St. Patrick's Purgatory Two versions of Owayne Miles and The Vision of William of Stranton: Together with the long text of the Tractatus de Purgatorio Sancti Patricii |
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ST PATRICK'S PURGATORY
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 | St. Patrick's Purgatory |  |
ST PATRICK'S PURGATORY
OWAYNE MILES AUCHINLECK VERSION (OM1)
3
1
[OMITTED][OMITTED]
And liued in dedeli sinne.
Seyn Patrike hadde rewþe
Of hir misbileue and vntrew[þ]e,
Þat þai weren inne.
2
Oft he proued sarmoun to make,Þat þai schuld to God take
And do after his rede.
Þai were fulfild of felonie;
Þai no held it bot ribaudie
Of noþing þat he sede.
3
And al þai seyd commounliche,Þat non of hem wold sikerliche
Do bi his techeing,
Bot ȝif he dede þat [sum] man
Into helle went þan,
To bring hem tiding
4
Of þe pain and of þe woÞe soulen suffri euermo,
Þai þat ben þerinne;
And elles þai seyd, þat nolden hye
Of her misdede nouȝt repenti,
No her folies blinne.
5
When Sein Patrike herd þis,Michel he card forsoþe, ywis,
And sore he gan desmay.
Oft he was in aflicc[i]oun,
In fasting and in orisoun,
Ihesu Crist to pray,
4
6
Þat he him schuld grace sende,Hou he miȝt raþest wende
Out of þe fendes bond,
And do hem com to amendement
And leue on God omnipotent,
Þe folk of Yrl[on]d.
7
And als he was in holy chirche,Godes werkes forto wirche,
And made his praier,
And bad for þat ich þing,
Sone he fel on slepeing
Toforn his auter.
8
In his chapel he slepe wel swete,Of fele þinges him gan mete
Þat was in heuen-blis.
As he slepe, forsoþe him þouȝt
Þat Ihesu, þat ous dere bouȝt,
To him com ywis,
9
And ȝaf him a bok þat nas nouȝt lite:Þer nis no clerk þat swiche can write,
No neuer no schal be;
It spekeþ of al maner godspelle,
Of heuen and erþe and of helle,
Of Godes priuete.
10
More him þouȝt, þat God him ȝafIn his hond a wel feir staf,
In slepe þer he lay;
And Godes Staf, ich vnderstond,
Men clepeþ þat staf in Yrlond
Ȝete to þis ich day.
11
When God him þis ȝif hadde,Him þouȝt þat he him ladde
Þennes þe way ful riȝt
Into an gret desert;
Þer was an hole michel apert,
Þat griseliche was of siȝt.
12
Rounde it was about and blak;In alle þe warld no was hi‘s’ mack,
So griselich entring.
5
Swiþe sore he was afliȝt
In his slepeing.
13
Þo God almiȝten him schewed and seyd,Who þat hadde don sinful dede
Oȝaines Godes lawe,
And wold him þerof repenti,
And take penaunce hastily,
And his foliis wiþdrawe,
14
So schuld in þis ich holeA parti of penaunce þole
For his misdede;
A niȝt and a day be herinne,
And al him schuld [be] forȝiue his sinne,
And þe better spede.
15
And ȝif he ben of gode creaunce,Gode and poure wiþouten dotaunce,
And stedfast [of] bileue,
He no schuld nouȝt be þerin ful long,
Þat he ne schal se þe paines strong—
Ac non no schal him greue—
16
In wiche þe soules ben ydo,Þat haue deserued to com þerto,
In þis world ywis;
And also þan sen he may
Þat ich ioie þat lasteþ ay,
Þat is in paradis.
17
When Ihesu had yseyd al out,And yschewed al about
Wiþ wel milde chere,
God, þat bouȝt ous dere in heuen,
Fram him he went wiþ milde steuen,
And Patrike bileft þere.
18
When Seyn Patrike o slepe he woke,Gode token he fond and vp hem toke
Of his sweuening:
Bok and staf þer he fond,
And tok hem vp in his hond,
And þonked Heuen-king.
6
19
He kneld and held vp his hond,And þonked Ihesu Cristes sond
Þat he him hadde ysent,
Wharþurth he miȝt vnderstond
To turn þat folk of Yrlond
To com to amendement.
20
In þat stede wiþouten lettA fair abbay he lete sett
Wiþouten ani dueling,
In þe name of Godes glorie,
Seyn [Peter] and our leuedy,
Forto rede and sing.
21
Seyn Patrike maked þe abbay:Þat wite wele men of þe cuntray,
Þat non is þat yliche.
Regles is þat abbay name,
Þer is solas, gle and game
Wiþ pouer and eke wiþ riche.
22
White chanounes he sett þerateTo serue God, arliche and late,
And holy men to be.
