University of Virginia Library

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.

Lete we Pilate and Judas dwelle;
Of þe Emperour I wil ȝou telle.
At Jerusalem whil þat he lay,
His men went out, nyght and day,
Into þe contree abouten hem,
Many a myle from Jerusalem,
For all manere of vitaille,
Whan he bygan any to faile.
Tounes, castels and citee
Þei token þurghout al Judee,
And dede men Goddes lawes take,
And all her false bileve forsake,
Als wide as þei went,
Thurgh þe Emperours comaundement;
And þoo þat wolde not þei slogh
With sorwe and with pyne ynogh.
They token into her bandoun
The keyes of castelx, citee and toun,
And dede hem alle, lesse and more,
Swere hym fewte, þat þere wore,
And to his eyres, withouten ende,
Wheresoever þei dwelle, fer or hende.
Of lawes he made amendement
Aftur his maner, wheresoever he went;
He stablede all þinges, and soght,
Soo þat oon failede noght.
Þus wroght þere sire Vaspasian,
Þat he had thanke of God and man;
And sire Titus yhad alsoo,
For he helpet riȝt wel þerto.
Þan bythoght þe Emperour:
“Now I mot doon my men honour,
Þat have dwellede here with me
In grete travaile for þis citee;
For deth, ny life, ny for no woo,
Ny for no wakyng fro me goo
On no maner wise þei ne wolde,
But [alway] stifly þei have holde.
“Now grauntmercy,” he seide, “lordynges,
Þat me have holpen wynne þese þinges.”
The riche he gaf landes and rentes,
To meene men grete avauncements;
His pouer servandes, þat litell wonen,
Þat kepte withinne and noght oute ronen,
Hem he feffede fair and well
With þe citezines los cattell.
Of al þat ever was yfounde,
I hote, þei lefte al bare þe grounde;
There hous and wall and roof fast stode,
Þei swept it clene, with al þe gode.
Þan toke he leve of all þe lande,
And toward shippes he gan fonde.
Þei sette wardeynes, his sone and he,
Aboute þe toun and þat cuntree;
And he and all her companye,
With songe, murth and melodye,
Whan al was doon to þe ende,
Homward anoon þei gan wende.
Þei seileden soo þat þei come
Hoole and sounde hoom to Rome.
Aȝeyne hem come sire Clement,
And all þe clergye with hym went
With songe and faire prosessioun.
Þe belles rongen thurghoute þe toun.
Dame Veroyn aȝeynes hym also cam.
Þe Emperours hond þei name,
And he kyste hem bothe two
With wepyng, and Titus alsoo.
Anoon dame Veroyne Jacob sawe;
To hym swithe she gan drawe.
She clypt and kyssede hym many sithe,
And seide “Jacob, ay be þou blithe!”
To Jafel [and] Josephus she dede alsoo,
And to all oþur þat cam þerto,
And namelich Joseph of Aramathie,
For he was noblest of þat companye.
Sire Clement and dame Veroyn þan
Blessed þoo sire Vaspasian,
Þat þe lande had wonne and soght,
And all þe Cristen sauf hom broght
Oute of travaille into rest,
To liven in Goddes service best
Evermore, whil þat þei live.
To every man his waresoun was gyve,
Þat þei myght fair lyven [there]by,
Þei and her heyres sikerly.
Seynt Clement seide to sire Vaspasian
“Me liketh þou art lives man,
Þat þou shalt ȝet cristenede be,
Soo þou and þine bihighte me.
Sire, I prey the, haste þe sone
Þat it were in dede done;
But if þou doo withouten othe,
God wil sone be with þe wrothe,
For he hath broght þe to þin above,
His lawe to undertake and love.”
Þan seide þe Emperour ful sone
“Doo dight þat þis þing were done.”
Sire Clement of this was glad;
He made al redy, as he hym bad.
He dede hem shave, more and lasse,
Her berdes in token of clennesse,
And clothede hem in white wede,
All þat to Cristendom ȝede;
And for to make solempnete,
For þat þei all on live be,
All hoollike þei went
To resceiven þat sacrement;
Þat semede þat God wolde hem save,
Þat made hem mychel joye to have.
Þan were þei all yshriven,
And absolucion he hath hem gyven.
He cristenede þe Emperour anoon,
And Titus his sone, and everychon.
Sire Clement songe hem a messe.
They offrede to hym, bothe more and lesse.
Her right faith he hem taghte;
Þei þat were wroth, he made hem saghte;
They lernde of hym the lawe;
Þei liveden sithen aftur his sawe.
Þe Emperour let make mony a kirke
Of olde temples þat were derke,
Þere maumetries had er ben.
Wel riche atire men myght þere seen;
Wel ricchely he dede to wirche
Al þat sholde to holy chirche,
Of golde, silver and riche stones,
With crafty cros for the nones;
And riche fee he gaf hem þerto,
Of landes and rentes alsoo.
He dede conferme þe Cristen lawe
Þurgh every lande with strengthe and awe.
He dede spere þe vernycle wel,
In golde and cristall every del;
In the cristall he dede [it] couche,
Men to seen but not to touche.
To Petres mynster he ȝaf it right;
Of dame Veroyn þe vernycle hight.
Sire Clement toke þe croun þan,
And set it on sire Vaspasian,
And anoyntede hym with an oyntement,
As falles to Kynges coronement.
Vaspasian þoght for to queme.
He toke a riche dyademe
(Þat is a mytre with a croune,
As falleth to þe Pope with resoun),
He sacrede þe Pope seynt Clement,
And set it on hym with gode entent,
And bitoke þe Pope his staff
(Þat was a cros þat he hym ȝaff),
And seide “Pope I conferme the
Of alle clerkes moost to be,
Þat is þurgh everyche lande.
