot hym soo fast
Þat þe sege he let stille be;
With elleven felawes he gan to flee
Under the erthe, in[to] a cave,
Hem to socour and to save.
And whan her vitailles were goon
His felawes seiden everychon
“Sire, þus we may not longe lye;
We dwelle here, we shul dye.
Everyche of us shall oþer ete
Atte last, for nede of mete.
Maister, at þe we wil bigynne,
For þou art moost maister hereinne.
Þan we shull have the lefe reward
Of hem þat levede afterward.”
Josephus unswared as a man
Ful coyntelich, as nede was than:
“Nay, it wil not wel be soo.
Castest cut, bitwix two and two,
Which of us shal oþer ete,
And whech we shall on live lete.
Hoolde ȝe all,” he seide, “to this?”
“ȝe,” þei seide, “forsoth,” y wys.
Þus ech of hem oþer name,
Til hit to Josephus cam
Þat þe cut shulde falle upon.
Dye he shulde right anoon;
But God wolde [not] he dyede þan,
For his wyt helpede many a man.
His fere gan his swerde to drawe,
Josephus to have yslawe.
But Josephus [þat] sotiel was,
Segh þat he was in a caas;
He leepe on hym also he cam,
And his swerde he hym bynam.
The same doom he hym gafe
Þat he shulde hymselfe have.
And þan he lefte þere aloone;
So þat he come out anoone,
With his swerd in his honde,
And to the Emperour he wonde.
Þoo þe Emperour to hym drogh,
And seide “Felawe, what art þou?”
He seide “Sire, I hat Josephus,
Þat wroot þe story amonges us
Of all þat evere ywriten men fynde
Amonges the Jewes and her kynde.”
Þe Emperour seide “Þou art a spye.
Þou shalt be bounden til þou dye,
For methynketh þou seist amys.
If þou haddest doo soo, y wys,
Why nadest þou warnede hem to save
For the harmes þat þei shull have?”
“Sire,” seide Josephus hym to,
“On tho þat lyven ȝet ich it doo.
Þat y warnede hem of þis caas,
Feele ȝeres her þan it was,
And of her bokes I take witnesse
[Þat I have writen so, I gesse.”]
The bokes of þe lawe þei con echoon,
And other men þat livede, many oon;
And alle þei witnesse, in þat stede,
Þus Josephus hath writen and sede.
Þan spake Jacob for hym thore:
“All þat he seith y wil be fore.”
Thoo seide sire Vaspasian
“Josephus, art þou a Cristen man?”
“ȝe, sire,” he seide, “sikerly.
But I have hit borne prively.”
Right anoon he was unbounde.
He thankede hym þat i[l]che stounde.
And seide “Sire, if þou loke,
ȝet shalt þou fynde in þi boke
Þat I seide þin was þe honour
Of Rome to ben Emperour,
Fourty daies er hit bifell,
And how sire Titus forȝede his hele.
And þurgh þe counseill of me
I hope þat hool he shal be.”
Þan wex þe Emperour ful glad,
And seide “Þan have y þat I bad.”
And seide “Maister Josephus,
I ne wolde forgoo my sone Titus,
And I myght his life to save,
For noo thynge þat I myght have.
Ful mikell honour þe shall be gyven,
If þou myght helpen hym to lyven.”
“Sire,” he seide, “have ȝe noo drede.
I hope full well þat we shul spede.”
Þei broghte him to Titus swithe;
Of his comyng he was blithe.
Whan Titus had herde his fadres sawe,
To Josephus he gan hym drawe,
And lovede and levede hym sithen moost,
Save his fader, of all þe oost.
On a day he seide to Josephus
“Whan shall be doon þat þou hight us?”
“Sire,” he seide, “tomoru day
Hit shal be doon, if þat I may.”
“Come tomorwe and ete with us þan.”
“I shall be redy, if þat I can,
In forward þat þou ne wrath þe
With what man I brynge with me;
And I shall come in þis covenante.”
“Perfay,” quod he, “all þis I graunte.”
Josephus to his þoght gan cast,
And soo avisede hym at þe last:
“With a joy come his evell, perfay,
And with a sorwe it most away.”
Anoon he made to aspye þan
If þere were [evere] any man
That Titus had hatede stronge,
And þe wrath had lastede longe.
Tho hym was toolde þere was such oon.
He made hym come forth anoon;
And anoon he chargede calle
The steward of þe Kynges halle.
Þoo seide Josephus “Gode felawe,
Wilt þou doon after myn sawe?
Loke þou assent to me now,
For Titus love and for is prowe.”
“Sire, I sey þe sikerlike,
I graunte to doon it blithelike.”
“Wel,” seide Josephus als sone,
“As mete tyme is at noone,
Doo me sette a litell borde
Right tofore Titus þi lorde;
And þereat shal þis man be sette.