Þat ich boke and þat staf,
Þat God Seyn Patrike ȝaf,
Ȝete þer man may se.
23
In þe est ende of þe abbayÞer is þat hole, forsoþe to say,
Þat griseliche is of siȝt,
Wiþ gode ston wal al abouten,
Wiþ locke and keye þe gate to louken,
Patrike lete it diȝte.
24
Þat ich stede, siker ȝe be,Is ycleped þe riȝt entre
Of Patrikes Purgatorie:
For in þat time þat þis bifelle,
Mani a man went in to helle,
As it seyt in þe storie,
25
And suffred pein for her trespas,And com oȝain þurth Godes gras,
And seyd alle and some,
7
Þe paines of helle apertliche,
When þai were out ycome.
26
And also þai seyd wiþ heye,Apertliche þe ioies þai seiȝe
Of angels singing
To God almiȝti and to his:
Þat is þe ioie of paradys;
Ihesu ous þider bring!
27
When alle þe folk of YrlondÞe ioies gan vnderstond,
Þat Seyn Patrike hem sede,
To him þai com euerichon,
And were ycristned in fonston,
And leten her misdede.
28
And þus þai bicom, lasse and more,Cristen men þurth Godes lore,
Þurth Patrikes preier.
Now herknes to mi talking:
Ichil ȝou tel of oþer þing,
Ȝif ȝe it wil yhere.
29
Bi Steuenes day, þe king ful riȝt,Þat Inglond stabled and diȝt
Wel wiselich in his time,
In Norþhumberland was a kniȝt,
A douhti man and swiþe wiȝt,
A[s] it seyt in þis rime.
30
[O]weyn he hiȝt, wiþouten les,In cuntre þer he born wes,
As ȝe may yhere.
Wel michel he couþe of batayle,
And swiþe sinful he was saunfayle
Oȝain his creatour.
31
On a day he him biþouȝtOf þe sinne he hadde ywrouȝt,
And sore him gan adrede,
And þouȝt he wold þurth Godes grace
Ben yschriue of his trispas,
And leten his misdede.
8
32
And when he hadde þus gode creaunce,He com, as it bifel a chaunce,
To þe bischop of Yrlond,
Þer he lay in þat abbay,
Þer was þat hole, forsoþe to say,
Penaunce to take an hond.
33
To þe bischop he biknewe his sinne,And prayd him, for Godes winne,
Þat he him schuld schriue,
And legge on him penaunce sore:
He wold sinne, he seyd, no more,
Neuer eft in his liue.
34
Þe bischop þerof was ful bliþe,And for his sinne blamed him swiþe,
Þat he him hadde ytold,
And seyd he most penaunce take,
Ȝif he wald his sinne forsake,
Hard and manifold.
35
Þan answerd þe kniȝt Owayn,‘Don ichil,’ he seyd, ‘ful feyn,
What God me wil sende.
Þei þou me wost comandy
Into Patrikes Purgatori,
Þider ichil wende;’
36
Þe bischop seyd, ‘Nay, Owain, frende!Þat ich way schaltow nouȝt wende;’
And told him of þe pine,
And bede him lete be þat mischaunce,
And ‘Take,’ he seyd, ‘sum oþer penaunce,
To amende þe of sinnes þine.’
37
For nouȝt þe bischop couþe say,Þe kniȝt nold nouȝt leten his way,
His soule to amende.
Þan ladde he him into holy chirche,
Godes werkes forto wirche,
And þe riȝt lawe him kende.
38
Fiften days in afliccioun,In fasting and in orisoun
He was, wiþouten lesing.
9
Wiþ croice and wiþ gonfanoun,
To þe hole he gan him bring.
39
Þe priour seyd, ‘Kniȝt Oweyn,Her is þi gate to go ful gain,
Wende riȝt euen forþ;
And when þou a while ygon hast,
Liȝt of day þou al forlast,
Ac hold þe euen norþ.
40
Þus þou schalt vnder erþe gon;Þan þou schalt finde sone anon
A wel gret feld apliȝt,
And þerin an halle of ston,
Swiche in world no wot y non;
Sumdele þer is of liȝt.
41
Namore liȝtnesse nis þer yfoundeÞan þe sonne goþ to grounde
In winter sikerly.
Into þe halle þou schalt go,
And duelle þer tille þer com mo,
Þat schul þe solaci.
42
Þritten men þer schul come,Godes seriaunce alle and some,
As it seyt in þe stori;
And hye þe schul conseily
Hou þou schalt þe conteyni
Þe way þurth purgatori.’
43
Þan þe priour and his couentBitauȝt him God, and forþ hy went;
Þe gate þai schet anon.
Þe kniȝt his way haþ sone ynome,
Þat into þe feld he was ycome
Þer was þe halle of ston.
44
Þe halle was ful selly diȝt,Swiche can make no erþeliche wiȝt,
Þe pilers stode wide.