I wil þei ben under þin hande,
Right as Petre bifore þe had,
And þurgh [þe] be all oure lawes yladde.
And all þe power, þat Pope shal have,
In all poyntes I vouch wel save.
Our goostely fader I holde the
Under almighty God in Trinite.”
Whan þis was doon, with joye and pees,
The Emperour anoon hym chees
Þurghout every lande to wende,
Pees to make and lawes to mende,
Soo it was holden, up life and lyme,
For hym and for his sones tyme;
And livede in such devocioun
Þat of hym sithen come grete renoun,
For God shewede in þat stede
Byforn his tombe, whan he was ded,
As we in his story fynde,
He helede þe crokede and þe blynde.
Soo aftur hym regnede Titus his sone,
The Emperour most curteys by wone
Þat ever ȝet was of tolde;
And ȝet in geestes so is he holde,
As witnesseth he was allweyes
Of ȝeftes and godenesse soo curteys,
Comynly he had saide and sworn
Þat day he had foule ylorn,
Whan he nath no ȝeftes gyven.
“How” he seide “shulde I þus gate liven,
I þat soo mykell in tresour have,
But I som man þerof gave?
Forthy God sent me þis richesse
To part with hem þat haveth lesse.”
Now, I hope, seyn fewe men soo,
As sire Titus was wonede to doo.
Now, Vaspasian and Titus,
I biteche ȝou oure Lorde Jhesus.
A mervaille I may ȝou telle,
If ȝe wil a while dwelle:
What wonder tokenes God hath sent,
Sithen the Emperour hoom was went,
In tokenes of þat destructioun,
Þat God wolde, of þat synfull toun
Þat was assentant to his deed
In worde, in werke and in reed;
For þat þei þoght, til it was doon,
Rest ne was with hem noon.
Longe God abode of her repentance,
Er þat he sent hem soo grete venjaunce.
Some of þe grettest, þat lefte on live
Of þe Jewes, comen ful blyve
Þere þe toun stode of Jerusalem.
Þere merkes on þe grounde þei nam,
To have ybilde þat citee agayn.
But I hope þei wroght in vayn;
For God wolde her kynde no more
Shulde bileven to dwelle thore,
But other nacion it shulde abide,
And þei shulde seche her wonyng wide.
Þei loked doun a litell stounde;
A croys þere lay on the grounde,
Of newe blode rede to þe sight,
Þat made hem to fleen yplight.
The rede croys bitokenede anoon
Þat her wrech was not all goon.
Another day agayn they comen,
And on the grounde her merkes nomen,
For þei wende to speden bet;
Þan fonde þei full her clothes set
With such croises as þei saye
Biforn hem on þat other day.
Of þis sight hem þoght noo play,
But anoon hennes þei fley.
Þe thridde day þei comen efte.
Hem were better þei had lefte;
Twey warnynges þei had at wille,
If þei wolde holde hem þertille,
Ac looth hem was þat place forgoo,
If þei myght have come þerto.
And as þei stoupede, her merkes to take,
They had noo myght thennes to shake,
For to telle noo carpentere
What mesures þei token þere.
Out of þe erthe þere spronge a fyre
With sparkeles hoote and lowe skyre,
Þat brent hem alle thore,
Þat body and bones askes wore.
Thus endeth the foles with þat fuyre,
Ne had þei noon oþur huyre,
For they deden out of skyle
Allweyes agaynes Goddes wille.
Þei most nedes all forfare;
Hit helpeth noght hem her worching sare.
Þus the Jewes destroiede wore,
As the prophetes seide bifore;
But ȝet nys not þe vengeance goon,
Til þe grete doom be doon.
Loke what man wil soo abide,
As Jhesu Crist hymselfe dede,
He þat is God and Lorde of alle?
A meke Lorde we may hym calle,
Þat soo longe his wrech withdrogh
For þe Jewes, þat hym slogh,
For the tokenes he dede hem sende,
If þei wolde hem oght amende;
And so longe hit forth glode,
Þat fourty ȝere he abode.
Sithen he is soo meke, loke hym to,
And lere we to soffre soo.
Maister Josephus, þe gode clerc,
He witnesseth forsoth all þe werk.
He myghte þe better þe sothe weyten,
For he sawe þe vengeance smyten;
And alsoo he wroot all þe story
Of all þat fel to þe Juwery.
And alsoo wittenesseth þe ȝonge seynt Jame,
Þat soffrede þere ful michel shame;
And the knave, the prophete,
Þat was slawe by þe strete;
Why Jacob was agrevede soore,
As ȝe han herde heeretofore.
Nichodemus bereth witnesse
Of þese þinges, more and lesse;
Of þis thyng maketh mencioun
In Nichodemus passioun;
And in þe geestes of Emperours,
Of þese wonderfull aventours;
And in the Gospell all it sit,
And feele prophetes witnesseth it,
And þe foure gospellers echoon
Of þis wreche acorden in oon.
Of all þis þe werke is wroght,
And in her bokes oute ysoght.
Honourede be oure Lorde so hende!
Þus is the story broght to ende.
Iblessede mot þei alle be
Of Jhesu Crist in Trinite,
Þat in þis maner his deth wroken,
As I have biforn yspoken!
I hope þei have, as worthy is,
To her mede heven blisse.
God for his peynefull passioun
Graunte us soo graciouse guerdoun,
To have þat blisse and þerinne to be!
Amen, Amen, pur charitee.