University of Virginia Library

ST PATRICK'S PURGATORY

OWAYNE MILES AUCHINLECK VERSION (OM1)

ST PATRICK'S PURGATORY

OWAYNE MILES COTTON VERSION (OM2)

God þat ys so full myght,
That mendede wronge and made ryght,
He sente men vs to wysse
The ryght way to heuen-blysse.
Fyrste hys prophetys þat wer bold,
Off þat was comyng þey vs told;
But þe folke þat wer yn londe
Ne myght hem not vnþurstonde.
To teche vs more redylye,
He come hymself full pryuely,
And almoste þre and þrytty ȝer
Sothefaste mon he dwelled here.
Both yn wordes and tokenes fele
He tawȝte men her sowles to hele,
And at þe laste, for monnus goode
He dyed hymself vpon þe rode,
And bowȝte vs wyth hys blody syde
[Fro hym that was] lorn þorow pryde;
Seynt Patryke lette make ryght well
A dore bow[n]den wyth iren and stele;
Lokke and key he made þerto,
That no mon shulde þe dore vndo.
The key he betoke þe pryour
And badde hym lokke hyt as tresour,
And euur close þe entre so,
That no man myȝth þeryn go,
But ȝyf hyt were þorow þe assente
Of þe pryour and þe couente;
Of þe bysschop he moste haue a lettur,
Elles hym were neuur þe better.
Ȝet ys þat stede called yn memorye
Seynt Patrykus Purgatorye.
In hys tyme some were þeryn,
To haue forȝeuenesse of her synne,
That come aȝeyn on þe morow;
I wote, þey tolde of mykell sorow,
Of peynus, þat þey syȝ þoo,
And of mykyll joye also.
What þey sen þer as þey wente yn,
Forsoþe, hy[t] was yn book wryten.
Some wente yn þat bolde wore,
But out come þey neuurmore.
In Steuenes tyme, y vnþurstonde,
That was kyng of Inglonde,
Ther was a knyȝt men called Oweyn;
He was þeryn and come agayn.
What he þer syȝ, y wyll ȝou telle,
Bothe of heuene and of helle.
Thys knyȝt was dowȝty mon and bolde,
And among [men] mykyll of tolde;
But þys knyȝte fell ynto synne,
And long tyme he lay þerinne.
At þe laste hym rependede soore,
And þowȝte he wolde do no more,
But to þe bysshoppe of þat countre
He wente and fonde hym yn hys se.
To hym he gon hym forto shryue
Of all þe synnus yn hys lyue.
The bysshoppe blamede hym yn þat hete
For hys synnus mony and grete.
Sethen he sayde to hym at þe laste,
That all hys lyf he moste faste,
Forto amende her hys mysdede,
Of þat he hadde mysdone and sayde.
‘Syr,’ he sayde, ‘y þe beseche,
As þou art my sowles leche,
Graunte me þat y mote gone
To Saynt Patrykes Purgatorye anone;
And when y am comen agayn,
All ȝour wyll y wyll do fayn.’
The bysshoppe sayde, ‘Dyþur shalt þou nowȝth,
For mony a fole hath þydur sowȝth;
To moche vpon hemself þey tryste,
Whyþur þey wente, no mon wyste.
I rede þe for þy deuocyoun,
That þou take þe abyte of relygyoun,
And ȝyf þou wylt þy synne lete,
In þys wyse may þou heuen gete.’
‘Syr,’ he sayde, ‘y þe pray,
Thow ȝeue me leue to go þat way.
I hope y woll bothe come and wende,
Thorow þe grace of God [so hende].’
The bysshop ȝaf hym leue þo,
On Goddes name he badde hym go.
Anon he made hym a letter wele,
And seled hyt wyth hys owne sele.
He toke hys leue and wente hys way
To þe pryour of þat abbey.
When he to þe pryour come,
Of þe knyȝte þe lettur he nome.
He hyt redde and stode full stylle;
Sone he wyste þe knyȝth[es] wylle,
And wellcomed hym yn fayr manere.
‘Syr,’ he sayde, ‘þou art wellcome here.
By þys lettur yn myn honde
I haue þy wyll vnþurstonde;
But I de rede þat þou do not so,
Noþur for wele ner for wo.
Aftur my rede þou do anoþur;
Take þe abyte and become our brodur;
So þou may, boþe nyȝth and day,
Serue God full well to pay.
Then may þy sowle to heuen wende,
And haue þer blysse wythowten ende.’