Þe kniȝt wonderd þat he fond
Swiche an halle in þat lond,
And open in ich side.
45
And when he hadde long stond þerout,And deuised al about,
10
Þritten men þer come,
Wisemen þai war of dome,
And white abite þai bere,
46
And al her crounes wer newe schorn;Her most maister ȝede biforn
And salud þe kniȝt.
Adoun he sat, so seyt þe boke,
And kniȝt Owain to him he toke,
And told him resoun riȝt.
47
‘Ichil þe conseyl, leue broþer,As ichaue don mani anoþer
Þat han ywent þis way,
Þat þou ben of gode creaunce,
Certeyn and poure wiþouten dotaunce
To God þi trewe fay;
48
For þou schalt se, when we ben ago,A þousend fendes and wele mo,
To bring þe into pine.
Ac loke wele, bise þe so,
And þou aniþing bi hem do,
Þi soule þou schalt tine.
49
Haue God in þine hert,And þenk opon his woundes smert,
Þat he suffred þe fore.
And bot þou do [as] y þe telle,
Bodi and soule þou gos to helle,
And euermore forlore.
50
Nempne Godes heiȝe name,And þai may do þe no schame,
For nouȝt þat may bifalle.’
And when þai hadde conseyld þe kniȝt,
No lenge bileue he no miȝt,
Bot went out of þe halle;
51
He and alle his fellaweredBitauȝt him God, and forþ þai ȝede
Wiþ ful mild chere.
11
To God he gan to clepi and grede,
And maked his preier.
52
And sone þerafter sikerlyHe gan to here a reweful cri;
He was aferd ful sore:
Þei alle þe warld falle schold,
Fram þe firmament to þe mold,
No miȝt haue ben no more.
53
And when of þe cri was passed þe drede,Þer com in a grete ferrede
Of fendes fifti score
About þe kniȝt into þe halle;
Loþly þinges þai weren alle,
Bihinde and eke bifore.
54
And þe kniȝt þai ȝeden abouten,And grenned on him her foule touten,
And drof him to heþeing,
And seyd he was comen wiþ flesche and fel
To fechen him þe ioie of helle
Wiþouten ani ending.
55
Þe most maister-fende of alleAdoun on knes he gan to falle,
And seyd, ‘Welcome, Owein!
Þou art ycomen to suffri pine
To amende þe of sinnes tine,
Ac alle gett þe no gain,
56
For þou schalt haue pine anouȝ,Hard, strong, and ful touȝ,
For þi dedli sinne.
No haddestow neuer more meschaunce
Þan þou schal haue in our daunce,
When we schul play biginne.’
57
‘Ac no for þan,’ þe fendes sede,‘Ȝif þou wilt do bi our rede,
For þou art ous leue and dere,
We schul þe bring wiþ fine amour
Þer þou com in fram þe priour,
Wiþ our felawes yfere;
12
58
And elles we schul þe teche here,Þat þou has serued ous mani ȝer
In pride and lecherie;
For we þe haue so long yknawe,
To þe we schul our hokes þrawe,
Alle our compeynie.’
59
He seyd he nold wiþouten feyle:‘Ac y forsake ȝour conseyle;
Mi penaunce ichil take.’
And when þe fendes yherd þis,
Amidward þe halle ywis
A grete fer þai gun make.
60
Fet and hond þai bounde him hard,And casten him amidward.
He cleped to our driȝt;
Anon þe fer oway was weued,
Cole no spark þer nas bileued,
Þurth grace of God almiȝt.
61
And when þe kniȝt yseiȝe þis,Michel þe balder he was ywis
And wele gan vnderstond,
And þouȝt wele in his memorie,
It was þe fendes trecherie,
His hert forto fond.
62
Þe fendes went out of þe halle,Þe kniȝt þai ladde wiþ hem alle
Intil an vncouþe lond;
Þer no was no maner wele,
Bot hunger, þrust and chele;
No tre no seiȝe he stond,
63
Bot a cold winde þat blewe þere,Þat vnneþe ani man miȝt yhere,
And perced þurth his side.
Þe fendes han þe kniȝt ynome
So long þat þai ben ycome
Into a valay wide.
64
Þo wende þe kniȝt he hadde yfoundeÞe deppest pit in helle-grounde.
When he com neiȝe þe stede
13
Strong it was forþer to gon,
He herd schriche and grede.
65
He seiȝe þer ligge ful a feldOf men and wimen þat wern aqueld,
Naked wiþ mani a wounde.
Toward þe erþe þai lay deueling,
‘Allas! Allas!’ was her brocking,
Wiþ iren bendes ybounde;
66
And gun to scriche and to wayly,And crid, ‘Allas! merci, merci!
Merci, God almiȝt!’