Loke þat hym be mete sone fette
With grete plente, and riche drynke,
Als shall come oforn the Kynge.
And I hym reheyt, doo þou alsoo.”
“Sire,” quod þe steward, “it shall be doo.”
All þis was doon, worde for worde.
Josephus sat at þe Kynges borde.
Titus was gretely agrevede, and thoght
How was þis man hider ybroght?
And þus manhungrede he sat longe,
Þat mete ny drynge he nolde fonge.
For teene he chaungede al his mode;
And such an heete cam in his blode,
Þat his evell hym forsooke,
And never aftur hit hym ne toke.
Josephus þoo byhelde þis man,
And reheytede hym, as he wel can;
And þe steward dede alsoo
With faire semblant, as fel þerto.
Sire Titus turnede hym also smert:
“Josephus, I thanke þe in my hert.
I bad þe brynge a man with þe;
I wende noght it shulde be he.
Thou bad I shulde wrath me noght
With noo man þat þou with þe broght,
And I grauntede the sikerly.
Hit shal ben holden witerly,
For þou dedest [it] for myn hele.
I thanke it the, for I have it wele.
Þou art me dere, whil þat I live;
And hym my wrath I al forȝeve.”
Tho his fader wist how hit was,
I hoote þe, he made grete solaas.
Aftur þus, ay in alle thynges,
Josephus was nexte þis rich Kynges.
Goo we now to Pilate agayn,
For of hym I have to seyn.
Here he gan profre make
For the toun and for his sake,
To witen if þei myght savede be
With golde, silver, and oþer fee.
Titus sagh Pilat, and was ful glad;
Better tithinge he ne bad.
Pilate seide “Sire, I prey the,
Astounde þat þou here me.
For to be stille, I wil þe gyve,
Every ȝere whil þat I live,
Soo þat þi fader wil me save,
And my bailly for to have,
I wil gyve hym is truage,
And an .C. sparhaukes ramage,
And an .C. gentyll faukenes also,
Of houndes .xxxti. medes þerto,
An .C. palles of silke and golde,
Þe ricchest þat ben boght or solde,
And ten lyones, and libardes ten,
And ten beres from her den,
And five mules ychargede wel
With golde and silver everych dele,
And eke with alle þe best stones
Þat may be founden for þe nones.
Wyte at my lord, where he wil soo,
And seye me swith what I shall do?”
Titus was glad, þat ilke tide,
He segh þe gate openede wyde,
And for he segh sire Pilate
Redy to ȝelden hym at þe gate.
He come and tolde his fader þis;
Anoon he gan to wepe for blys.
His fader seide “Me liketh þis tale.
[Forsoþe, son, I am his bale,]
Þogh he wolde gyve me al þis worlde,
Never the better ne worthe he herde;
And þogh he myght thole als mychel shame,
As alle men þat bereth þe name,
From man was made to þe worldes ende,
He were more worthy my leve freende.
Take þin folke, and goo hym to,
And seye hym þat I sende hym soo.
Take hym, sone, upon my blessyng,
And doo þat he be in siker kepyng;
And wende forth into þe toun,
And I shall kepe it enviroun,
Þat noon ascape but I hit see.
And Jacob here take with þe;
For he knoweth þe Cristen men,
Man and wymman, which þei ben.
For þou wost þat I have sworn
Þat noon of hem shall be forlorn
And alle tho, þat ȝe shall selle,
As þei be slayn, þat men hem telle.”
Titus anoon forth he spronge
[With his ost, stif and stronge.]
Wolde þei þan no lenger abide,
But fulden þe dike on every side.
Þei kest open þe gates wide.
Sire Titus in anoon gan ride,
With .xxxti. hundrede armede wele
Bothe in iren and eke in stele.
He toke Pilate, þere he stode;
XXXti. knyghtes kepte hym gode.
I hope þat he ful sore qwoke,
Whan þe knyghtes hym undertoke.
Titus let take all þat he mette,
And þoo þat hid hem he let fette.
He comaundet his men als bilyve
To kepen all þat þei token on live.
He dede hem bynden everychon;
Of hem ne scapede lives noon,
But if any breke his necke,
Oþer drenchede hym in any dyke.
The Jewes were leide on hepes grete,
Fast ybounden, honde and fete.
As Titus roode hym up and doun,
And byhelede þe walles of þe toun,
And at a walle he fonde a place
Wel thicker þan þat oþur was;
He had þerof grete ferlike,
Why it was ymade soo thicke.
To wite he nolde noght blynne,
For to seen what was þerinne;
But at þe last in he wan,
And fonde þere an olde hoor man,
Al glad and hewed of þe best,
As who were comen from a fest;
And askede hym hou he þere cam,
And what tyme, and þurgh wham,
And what he hight witerly?