‘Syre,’ he sayde, ‘þou redest me well,
But for my synnus, dyþur y wyll.
Thyþur y wyll, for my synnus alle,
To haue forȝeuenesse, what so befalle.’
Then sayde þe pryour, ‘Ȝyf þou wylt so,
God kepe þe fro kare and wo.
But a lytyll whyle þou moste dwelle,
And þe perelles we shall þe telle.’
Fyftene dayes he dwelled þore
In almesse-dedes and holy lore.
At þe fyftene dayes ende,
The knyȝth began forth to wende.
Fyrst amorow he herde masse,
And afturwarde he asoyled was
Wyth holy water and holy book,
And ryche relykes forth þey toke.
Euury prest and euery [chanoun]
Wente wyth hym yn processyoun,
And as lowde as þey myȝth crye,
For hym þey songe þe letanye,
And browte hym fayre ynto þe entre,
Ther as Syr Owen wolde be.
Ther þe knyȝth kneled adown,
And þer [toke] al þur benesoun.
The pryour onlokked þe dore þo,
In Goddus name he badde hym go,
And lokked þe þore and turned agayn,
And lafte þer Syr Owayne.
Forth wente Syr Owayne, þat bolde knyȝth,
A whyle he hadde a lytull lyȝth,
But he wanted hys lyȝth full sone,
For þer shone neyþur sonne ner mone.
Hee hadde no mon hym to lede,
He groped hys way, as he moste nede.
When he come furþur wythinne,
A lytull lyȝth þer gan begynne,
Sone þeraftur a lytull more:
Glad was Syr Oweyn þerfore.
Such was hys lyȝth whan hyt was beste,
As in þe wynter when þe sonne goth to reste.
Then wente he faste, when he myȝth se,
Tyll he come to a grete countre.
Hyt semed well þe more wyldernesse,
For þer grewe noþur tre ner grasse.
As he behelde an hys ryȝth honde,
A swyde fayr halle he syȝe þer stonde;
Hyt was both longe and wyde,
And hyt was open on euery syde,
Þen sayde þe knyȝth, ‘I dowte you nowȝth.
I betake me to hym þat me hatht wroght.’
Þen þe fendes made a fyre anone
Of blakke pyche and of brenstone.
Þey caste þe knyȝth þeryn forto brenne,
And all þey begonne on hym to grenne.
Þe knyȝth þat payne full sore he þowȝth,
To Jhesu he called whyle he mowȝth.
‘Jhesu,’ he sayde, ‘full of pyte,
Help and haue mercy on me.’
All þat fyre was qweynte anone,
Þe fendes flowen away euurychone,
And þen knyȝth anone vp stode,
As hym hadde ayled nowȝt but gode,
All alone belefte yn þat place,
And he þonked God of all hys grace.
Then was he bolder forto stonde,
Ȝyf þat þey wolde hym more fonde.
Ther come deueles oþur mony mo,
And badde þe knyȝth wyth hem to go,
And ladde hym into a fowle contreye
Wher euur was nyȝth and neuur day,
For hyt was derke and wonþur colde;
Ȝette was þer neuur man so bolde,
Hadde he neuur so mony cloþus on,
But he wolde be colde as ony stone.
Wynde herde he none blowe,
But faste hyt frese, boþe hye and lowe.
They browȝte hym to a felde full brode,
Ouer suche anoþur neuur he yode,
For of þe lenghte non ende he knewe,
Therouer algate he moste nowe.
As he wente he herde a crye,
He wondered what hyt was and why.
He syȝ þer men and wymmen also
That lowde cryed, for hem was woo.
They leyen þykke on euury londe,
Faste nayled boþe fote and honde
Wyth nayles glowyng all of brasse;
Þey ete þe erþe, so wo hem was,
Her face was nayled to þe grownde,
‘Spare,’ þey cryde, ‘a lytyll stounde!’
The deueles wolde hem not spare,
To [d]o hem peyne þey thowȝte yare.
Th[e] deueles speke to Syr Owayne,
‘Knyȝth, wylt þou ȝet turne agayne,
And we wyll yn a lytull stownde
Brynge þe vp hole and sownde;
And þer may þou lyfe a good whyle,
Bothe wyth gamen and wyth gyle.
And þen whenne þou art dede raþe
Thow shalt haue þe lesse skaþe,
For bettyr hyt ys þy sowle be yn woo,
Then þy sowle and þy body also,
For ȝyf þat þou here abyde,
Thus euyll þe shall betyde.’
The knyȝth answered to all þe rowte,
‘Off ȝour thret haue I no dowte.