Merci nas þer non, forsoþe,
Bot sorwe of hert and grinding of toþe:
Þat was a griseli siȝt.
67
Þat ich sorwe and þat reuþeIs for þe foule sinne of slewþe,
As it seyt in þe stori.
Who þat is slowe in Godes seruise
Of þat pain hem may agrise,
To legge in purgatori.
68
Þis was þe first pain apliȝtÞat þai dede Owain þe kniȝt:
Þai greued him swiþe sore.
Alle þat pain he haþ ouerschaken;
Vntil anoþer þai han him taken,
Þer he seiȝe sorwe more
69
Of men and wimen þat þer lay,Þat crid, ‘Allas!’ and ‘Waileway!’
For her wicked lore.
Þilche soules lay vpward,
As þe oþer hadde ly donward,
Þat y told of bifore,
70
And were þurth fet and hond and heuedWiþ iren nailes gloweand red
To þe erþe ynayled þat tide.
Owain seiȝe sitt on hem þere
Loþli dragouns alle o fer,
In herd is nouȝt to hide.
14
71
On sum sete todes blake,Euetes, neddren and þe snake,
Þat frete hem bac and side.
Þis is þe pain of glotoni:
For Godes loue, be war þerbi!
It rinneþ al to wide.
72
Ȝete him þouȝt a pain strongOf a cold winde blewe hem among,
Þat com out of þe sky;
So bitter and so cold it blewe,
Þat alle þe soules it ouerþrewe
Þat lay in purgatori.
73
Þe fendes lopen on hem þare,And wiþ her hokes hem al totere,
And loude þai gun to crie.
Who þat is licchoure in þis liif,
Be it man oþer be it wiif,
Þat schal ben his bayli.
74
Þe fendes seyd to þe kniȝt,‘Þou hast ben strong lichoure apliȝt,
And strong glotoun also:
Into þis pain þou schalt be diȝt,
Bot þou take þe way ful riȝt
Oȝain þer þou com fro.’
75
Owain seyd, ‘Nay, Satan!Ȝete forþermar ichil gan,
Þurth grace of God almiȝt.’
Þe fendes wald him haue hent:
He cleped to God omnipotent,
And þai lorn al her miȝt.
76
Þai ladde him forþer into a stedeÞer men neuer gode no dede,
Bot schame and vilanie.
Herkneþ now, and ben in pes!
In þe ferþ feld it wes,
Al ful of turmentrie.
15
77
Sum bi þe fet wer honging,Wiþ iren hokes al brening,
And sum bi þe swere,
And sum bi wombe and sum bi rigge,
Al oþerwise þan y can sigge,
In diuers manere.
78
And sum in forneise wern ydon,Wiþ molten ledde and quic brunston
Boiland aboue þe fer,
And sum bi þe tong hing,
‘Allas!’ was euer her brocking,
And no noþer preiere.
79
And sum on grediris layen þere,Al glowand oȝains þe fer,
Þat Owain wele yknewe,
Þat whilom were of his queyntaunce,
Þat suffred þer her penaunce:
Þo chaunged al his hewe!
80
A wilde fer hem þurthout went,Alle þat it oftok it brent,
Ten þousend soules and mo.
Þo þat henge bi fet and swere,
Þat were þeues and þeues fere,
And wrouȝt man wel wo.
81
And þo þat henge bi þe tong,Þat ‘Allas!’ euer song,
And so loude crid,
Þat wer bacbiters in her liue:
Be war þerbi, man and wiue,
Þat lef beþ forto chide.
82
Alle þe stedes þe kniȝt com biWere þe paines of purgatori
For her werkes wrong.
Whoso is lef on þe halidom swere,
Or ani fals witnes bere,
Þer ben her peynes strong.
83
Owain anon him biwentAnd seiȝe where a whele trent,
Þat griseliche were of siȝt;
16
And brend riȝt as it were a brond;
Wiþ hokes it was ydiȝt.
84
An hundred þousand soules and moOpon þe whele were honging þo,
Þe fendes þertil ourn.
Þe stori seyt of Owain þe kniȝt,
Þat no soule knowe he no miȝt,
So fast þai gun it tourn.
85
Out of þe erþe com a liȝtingOf a blo fer al brening,
Þat stank foule wiþalle,
And about þe whele it went,
And þe soules it forbrent
To poudre swiþe smal.
86
Þat whele, þat renneþ in þis wise,Is for þe sinne of couaitise,
Þat regnes now oueral.
Þe coueytous man haþ neuer anouȝ
Of gold, of siluer, no of plouȝ,
Til deþ him do doun falle.
87
Þe fendes seyd to þe kniȝt,‘Þou hast ben couaitise apliȝt,
To win lond and lede;
Opon þis whele [þou] schal[t] be diȝt,
Bot ȝif þou take þe way ful riȝt
Intil þin owhen þede.’