He seide “Joseph of Aramathie.
First I was in prison, men herde,
For Jhesu love, ful fast ysperde;
And þat was, sire, for his buriyng.
And here I am doon for my preching.
Right now, I wot, seven ȝere be goon,
Þe[i] shut me in þis voute of stoon.
At þe first Jhesu fette me oute,
And bad I shulde noo Jewe dout.
To kepe my love was his thoght,
Sithen hath he forȝete me noght:
My Lorde me fed and kept til now,
For I shulde be deliverede by ȝou.
To þi fader and þe is alle
Þis honurable grace, he wil it falle,
Þat men shull longe herof ȝelpe,
And after turne ȝoure soules to helpe.
Jhesu Crist wil þat it be soo;
He ordeynede þis dede to ȝou two.”
Sire Titus thankede oure heven Kynge
Of Josephs worde and his fyndynge;
To his fader anoon hym sent,
Þat honurede hym with mychel entent.
With hym and Titus he was prive,
And honurede with bothe her meyne;
For he was more honurable man
After Titus and Vaspasian,
And þan Jafel and Josephus,
And Jacob þat lovede Jesus.
Whil Titus alle þe Jewes soght,
Jacob oure men togeder broght,
All þat bilevede in Jhesu Crist;
Feble þei were for hunger and therst.
He ledeth hem softe with honour
Right bifore the Emperour.
The Emperour gret hem everychon,
And dede hem ete and drynke gode woon.
They þanked God þat þei were save,
And þat þei myght her lives have.
He dede hem bathen and clothen ichoon
With white clothes þat faire shoon,
So þat is oost shulde hem knowe
And honure hem, where þei hem sawe.
Of the Jewes þei hym tolde
All þat evere he wyte wolde,
And þat he shulde noo tresour geten,
For every Jewe hat[h] his eten,
But clothes, palles, baudekyn,
And other of wollen and of lyn,
And vesselx riche of mychel price,
Of all maner metall þat is,
And feele beestes, wilde and tame,
With hurdes of housholde all in same,
But þei have oght in erthe hydde;
Or elles nothyng þere nys bytidde.
“Now,” seide the Emperour, “and is it soo?
I wolde noon oþur þat þei had doo.
Her tresour ne coveite I noght to wynne,
For hit is ful of falsehed and synne.
Þat oþer þat is lefte is myn ichadele;
And þat þei hath eten paieth me wele,
For now I shall fulfille my sale,
And every begger have is tale,
For I thenke to avance myne,
And þe more shal ben her pyne.
A faire grace is us bitidde.
Þat þei han eten, it is not hidde;
For þe biȝete and for þe prowe
Myn men shull doon hem sorwe ynowe,
And all oþur þat hem wil buye.
In al þis lande I shall do crye,
Þat all maner of Cristen wyght,
Þat of þe Jewes have spyt yplyght,
Shull come and buye my ware,
And evermore þe better fare.
Þat is my joye and my game;
Þei may not have to michel shame.”
Right anoon þan sente he
Thurghout þe lande of Jude,
And comaundet every Cristen man
Shulde come to sire Vaspasian,
Upon lif and upon lyme,
Her avauncement for to nyme.
Noon withstode þat þei ne cam
Unto þe citee of Jerusalem.
Þan dede he crye þurghout his oost
Þat all shulde come, lest and moost,
And seide to hem “ȝe have herd tolde
For xxxti. pens Jhesus was solde
In despit of þe Cristen lawe,
And sithen þe Jewes have hym slawe.
ȝe þat be comen into þis stede,
Cometh forth, and wreketh his deed!
I say, who þat wil byggen any,
I selle him .xxxti. for a pany,
Of all þe Jewes and her kynde;
And loke what ȝe in hem fynde,
For I dar ful wel warant
ȝe shull be riche at þe remanent.
Whan they ben openede everychoon,
ȝe shull fynde tresour gode woon.
Everych take his part of all,
Of everych heed, as wil befall.
In her wombes þei have it broght;
Hit thar not forther ben ysoght.
Whan ȝe have out þat tresour,
Þat ȝe see þere nys noo more,
Loke ȝe doon hem all þe peyne
Þat any man can thenke or seyn.
Hange hem, brenne hem, doo hem drawe,
Flee hem, bore hem, and doo hem sawe,
Roost hem, scalde hem, bete hem, and put,
And all to peces her limes kut,
And þus fordoon hem lif and lyme;
Soo shull we qwenchen her venym.
And Goddes blessyng þei have ay,
Þat serveth hem [so], til domesday.
Cometh now, and byggeth fast,
Ever whil þi lif wil last.”
They comen and boght up everychoon,
And everych openede his anoon,
And after dede hem her inwyse,
As hem was beden, þe same wise.