Thus shull ȝe me not fere,
For my sowle ys elleswhere.’
Then þey caste on hym her clawe,
Syr Owayn was aferde, I trowe.
They browȝte forde nayles long,
Glowyng all afyre well strong.
They wolde haue dryuen þorow hys fete
Tho brennyng nayles wonþur grete.
‘Jhesu,’ he sayde, ‘full of myȝte,
Haue mercy on me, synfull knyȝth.’
The deueles flowen awey euerychon,
And lefte Syr Oweyn þer alone.
‘Lorde,’ he sayde, ‘I thanke hyt þe,
At euery nede þou helpest me.’
Some of þe fendes turned aȝeyne,
And forþ þey ladde Syr Owayne
Full ferre into anoþer felde,
In such on bare he neuur shelde.
Hyt was lengur and well more
Then þat felde was byfore.
And as he loked hym besyde,
He syȝ þer pyttus mony and wyde;
Thykke þey were as þey myȝth bene,
Oneþe was þer a fote hem betwene,
And all maner of metall
He syȝ þer yn þe pyttus wall.
Men and wymmen þer wer also
In þo pyttus abydyng wo;
Some wer þerinne vp to þe chynne,
And ȝet hadde þey noȝt bete her synne;
And some wer vp to þe pappus,
And some wer yn to [þe] shappus,
And some wer yn to þe kne;
They wolde full fayne out haue be.
Then þe fendes anone ryȝte,
In a pytte þey caste þe knyȝthe.
So sore aferde he was of that,
That almost he God forȝate;
But as Goddus wyll was,
Whenne he felte þe hote brasse,
‘Jhesu,’ he sayde, wyth good entente,
‘Helpe, lorde, at þys turnemente.’
Whenne he þe name of Jhesu called,
Ther was no fyr þat hym myȝte skalde,
But anone he was out caste,
And þe deueles flowen awaye faste.
But as he stode vp and loked abowte,
Of deueles he syȝe [a] full gret rowte.
‘Knyȝte,’ þey sayde, ‘why standes þou here?
And wher ar all þy false feere?
They tolde þe þat þys was helle,
But oþurwyse we shull þe telle.
Come wyth vs a lytyll sowth,
We shall þe lede to þe deuelus mowth.’
They drewe hym be þe hatere,
Tyll þey come to a gret water,
Broode and blakke as any pyke;
Sowles wer þeryn, mony and thykke,
And also deueles on eche a syde,
As þykke as flowres yn someres tyde.
The watur stonke fowle þerto,
And dede þe soles mykyll woo.
Vp þey come to ese hem a stownde,
Þe deuelus drewe hem aȝeyn to þe grownde.
Ouur þe watur a brygge þer was,
Forsoþe kener þen ony glasse.
Hyt was narowe and hyt was hyȝe,
Vneþe þat oþur ende he syȝe.
The myddyll was hyȝe, þe ende was lowe,
Hyt ferde as hyt hadde ben a bent bowe.
The deuell sayde, ‘Knyȝte, her may þou se
Into helle þe ryȝte entre.
Ouur þys brygge þou moste wende;
Wynde and rayne we shull þe sende.
We shull þe sende wynde full goode
That shall þe caste ynto þe floode.’
Syr Owayne kneled þer adowne,
To God he made hys orysowne:
‘Lord God,’ he sayde, ‘full of myȝte,
Haue mercy on me, synfull knyȝte.
Wynde and rayne ys at þy wyll,
And all wederes lowde and styll.
Thow kanste make wynde to blowe,
And when þou lyst, to lye full lowe.
Sende me, lorde, þy swete grace,
That y may þys brygge passe.
Help, lorde, þat y þerin not falle,
Forto lese my labour all.’
To þe brygge anon he ȝede,
‘Jhesu,’ he sayde, ‘help at þys nede.’
Hys on foote he sette fyrste þeron,
And called to Jhesu ryȝth anoon.
He felte hys foote stonde stedfastly,
And þat oþur foote he sette þerby.
He called to helpe yn þat place
Jhesu, þat euur shall be and euur was.
The brygge wax a lytyll bradder
Then waxe Syr Owayne gladder;
But when he come ynto þe mydde,
Euury deuell wyth oþur chydde,
And for he sholde falle by,
All þey toke vp a grete cry.
That crye, hym þowȝt, greuede hym more
Then all þe payne he hadde before.
Neuurþelatter, forth he wente,
In God was all hys entente.
So brode þe brygge wax þoo,
That waynes myȝth þeron haue goo.