88
Her conseyl he haþ forsaken.Þe fendes han þe kniȝt for þ taken,
And bounde him swiþe hard
Opon þe whele þat arn about,
And so loþly gan to rout,
And cast him amidward.
89
Þo þe hokes him torent,And þe wild fer him tobrent,
On Ihesu Crist he þouȝt.
Fram þat whele an angel him bare,
And al þe fendes þat were þare
No miȝt him do riȝt nouȝt.
17
90
Þai ladde him forþer wiþ gret pain,Til þai com to a mounteyn
Þat was as rede as blod,
And men and wimen þeron stode;
Him þouȝt, it nas for non gode,
For þai cride as þai were wode.
91
Þe fendes seyd to þe kniȝt þan,‘Þou hast wonder of þilche man
Þat make so dreri mode:
For þai deserued Godes wreche,
Hem schal sone com a beuereche,
Þat schal nouȝt þenche hem gode.’
92
No hadde he no raþer þat word yseyd,As it is in þe stori leyd,
Þer com a windes blast,
Þat fende and soule and kniȝt vp went
Almest into þe firmament,
And seþþen adon him cast
93
Into a stinkand riuer,Þat vnder þe mounteyn ran o fer,
As quarel of alblast,
And cold it was as ani ise:
Þe pain may no man deuise,
Þat him was wrouȝt in hast.
94
Seyn Owain in þe water was dreynt,And wex þerin so mad and feynt,
Þat neiȝe he was forlore;
Sone so he on God miȝt þenchen ouȝt,
Out of þe water he was ybrouȝt,
And to þe lond ybore.
95
Þat ich pain, ich vnderstond,Is for boþe niþe and ond,
Þat was so wick liif;
Ond was þe windes blast
Þat into þe stinking water him cast:
Ich man be war þerbi!
96
Forþ þai ladde him swiþe wiþalle,Til þai com to an halle,
He no seiȝe neuer er non swiche.
18
Þat þe kniȝt bigan to swete,
He seiȝe so foule a smiche.
97
Þo stint he forþer forto gon.Þe fendes it aperceiued anon,
And were þerof ful fawe.
‘Turn oȝain,’ þai gun to crie,
‘Or þou schalt wel sone dye,
Bot þou þe wiþdrawe.’
98
And when he com to þe halle dore,He no hadde neuer sen bifore
Haluendel þe care.
Þe halle was ful of turmentri:
Þo þat were in þat bayly
Of blis þai were ful bare,
99
For al was þe halle groundeFul of pittes þat were rounde,
And were ful yfilt
To þe brerdes, gret and smal,
Of bras and coper and oþer metal,
And quic bronston ymelt;
100
And men and wimen þeron stode,And schrist and crid, as þai wer wode,
For her dedeli sinne;
Sum to þe nauel wode,
And sum to þe brestes ȝode,
And sum to þe chin.
101
Ich man after his misgiltIn þat pein was ypilt,
To haue þat strong hete;
And sum bere bagges about her swere
Of pens gloweand al of fer,
And swiche mete þer þai ete:
102
Þat were gauelers in her liif.Be war þerbi, boþe man and wiif,
Swiche sinne þat ȝe lete.
And mani soules þer ȝede vpriȝtes,
Wiþ fals misours and fals wiȝtes,
Þat fendes opon sete.
19
103
Þe fendes to þe kniȝt sede,‘Þou most baþi in þis lede
Ar þan þou hennes go;
For þine okering and for þi sinne
A parti þou most be wasche herinne,
O cours or to.’
104
Owain drad þat turment,And cleped to God omnipotent,
And his moder Marie.
Yborn he was out of þe halle,
Fram þe paines and þe fendes alle,
Þo he so loude gan crie.
105
Anon þe kniȝt was war þer,Whare sprang out a flaumme o fer,
Þat was stark and store.
Out þe erþe þe fer aros,
Þo þe kniȝt wel sore agros;
As cole and piche it fore.
106
Of seuen maner colours þe fer out went,Þe soules þerin it forbrent;
Sum was ȝalu and grene,
Sum was blac and sum was blo;
Þo þat were þerin hem was ful wo,
And sum as nadder on to sene.
107
Þe fende haþ þe kniȝt ynome,And to þe pit þai weren ycome,
And seyd þus in her spelle,
‘Now, Owain, þou miȝt solas make,
For þou schalt wiþ our felawes schake
Into þe pit of helle.
108
Þis ben our foules in our caghe,And þis is our courtelage
And our castel-tour;
Þo þat ben herin ybrouȝt,
Sir kniȝt, hou trowestow ouȝt,
Þat hem is aniþing sour?
109
Now turn oȝain or to late,Ar we þe put in at helle-gate;
Out no schaltow neuer winne,
20
No for no clepeing to Marie,
No for no maner ginne.’