Þere myght men seen sikerly
Crying and gronyng, sorwe and crye.
Whil þat al þis sorwe was wroght,
I hote þe, Titus slepte right noght.
He rode aboute þurgh þe toun,
All þat þere was [he] let falle adoun;
With picoises and mattokes many a knyght
Þei fellen þe walles doun right,
And all þe toun sikerlike,
And fulled þerewith þe michell dike.
They swept all clene, all þat þei fonde,
Þat after [hem] þei let noȝt stande;
But þe temple of Salamon sikerly,
And þe castell tour of Kynge Davy,
For love of hem these leften stille,
The prophecies to fulfylle:
“Þere shall noo stoon on oþur dwelle,
But men shull hem doun felle.”
Thei fulfillede þe prophecye
In all þinges þei myghte aspye.
He dede buryen þe bodyes all
In dongehepes without þe wall.
Þei boght and soolde by hem oone
And on þat oþur side ychone.
The noumbre of Jewes boght and solde,
As they were slayn, þei were ytold;
The noumbre was, as ȝe may kythe,
An hunderede thousand elleven sithe.
The somme of all þat lest her life
With hongre, with swerde, and with knyfe,
Without þat were solde, I understande,
Four hundreth and five thousande.
And þis wrach shal lasten ay,
Til it come to domesday,
Upon all the Jewes kynde,
In what lande so men hem fynde;
Ever they shull ben yplight
In despite, and þat is right;
They shull never dwelle in noo lande
But for raunson, I understande.
This was, I wene, a grete vengeance
Thurgh Goddes owne purveance.
Þere may no mannes-slaght be hyd,
Þat it ne shall somtyme be kyd.
Loke war of Goddes sone ne sholde,
Þat alle þinges hath in his wolde!
Thoo al þe citee was doun cast,
Titus toke Pilat at þe last,
And broght hym byforn his fadres kne.
“Fader,” he seide, “loo heere is he
Þat slogh Jhesu, þat was þi leche,
And þis traitour I the biteche.”
Þan unswarede sire Vaspasian
“Me thynketh I myght not hate þis man.”
Twyes or thryes þus he seide:
“How shulde my wrath ben on hym leide?
Me thynketh I can sey noon oþur,
But I most love hym as my brother.
Helpe me, som man, I myght hym knowe,
Þat he lede us thus noo throwe.”
Forth þer come an olde hoore man:
“Sire Emperour, I the telle can.
Hereth me, and ȝe shall wyten.
I shall ȝou telle what is writen.
Whan Jhesus dyede, soo saith our boke
Þat Pilates knyghtes from hym toke
His clothes, and delede amonges hem;
But for his curtell had noo seem,
Þei let hit be, and partede it noght,
But hoom to Pilat hit was broght
(He wot ful wel þat I ne lye).
He hath hit kepte in his tresorie.
Seynt Mary þat kyrtell wafe,
And to Jhesu hir sone hit ȝafe.
Sire, he dede hit on hym þan,
Þoo þe grete hongre bygan.
Gode stones and þat cloth
Made þat he felt noo loth.
Whil he hit hath, he myght goon
Byforn his freendes and his foon.
Longe his goon he was a fyle;
Knowe hym and al his gyle.
Take hit, sire, from the treitour,
And were it þiself, sire Emperour.
Hit fel not hym þerwith be clad,
Aftur hym þat hit firste had;
Also wel to hym it falles
As a dongeheep yspred with palles.
On hym ȝet þou myght it fynde;
Whil he it hath on, þou best as blynde.
Doo turne hit of, toforn þi knee.
On hym I wot, sire, I hit see.”
Whan the kyrtell was from hym take
Wel mychell sorwe he gan to make.
The Emperour on hym gan loke,
And upon hym his hed he shoke:
“Stronge theef, þou shalt be shent,
For þou hast me þus longe yblent.
Fy on þe, theef,” he seide a gode while.
“How hast þou lad us with þi gyle!
If I may, þou shalt abye.
In stronge tourment þou shalt dye.
Elles had I lorn al my journeye,
Þat I made to þis citee.
For þou art worthy more shame aloone
Þan þe Jewes everychone.”
Alsoo þe story wytenesseth and seith
A barell of stele was forth layde,
And al qwhicke he was þerinne idoo.
And hereth, what þei dede alsoo:
Þei þoght have caste hym in þe see;
For þis resoun þei let hym be,
His peynes to lengthen verrayment.
Unto Viene he was sent
(Þat tyme it was þe hye prisone,
Þat longede to Rome and to þe croun).
The barell was selede with his seele,
Soo þat he were kept ful wel;
And evermore þere he shulde lye,
In stronge peyne, til þat he dye.
Out of þe barell he was doo,
Whan he come þe prisone too;
And he was agayn in doon,
Whan he was deed als sone.