Ouur þat he come full sone,
Then was þe deuell power done.
He þonked God yn all hys þowȝth,
That hadde hym harmelese ouur browȝth.
Forth he wente a lytull whyle,
The mowntenance of halfe a myle.
He sawe a wall wondyr fayr,
Hym þowȝte hyt lasted ynto þe ayr;
Hyt was whyte and bryȝth as glasse,
He cowþe not wyte what hyt was.
When he was nyȝ þerat,
Agayne hym openede a fayr ȝate,
Full craftyly for þe nones,
Of metall and of presyous stones.
Out at þe ȝate come a smell,
Well nyȝ for joye downe he fell.
As þer hadde ben all maner of flourres,
Such w[er] þ[e] swete sauourres;
Non erdely sauour, be a þowsandfolde,
Myȝth not to þat sauour be tolde.
Then hym thowȝte he was so lyȝte,
Off þat sauour and of þat syȝte,
That all þe sorow þat he hadde sene,
And all þe payne þat he hadde yn bene,
All was forȝeten yn hy[s] þowȝth,
And of hyt he sette ryȝth nowȝth.
As he stode and was so fayne,
Hym þowȝth þer come hym agayne
A swyde fayr processyoun
Of all maner men of relygyoun.
Fayre vestymentes þey hadde on,
So ryche syȝ he neuer non.
Myche joye hym þowȝte to se
Bysshopes yn her dygnyte.
Ilkone wente oþur be and be,
Euery man yn hys degre.
He syȝ þer monkes and chanones,
And freres wyth newe shauen crownes;
Ermytes he sawe þeramonge,
And nonnes wyth full mery songe;
Persones, prestes and vycaryes,
They made full mery melodyes.
He syȝ þer kynges and emperoures,
And dukes þat hadde casteles and tourres;
Erles and barones fele
That sometyme hadde þe worldes wele.
Oþur folke he syȝ also,
Neuur so mony as he dede þoo.
Wymmen he syȝ þer that tyde,
Myche was þe joye þer on euery syde,
For all was joye þat wyth hem ferde,
And myche solempnyte þer he herde.
Fayre þey wellcomed Syr Oweyne,
All þat þer was of hym were fayne.
Then come to hym þore
Two bysshoppus, as hyt wore.
They welcomede hym and ȝode hym by,
Forto bere hym company,
And schewede hym, þat he myȝth se,
The fayrnesse of þat cowntre.
Hyt was grene and full of flowres
Of mony dyuers colowres;
Hyt was grene on euery syde,
As medewus are yn someres tyde.
Ther were trees growyng full grene,
Full of fruyte euurmore, y wene;
For þer was frwyte of mony a kynde,
Suche yn þys londe may no mon fynde.
Ther þey haue þe Tree of Lyfe,
Theryn ys myrthe and neuur stryfe.
Frwyte of wysdom also þer ys,
Of þe whyche Adam and Eue dede amysse.
Oþur maner frwytes þer were fele,
And all manere joye and wele.
Moche folke he syȝ þer dwelle,
Ther was no tonge þat myȝth hem telle.
All wer þey cloded yn ryche wede,
What cloþ hyt was he kowþe not rede,
But shapte þey hadde yn all maner
As folke þat wonede somtyme her.
By þe cloþus men myȝthe hem knowe,
As þey stode vpon a rowe,
Ȝonge and olde, more and lasse,
As hyt her owene wyll was.
Ther was no wronge, but euur ryȝth,
Euur day and neuer nyȝth;
They shone as bryȝth and more clere
Then ony sonne yn þe day doth her.
The two bysshopes turnede aȝeyne,
And speke fayr to Syr Owayne.
‘Blessed be þou,’ þey sayden þoo,
‘That haddeste wyll þys way to goo.
Purgatorye þou haste ben inne
To haue forȝeuenesse of þy synne;
Loke þat þou do synne no more,
For þou shalt neuur efte come þore.
We haue gone þe way þer þou was,
And we haue passed þat ylke plas.
So shall yche man aftur hys day,
Pore and ryche, go that way,
For þer ys mony a mon alyue,
That hath no power hym to shryue,
Tyll at þe laste he shryueth hym for drede;
Somme penaunce þey mote suffre nede:
If þey woll nowȝth do here,
They shall do hyt elleswhere.
Suche maner men, erly or late,
To purgatorye þey mote algate.
Ther mote þey dwelle stylle,
And abyde Goddes wylle,
But somme frende for her mysdede,
For hem do oþur synge or rede;
For þus may man þorow suche dyuyne,
The soner come out of hys pyne.