110
Her conseil þe kniȝt forsoke.Þe fendes him nom, so seiþ þe boke,
And bounde him swiþe fast;
Into þat ich wicke prisoun,
Stinckand and derk fer adoun
Amidward þai him cast.
111
Euer þe neþer þat þai him castÞe hatter þe fer on him last;
Þo him gan sore smert.
He cleped to God omnipotent,
To help him out of þat turment,
Wiþ gode wille and stedefast hert.
112
Out of þe pit he was yborn,And elles he hadde ben forlorn
To his ending-day.
Þat is þe pine, þat ich of rede,
Is for þe foule sinne of prede,
Þat schal lasten ay.
113
Biside þe pit he seiȝe and herdHou God almiȝten him had ywerd,
His cloþes wer al torent.
Forþer couþe he no way,
Þer him þouȝt a diuers cuntray;
His bodi was al forbrent.
114
Þo chaunged Owain rode and hewe;Fendes he seiȝe, ac non he no knewe,
In þat diuers lond;
Sum sexti eiȝen bere,
Þat loþeliche and griseliche we[re],
And sum hadde sexti hond.
115
Þai seyd, ‘Þou schalt nouȝt ben alon,Þou schalt hauen ous to mon,
To teche þe newe lawes,
21
In þe stede þer þou were
Amonges our felawes.’
116
Þe fendes han þe kniȝt ynome,To a stinkand water þai ben ycome;
He no seiȝe neuer er non swiche.
It stank fouler þan ani hounde,
And mani mile it was to þe grounde,
And was as swart as piche.
117
And Owain seiȝe þerouer liggeA swiþe strong, naru brigge.
Þe fendes seyd þo,
‘Lo, sir kniȝt, sestow þis?
Þis is þe brigge of paradis,
Here ouer þou most go;
118
And we þe schul wiþ stones þrowe,And þe winde þe schal ouer blowe,
And wirche þe ful wo.
Þou no schalt, for al þis midnerd,
Bot ȝif þou falle amidwerd
To our fe[la]wes mo.
119
And when þou art adoun yfalle,Þan schal com our felawes alle,
And wiþ her hokes þe hede.
We schul þe teche a newe play—
Þou hast serued ous mani a day—
And into helle þe lede.’
120
Owain biheld þe brigge smert,Þe water þervnder, blac and swert,
And sore him gan to drede,
For of o þing he tok ȝeme:
Neuer mot in sonne-beme
Þicker þan þe fendes ȝede.
121
Þe brigge was as heiȝe as a tour,And as scharpe as a rasour,
And naru it was also;
22
Brend o liȝting and of þonder,
Þat þouȝt him michel wo.
122
Þer nis no clerk may write wiþ ynke,No no man no may biþinke,
No no maister deuine,
Þat is ymade, forsoþe ywis,
Vnder þe brigge of paradis,
Haluendel þe pine.
123
So þe dominical ous telle,Þer is þe pure entre of helle:
Sein Poule berþ witnesse.
Whoso falleþ of þe brigge adoun,
Of him nis no redempcioun,
Noiþer more no lesse.
124
Þe fendes seyd to þe kniȝt þo,‘Ouer þis brigge miȝt þou nouȝt go,
For noneskines nede.
Fle periil, sorwe and wo,
And to þat stede, þer þou com fro,
Wel fair we schul þe lede.’
125
Owain anon him gan biþencheFram hou mani of þe fendes wrenche
God him saued hadde.
He sett his fot opon þe brigge,
No feld he no scharp egge,
No noþing him no drad.
126
When þe fendes yseiȝe þo,Þat he was more þan half ygo,
Loude þai gun to crie,
‘Allas, allas, þat he was born!
Þis ich kniȝt we haue forlorn
Out of our baylie.’
127
When he was of þe brigge ywent,He þonked God omnipotent,
And his moder Marie,
23
He was deliuerd fro her turment,
Intil a better baylie.
128
A cloþ of gold him was ybrouȝt,In what maner he nist nouȝt,
Þo God him hadde ysent.
Þat cloþ he dede on him þere,
And alle woundes hole were,
Þat er þen was forbrent.
129
He þonked God in Trinite,And loked forþer and gan yse
As it were a ston wal.
He biheld about, fer and neiȝe,
Non ende þeron he no seiȝe,
O red gold it schon al.
130
Forþermore he gan yseA gate, non fairer miȝt be
In þis world ywrouȝt;
Tre no stel nas þeron non,
Bot rede gold and precious ston,
And al God made of nouȝt:
131
Jaspers, topes and cristal,Margarites and coral,
And riche safer-stones,
Ribes and salidoines,
Onicles and causteloines,
And diamaunce for þe nones.
132
In tabernacles þai wer ywrouȝt,Richer miȝt it be nouȝt,
Wiþ pilers gent and smal,
Arches ybent wiþ charbukelston,
Knottes of rede gold þeropon,
And pinacles of cristal.