He was tyede by a cheyne
Until a stake, with fetres tweyn,
And gyves on his handes twey,
But if hit were þe hiere day.
Þere he ley two ȝere, er he were deed,
And lyvede by water and by barly brede;
But upon every hye day
Was he servede, til his pay,
Of gode mete and gode drynke,
And a man hit to hym brynge.
Soo fer þe devell was hym withinne
Þat ones hym rewede noght his synne
But lay þereinne as an hounde
Upon þe bare swopte grounde.
Ay as he lay, right as I rede,
Ne was hym chaungede no maner wede;
In wel michell unclennesse,
And in wel grete dredenesse,
The story telleth þat þere he ley
Soo longe, þat hym thoght, upon a day,
He wex al ful of his life;
Þat of oon he borwede a knyfe
For to paren a pere—he drogh,
And þerwith hymself he slogh.
The Sept Sages þus doth us telle,
As men in the jestes spelle.
How he dyede þei sent þan
To þe Emperour sire Vaspasian,
And he unswared to hem anoon:
“To fouler deth myght he not goon
Þan sleen hym with his owne hand;
For wors was noon, I understande,
Whil he livede, noo moo lorn,
Þat ever was of moder born;
For he assentede, by a wickede rede,
To doon Jhesu Crist to deed.
He myght not with worse hand
Have ben slayn, I understande.
I vouche wel sauf he dyede soo,
Right as he dede, soo lete hym goo.”
Out of þe prisoun þei hym drogh,
And vilaneslich, I hote ȝow;
And sperede hym in the barell agayn,
As biforn ȝe herde me sayn.
They buryede hym by a watres side,
Þere noo man shulde goo ny ride,
In a stede þat was all wast.
Þere fele were sithen agast;
For stynke and cry þei hadden doute
Of feendes, þat walkede hym aboute.
Nevertheles many oon þere toke his deth,
What for drede and what for the breth.
From þat side þe folke hem drogh,
For the men þat it slogh.
And þan þei token hem to reed,
To remewe it to anoþur stede;
And soo þei deden at þe last,
Into þe water they hym cast.
Þere he flet longe up and doun,
To many mannes confusioun,
Now in þe myddes, now by the brynke,
Þat doun to grounde myght it not synke;
Soo þe feend hym possede and bere,
Þat he ne myght resten nowhere.
I trowe þe soule had litell rest,
Whan the body was soo fer ykest.
If feendes shewede hym michell bifore,
Þei shewede hym þan michel more;
With derkenes, stynke, and hidous cries,
Men thoght hit denede into þe skyes.
By the water durst no man wende
Into noo lande, fer ny hende.
They of the cuntree wynden and sayn
Þat þe water had borne hym thenne,
Til on a day a shipp gan glyde
Forth [þer] by [in] a nones tyde.
All þei were in grete affray,
Whan þat þei þe barell say.
With mychel peyne a lande they nam,
And into Vyene sone þei cam,
And tolden þe folke of þat citee,
That þei echoon the barell gan see
Up and doun fletand wel fast;
Wherfore þat þei wern agast,
What for derkenes and develes cry,
And for the stynke þei felde hym by.
Þan the clergie of the toun
Rad the poeple with resoun,
With holy beedes and penance,
Þat God deliverede hem from þis chaunce;
Thus þei lyven in orisoun,
Þat God hem sent grace adoun.
A vois þer cam, þat bad hem goon
To þe water side anoon,
And þere þei shulde sone see
How it shulde of þat body be.
Alle þat myght goon and ride
Wenten to þe water side,
Þere þe body fleteth inne,
Þat was encombrede ful of synne.
Hem þoght byȝonde þe water syde
A roche bygan to open wyde;
Above hem roos a wyndes blast,
Þat made hem alle sore agast,
And þerwith bothe leyt and thondre,
As al þe worlde shulde gon insundre.
This weder forth þe body blewe,
Into þe roche right it threwe.
Whan it was inne, hit lockede agayn
Þe roche, þat þei alle sayen.
Thei thankede God in þat stede.
Never aftur ne had þei þerof drede;
And evere sithen, til þis day,
Þe hoole is open þere he lay,
With stoon ny erthe ne may be dytte,
In tokenyng of þat foule pytte.
He nas not worthy, I understande,
To have noo rest in water ny londe,
He þat demede Jhesu to be spylt
To shamefull deth withouten gylt.
Now wil I tellen of a aventure
Of Judas, Goddes treytoure.
First, heret hou he was borne,
And sithen thurgh his falsehed lorn.
His fader hight Ruben,
He wonede þoo in Jerusalem;
Ciberia his wife hight,
Þat was Judas moder right.
Upon þat nyght, þat he was geten,
Full þe hous of feendes seten.