And þou art mon ȝet alyue,
And haste gon þorow swythe;
Thorow grace of God and good entent
Thow art passed þat turnement,
And þou arte comen to joye and blysse;
I shall þe telle what hyt ys:
Thys ys Erþly Paradyse.
Her wer Adam and Eue þat wer not wyse;
For an appull þat þey ete,
All her joye þey forlete,
And nyne hondredde ȝer and fyftene
He lyued aftur yn erþe wyth sorow and tene,
And fowr þowsande and vi hondred and iiij. ȝere
He was yn helle wyth Lucyfere,
Tyll þat Goddes wyll was
To fecche hym out of þat place,
And all hys kynde þat were hym by,
That wordy were to haue mercy;
And ledde hem forth wyth hem, ywysse,
Ryȝth ynto hys owene blysse.
And at hys ordynaunce we be,
In joye and blysse wyth solempnyte.
But when we come hym byfore,
Then shall our joye be mykyll more.
And euery day we wexen moo,
But angeles called some vs froo.
All ȝyf we be out of penance ylle,
Her we abyde Goddes wylle,
For ȝet haue we not þat dygnyte
To come before hys mageste;
But oon and on, as he wyll calle,
At þe laste we shall come all.
Euery day comeþ our fode
Of hym þat for vs shedde hys blode,
And þat þou shalte fele or þou go.’
As he stode and sayde hym so,
Ther come a gleme anon full bryȝth,
And spradde ouur þat lond ryȝth.
Hyt was swete and hyt was hote;
Into euery monnus mowþe hyt smote.
The knyȝte felde þat yn glyde;
He ne wyste wher he was þat tyde,
Ne wheþur þat he was qwykke or dede,
Such hym þowȝte þat ryche brede.
Then sayde þe bysshoppe þat be hym stode,
‘How þowstedest þou, knyȝte, was þys gode?’
‘Oo, lorde,’ he sayde, ‘þyn oore!
Let me dwelle her euurmore.’
‘Nay, sone,’ he sayde, ‘þou may not so.
Agayn þou moste algate go,
And telle oþur men what þou haste sene,
And yn what aventure þou haste bene,
For yn þe worlde þou most dye onus,
And leue þer þy flesh and þy bonus,
And come yn sowle hydur agayne,
Then wyll we of þe be fayne.’
The knyȝte sye þat he moste go,
And wepynge þen he ȝode hem fro.
Anone ryȝte þer he fell adowne,
And toke all þer benesowne,
A redy way anon he fonde
Ryȝth ynto hys owene londe.
To þe hole hys way lay,
That he come fro þat oþur day.
The fyftene men he fonde þore
That he hadde speken wyth before.
They wellcomede hym anon ryȝth,
And þonked God full of myȝte.
They prayde faste he sholde gon,
And so he wente forth anon
Home ynto hys owne contreye,
For ryȝth now spronge þe day.
‘To pryme þey wyll þe belle rynge,
And afturwarde þe masse synge.
Aftur masse, wythoute delaye,
The pryour of þe abbey,
Bothe wyth preste and chanoun,
They wyll come wyth processyoun
To þe entre the agayne,
And of þy comynge be full fayne.
And now be good forth all þy lyue,
And loke þat þou de ofte shryue,
And when þou art dede, þen shalt þou wende
To þe blysse wythouten ende.’
Thenne swyþe to go well hym lyst,
And he come hom er he wyste.
To þe dore come Syr Owayne,
And þer þe pryour come hym agayne,
And chanonus wyth mery songe,
Wyth mony a wepynge tere amonge.
All þey wer both gladde and blyþe
That God hadde saued þe knyȝte alyue.
Fyftene dayes he dwelled þore
Wyth þe chanonus, and somdele more,
And tolde what he hadde sene,
And in what payne þat he hadde bene;
And ofte he tolde hem, to make þem wyse,
Of þe joyes of paradyse.
Thenne þey wryten aftur hys mowth,
That yn londe now hyt ys kowþe.
Then he toke þe crosse and þe staf yn honde,
And wente forth ynto þe Holy Londe.
Agayn he come, hole and sownde,
And aftur þat lyuede a grete stownde
In bedes and yn holy orysowne,
As a mon of goode deuocyoun.
And aftur, when he wexede olde,
And hys body wex vnboolde,
He dyede, and wente þe ryȝte way
To þe blysse þat lastes aye.
To þat blysse he vs brynge,
That of all ys lorde and kynge.