133
Bi as miche as our SaueourIs queinter þan goldsmitþe oþer paintour,
Þat woneþ in ani lond,
So fare þe gates of paradis
Er richer ywrouȝt, forsoþe ywis,
As ȝe may vnderstond.
134
Þe gates bi hemselue vndede:Swiche a smal com out of þat stede,
24
And of þat ich swetenisse
Þe kniȝt tok so gret strengþe y wis,
As ȝe may forþeward here,
135
Þat him þouȝt he miȝt wel,More bi a þousand del,
Suffri pain and wo,
And turn oȝain siker apliȝt,
And ogain alle fendes fiȝt,
Þer he er com fro.
136
Þe kniȝt ȝode þe gate ner,And seiȝe þer com wiþ milde chere
Wel mani [in] processioun,
Wiþ tapers and chaundelers of gold,
Non fairer no miȝt ben on mold,
And croices and goinfainoun.
137
Popes wiþ gret dignite,And cardinals gret plente,
Kinges and quenes þer were,
Kniȝtes, abbotes and priours,
Monkes, chanouns and frere Prechours,
And bischopes þat croices bere;
138
Frere Menours and Jacobins,Frere Carmes and frere Austines,
And nonnes white and blake;
Al maner religioun
Þer ȝede in þat processioun,
Þat order had ytake.
139
Þe order of wedlake com also,Men and wimen mani mo,
And þonked Godes grace
Þat haþ þe kniȝt swiche grace ysent,
He was deliuerd from þe fendes turment,
Quic man into þat plas.
140
And when þai hadde made þis melody,Tvay com out of her compeynie,
Palmes of gold þai bere;
25
Bitvix hem tvay þai han him nome,
And erchebischopes it were.
141
Vp and doun þai ladde þe kniȝt,And schewed him ioies of more miȝt,
And miche melodye;
Mirie were her carols þere,
Non foles among hem nere,
Bot ioie and menstracie.
142
Þai ȝede on carol al bi line,Her ioie may no man deuine,
Of God þai speke and song;
And angels ȝeden hem to gy,
Wiþ harpe and fiþel and sautry,
And belles miri rong.
143
No may þer no man caroly inne,Bot þat he be clene of sinne,
And leten alle foly.
Now God, for þine woundes alle,
Graunt ous caroly in þat halle,
And his moder Marie!
144
Þis ich ioie, as ȝe may se,Is for loue and charite
Oȝain God and mankinne.
Who þat lat erþely loue be,
And loueþ God in Trinite,
He may caroly þerinne.
145
Oþer ioies he seiȝe anouȝ:Heiȝe tres wiþ mani a bouȝ,
Þeron sat foules of heuen,
And breke her notes wiþ miri gle,
Burdoun and mene gret plente,
And hautain wiþ heiȝe steuen.
146
Him þouȝt wele wiþ þat foules songHe miȝt wele liue þeramong
Til þe worldes ende.
Þer he seiȝe þat tre of liif
Wharþurth þat Adam and his wiif
To helle gun wende.
26
147
Fair were her erbers wiþ floures,Rose and lili, diuers colours,
Primrol and paruink,
Mint, feþerfoy and eglentere,
Colombin and mo þer were
Þan ani man mai biþenke.
148
It beþ erbes of oþer manerÞan ani in erþe groweþ here,
Þo þat is lest of priis.
Euermore þai grene springeþ,
For winter no somer it no clingeþ,
And swetter þan licorice.
149
Þer beþ þe welles in þat stede,Þe water is swetter þan ani mede,
Ac on þer is of priis,
Swiche þat seynt Owain seiȝe þo,
Þat foure stremes vrn fro,
Out of paradis.
150
[P]ison men clepeþ þat o strem,Þat is of swiþe briȝt lem,
Gold is þerin yfounde.
[G]i[h]on men clepeþ þat oþer ywis,
Þat is of miche more priis
Of stones in þe grounde.
151
Þe þridde strem is Eufrates,Forsoþe to telle, wiþouten les,
Þat rinneþ swiþe riȝt.
Þe ferþ strem is Tigris;
In þe world is make nis,
Of stones swiþe briȝt.
152
Who loueþ to liue in clenesse,He schal haue þat ich blisse,
And se þat semly siȝt.
And more he þer yseiȝe
Vnder Godes glorie an heiȝe:
Yblisced [be] his miȝt!
27
153
Sum soule he seyȝe woni bi selue,And sum bi ten and bi tvelue,
And euerich com til oþer;
And when þai com togiders ywis,
Alle þai made miche blis
As soster doþ wiþ þe broþer.
154
Sum he seiȝe gon in rede scarlet,And sum in pourper wele ysett,
And sum in sikelatoun;
As þe prest ate masse wereþ,
Tonicles and aubes on hem þai bereþ,
And sum gold bete al doun.