In sleep she mette a wonder case;
Of hir sone, þat hight Judas,
How þei tolden her [þis] tale:
Þis childe shulde be Jewes bale;
Thurgh hym shull þei sorwe fynde,
All þat ben of Jewes kynde.
Of hir sweven she upbrayde;
To Ruben þis tale she seyde:
“We have doon þis nyght a dede
Þat all oure kynde may evere drede.
A childe is geten, bitwene us two,
Þat shall brynge us all to woo.
Ruben, I wil the siker biforn,
If the childe of me be born,
Howsoo I evere of hym spede,
I kepe hym neyther foster ny fede.”
“Dame,” quod Ruben, “art þou wode?
Þou hast a spirit oþur þan gode.
What lyste þe, dame, for to telle?
Swevenes beth but a foles spelle.”
“Sire,” she seide, “þis is myn affray.
Hit was tolde me thus as I lay.
If I conceive, sire, as I wene,
Many on shal hit turne to teene.”
Ruben gan all þis forgete,
Til þat his wife wex ful grete.
The childe was born, whan tyme cam,
Michell sorwe for hym they name.
To kepen hym forthe þei had care,
And þei nolde not hym forfare.
Anoon they ordeynede and thoght:
A newe bote for hym was wroght;
Into þe see þei hym dight,
And leten hym goo where he myght.
Þis bote was to and froo soo cast,
To lande it come at þe last,
Into an ile þat Scariot hight;
And þere he toke his name right.
The Qwene come pleyand of þe lande,
With hir maydenes, by the sande.
Of þis bote she was war,
Anoon þerto she gan fare.
“Maidenes,” she seide, “cometh with me.
A bote cometh fletande on þe see.
Som wonder I hope it be, y wys;
Goo we and see what it is.”
The bote in þe sande gan feste,
As þe water wawes it keste.
Drye foot forth up þe gravell
Þei went þerto, faire and well.
A childe, in riche clothes wounden,
In þis bote þei have hit founden.
Þei saw it was a knave, I wys.
Þoo made þe Quene mykel blisse;
She seide to hir maydenes echoon
“Childe ne had I nevere noon.
I shall doon it kepen and save,
Our heritage ȝet hit may have.
This chaunce for us is ful faire;
Now hath my lord and I an heyre.”
Tho homeward anoon she wolde,
Until hir lorde þe caas she tolde.
Thurgh hir bothers rede þerfore
She made as she with childe wore,
And soo it was doon to understande
To all þe lordes of þat londe.
Þei made hym born, and forth þei tolde,
Þurgh þe land, to ȝonge and olde;
For hym was made joye and game.
Judas Scariot þei gaf hym name;
Þei dede hym norisshe as þei cone,
Right as he were the Kynges sone.
Sone afturward tyme bifell,
As God hit wolde, faire and well,
A cnave childe conceivede þe Qwene
(Þat Judas murthered sithen, I wene).
Whan he was borne þei were glad,
For it was þe first þat þei had.
Thoo þei were wexen and thriven,
In pley ofte þei faght and striven.
Judas ofte myssaide þat oþur
Þat he wende had ben his broþur.
Ever hit is crokede, þat wil be wronge;
On elde most it byte, þat soo doth ȝonge.
Soo gan Judas wickede to be,
Bothe þurgh blode and destyne.
The netell greveth þe swete rose;
By þis two we may it suppose.
For Judas ofte þe childe smot,
And made hym ofte wepen teres hote;
And þo the Quene it understode,
Þat game þoght hir noþing gode.
She toke it swithe sore to hert,
And made Judas scouren smert,
And tolde þat he nas nothing sybbe,
Flesshe ny blode, boon ny ribbe,
But þat he was an fundelyng
Bothe to hir and to þe Kynge:
“Þerfore ne smyte þou not my sone,
If þat þou wilt with us wone.”
For þis letten hym ne lyste
Hym to beten and to byste.
When Judas wist and understode
Þat he cam þere by the flode,
He wende not þat it were soo,
But for wrath it had be doo;
He was soo cherisshede with Kynge and Quene,
Forthy he wende not it myght ben.
But whan þis maydenes witnessede þat þing,
Þat wern at his fyndyng,
Þoo he herde of hem þis fame,
He toke to hym soo mykel shame
(For he wende ever and oo
He were þe Kynges sone til þoo),
Þat prively þat childe he slogh,
And forth anoon he hym withdrogh.
He was aferde to lesen his hed,
Other to soffren som other deed;
Soo he sholde, and he abede.
Þerfore hoom fast he hym dede
With messagiers of þat lande,
Þat beren truage, I understande.
Þei wenten toward Jerusalem;
In her company þider he kem.
To Pilates courte he hym drogh,
Þere he was sone couth ynogh
With subtilte and with coyntise,
And with gyftes to hym and hise.
As in proverbes it is ytolde,
Bothe of zonge and of oolde,
The gode men togedre þei drawe,
And every fool to his felawe;
Soo dede Pilate and Judas.
Eyther glad of oþur was;
Her maners acordet everydell,
Forthy þei loveden yche oþur well.
If Pilate to evell redy was,
ȝet wel redyer was Judas.
From þat þei were togeder knowe,
Þei were togeder soo greet throwe
Þat Pilate went out on a day
Into þe citee, hym to play,
And for to avisen hym up and doun
Unto þe kepyng of þe toun.
And as he lokede on every side,
He sagh a tree þat spredde wide;
In an orchard fair it stoode.
Þat sigght melled al his bloode,
For hym þoght þat he was war
Þat þe tree þe fairest apples bar
Þat ever he sagh in his live.
His hert soo stode on hym bilive
Þat he ne wist what to doon,
But if he had of hem soone;
Hym thoght his hert wolde to-brest,
Ne wolde he never have noo rest,
Til he myghte at his wille
Of þat fruyt have his fylle.
Of þis foule temptacioun
Cam sithen wel grete confusioun.
Þis orchard was, wel y wot,
Judas fadres Scariot,
Man þat þoo most was prive
With Pilate of all his meyne.
[Pilate on þis fruyt so thoght,]
Til he hit had, ne lefte he noght;
He clepede anoon right Judas:
“Þou shalt helpe me in þis case,
For þou wilt leve for no greef
To doon þe þing þat me were leef.
Þis other day I went adoun,
And seygh her out in þe toun,
In an orchard upon a tree,
The fairest apples þat myght be.
As þou wilt myn hele save,
Helpe me of þat fruyt to have,
I prey the, Judas my derlynge,
Now haste þe upon alle þinge.”
Judas seide “I the plyght,
Þou shalt have perof þis nyght,
I bihote þe, er þat we slepe bothe,
Whosoever be glad or wrothe.”
Judas dede hym thider anoon,
As hym was taght, þider to goon.
And hym was hard happe tofore,
Þat ever he was geten or bore.
He sterte in, als hym ne roghte.
Where Ruben wonede he wist noght;
He understandeth never biforn
Þat he was þere yborn,
Ny his kynde ne couthe hym knowe,
Þogh iche day þei had hym sawe,
Þei wende [not] hit had ben he
Þat were with Pilate so prive;
They wende þe see had hym forfare,
And fordoon her allers care.
But his desteyne soo ne wolde;
Hit most ben right as hit sholde.
Þogh men wene to stoppen Goddes cast,
Hit wil forth goon at þe last.
Whan he into þe orchard cam,
Of þis apples fast he name.
He lokede aboute, and helde hym tryste;
Þis fruyt in his bosom he thryst.
And þerwith gan Ruben goo,
And sawe hym [how] he pluckede soo.
He wex anoon full of ire:
“Why doost þou soo, beau sire?
What hast þou in my cloos to done?
Hye þe out, I rede þe, soone,
And ȝelde me up þe fruyte þou hast,
And make amendes of þis wast,
And ȝet þou shalt ful sore abye
Þis apert vilanye.”
Judas unswarede hym with pruyde:
“I wil not leve þogh þou chide.
But þou goo in, by þis day,
Þou shalt abuye and by my fay.”
“ȝe,” seide Ruben, “þis is soo?”
Right anoon he stert hym to,
And by the throte ech oþur laghte;
And longe þei togeder faght,
Soo þat Judas atte last
From Ruben his fader brast.
He laghte a stoon þat he fonde,
And hent his fader by the hande;
Bihynde he bete hym soo on þe hed,
Til he fell doun under hym deed.
Oute of þe orchard sone he fley,
And hoom to Pilate he toke is wey.
Pilate had sone þat fruyte in mouthe,
And michell þanke he hym give couthe.
All his caas he tolde hym sone,
Þat was for the appels done.
“ȝe,” quod Pilate, “recche þe noght!
Þere wot noo man who it wroght.
Bere the wel, and holde þe stille,
And ȝet þou shalt have al þi wille.
Alle þe goodes þat his wore
I graunte þe for evermore;
And þe wife, þat was his,
Shall ben at þi wille, y wys.”
Whan it toward þe even cam,
Þe wyf into hir orchard cam;
After hir husband she lokede fast,
And cam and fonde hym at þe last
Righte starke deed sikerlike.
She wende þat it had ben sodeynlike,
For she wist not of þis caas,
Whan ny thurgh whom it was.
Erlich in morwen, whan it was day,
She went to Pilate for þis affray.
“Þis nyght I fonde my husband deed;
I ne wot how, ny thurgh what reed.
Leve sire, helpe me at þis rees,
For I am now all helpeles.”
“Dame,” quod Pilate, “care þe noo dele!
Þou shalt be holpen swithe wele.
Do bury hym swithe, and have no care,
For I have ordeynede for all þi fare.
Dame, I thenke to gyven the
Þe moost prive man with me.
Take hym here by the hande,
He shall be þin husbande.”
She durste not ones say nay,
But toke Judas, Pilat to pay.
Þoo þei were weddet, Judas and she,
And had awhile togedres be,
Upon a nyght she hir bywent
And wept and sore hir byment.
Judas seide “Dame, what is þis fare?
Why makest þou soo mykel care?
Is þere oght hath grevede the?
Telle me, and þou shalt vengede be.”
“Sire,” she seide, “I may wel sorwe
Bothe on even and in morwe.
I may ever be carefull wife,
Whan I þenke upon my life.
Ruben and I, a childe we hadde;
For hym ne be I nevere gladde.
In the see we hym caste,
And þere we sawe our sone last.
I wene he is deed sikerlike,
And his fader now sodenlike.
But now Pilate, with bote bare,
Hath yekede wel more my care.
Agaynes my wille he weddet me,
To lede my life, Judas, with þe.”
Thoo Judas understode þis caas,
He seide þat he hir sone was.
“Allas,” she seide, “art þou soo?
Þan is here wo upon woo.
Here is sorwe upon sorwe.
How shull we ever be borwe?”
Tho Judas wist is moder his wife,
And had irefte his fader his life,
Of his synne he gan hym repent.
His moder radde hym þat he went
To seken Jhesu, þat prophete,
His foule synnes for to bete.
To Jhesu cam þis ilke Judas,
And criede hym mercy for his trespas.
Jhesu grauntede hym full sone,
And gaff hym penance for to done.
Soo wel he dede, as he hym bad,
Þat his disciple he hym made;
He paide so wel Jhesu hymself,
Þat he was of þe apostels twelve.
And þogh he were to Jhesu leef,
ȝet was he prively his theef;
For Jhesus dede hym þat honour,
Þat he made hym is procatour,
To beren þe purs, for quoynt and wys,
Of þat was gyven to hym and his;
And, as men reden, þe tenth part
He stale and helde to hymward;
And, to hasten his confusioun,
As hit is tolde in the passioun,
Thoo Mary with þe oynement
Anoyntede Jhesu with gode entent,
Þat was riche, he understode,
And þerfore was [he] wel negh wode,
And wex right wroth to [ward] Mary,
For it cam not to his baily.
Of thre hundrede pens kest it he,
Worth to sellen of her monee;
And for to restoren þat oynement,
Þurgh þe feendes procurement,
For þe tenthe peny his Lorde he solde,
XXXti. pens, hit wil be tolde.
Sorwe and shame, wanhope and woo
Undertoken Judas thoo,
Þat he nolde God noo mercy crye
For is wickede vilenye.
Sithen he knewe hym, and is fame,
He was þe more for to blame;
For he sawe hym ay curteys
To all þat sechen hym allweyes,
Þat were seek, oþur in trespas;
Merciable to hem he was.
But he most nedes be lorn,
As it was lokede hym biforn.
Whan to þe Jewes agayn he cam
With her monee, þat he name,
And seide “Loketh ȝoure monee.
I have synnede, soo dede ȝe,”
The Jewes seiden “Thyn is þe synne.
Þou bede us Jhesu for to wynne,
And þurgh þe we cam hym to;
Forthy þenke what þou hast doo.”
Whan he sawe noo better boote,
He dede hym smertly on his fote
Into a waste, a pryve stede
(A wickede maister gan hym lede),
And þere upon an elleren tree
He hongede hymself in privete.
His wombe to-cleef and rente,
His guttes to his fote doun wente;
He myght not fleen þat foule wrecche,
For he nolde is God knoulache.
Up in the ayre he most dye,
For he dede aungeles vilanye;
And to us he dede alsoo,
Þerfore most he dye soo,
For he solde God, our allers freende,
For to dyen in Jewes hande.
Þus suffrede he his penance,
To fulfille þe grete vengeance.
Bytwene Holy Thurseday and Pentecost,
Whan Jhesus sent þe Holy Goost,
Petre stode up amonges hem all,
And seide “ȝe witen what is bifall.
Oon is lorn, þat was oure brother.
Amonges us we mot chese anoþur.
We mot be alle hool twelve,
As oure Maister bad hymselve,
For to goo preche in every lande;
Thus he bad us, I understande.
Of oure disciples chese we,
Of all þoo þat under us be,
Sexty and twelve under all.
Loketh to whom it wil bifall.”
Þei kesten loot by and by,
Allweyes it fell on seynt Mathey;
And þus þei fulfillede her tale
Þat Judas had broken with bale.
Þus cam Judas to the ende,
To dampnacion withouten ende.