155
Þe kniȝt wele in alle þingKnewe bi her cloþeing
In what state þat þai were,
And what dedes þai hadde ydo,
Þo þat were ycloþed so,
Whi[l]e þai were mannes fere.
156
Ichil ȝou tel a fair semblaunce,Þat is a gode acordaunce
Bi þe sterres clere:
Sum ster is briȝter on to se
Þan is bisides oþer þre,
And of more pouwere.
157
In þis maner ydelt it is,Bi þe ioies of para[d]is:
Þai no haue nouȝt al yliche;
Þe soule þat haþ ioie lest,
Him þenkeþ he haþ aldermest,
And holt him also riche.
158
Þe bischopes oȝain to him come,Bitven hem tvay þai him nome,
And ladde him vp and doun,
And seyd, ‘Broþer, God, herd he be!
Fulfild is þi volente,
Now herken our resoun.
159
Þou hast yse wiþ eiȝen þineBoþe þe ioies and þe pine:
Yherd be Godes grace!
28
What way it was þat þou bicome,
Er þou hennes pas.
160
Þat lond þat is so ful of sorwe,Boþe a[n e]uen and amorwe,
Þat þou þus com bi—
Þou suffredes pain and wo,
And oþer soules mani mo—
Men clepeþ it purgatori.
161
And þis lond þat is so wide,And so michel and so side,
And is ful of blis,
Þat þou hast now in ybe,
And mani ioies here yse,
Paradis is cleped ywis.
162
Þer mai no man comen hereTil þat he be spourged þere,
And ymade al clene.
Þan comeþ þai hider,’ þe bischop sede,
‘Into þe ioie we schul hem lede,
Sumwhile bi tvelue and tene.
163
And sum ben so hard ybounde,Þai nite neuer hou long stounde
Þai schul suffri þat hete;
Bot ȝif her frendes do godenisse,
Ȝif mete, or do sing messe,
Þat þai han in erþe ylete,
164
Oþer ani oþer almos-dede,Alle þe better hem may spede
Out of her missays,
And com into þis paradis,
Þer ioie and blis euer is,
And libbe here al in pays.
165
As hye comeþ out of purgatori,So passe we vp to Godes glori,
Þat is þe heiȝe riche,
Þat is paradis celestien;
Þerin com bot cristen men:
No ioie nis þat yliche.
29
166
When we comen out of þe ferOf purgatori, ar we com her,
We no may nouȝt anon riȝt,
Til we han her long ybe,
We may nouȝt Godes face yse,
No in þat stede aliȝt.
167
Þe child þat was yborn toniȝt,Er þe soule be hider ydiȝt,
Þe pain schal ouerfle.
Strong and heui is it þan,
Here to com þe old man,
Þat long in sinne haþ be.’
168
Forþ þai went til þai seiȝeA mounteyn þat was swiþe heiȝe,
Þer was al gamen and gle.
So long þai hadde þe way ynome,
Þat to þe cop þai weren ycome,
Þe ioies forto se.
169
Þer was al maner foulen song,Michel ioie was hem among,
And euermore schal be;
Þer is more ioie in a foules mouþe,
Þan here in harp, fiþel or crouþe,
Bi lond oþer bi se.
170
Þat lond, þat is so honestly,Is ycleped paradis terestri,
Þat is in erþe here;
Þat oþer is paradis, Godes riche:
Þilke ioie haþ non yliche,
And is aboue þe aire.
171
In þat, þat is in erþe here,Was Owain, þat y spac of here,
Swiche þat les Adam;
For, hadde Adam yhold him stille,
And wrouȝt after Godes wille—
As he oȝain him nam—
30
172
He no his ofspring neuermoOut of þat ioie no schuld haue go;
Bot for he brac it so sone,
Wiþ pike and spade in diche to delue,
To help his wiif and himselue,
God made him miche to done.
173
God was wiþ him so wroþ,Þat he no left him no cloþ,
Bot a lef of a tre,
And al naked ȝede and stode.
Loke man, ȝif hye ner wode,
At swiche a conseil to be.
174
Þo com an angel wiþ a swerd o fer,And wiþ a stern loke and chere,
And made hem sore aferd;
In erþe to ben in sorwe and wo,
Þerwhile þai liued euermo,
He drof hem to midnerd.
175
And when he dyed to helle he nam,And al þat euer of him cam,
Til Godes sone was born,
And suffred pain and passioun,
And brouȝt him out of þat prisoun,
And elles were al forlorn.
176
Hereof spekeþ Dauid in þe sauter,Of a þing þat toucheþ here,
Of God in Trinite,
Opon men, þat ben in gret honour,
And honoureþ nouȝt her creatour
Of so heiȝe dignite.
177
Alle þat ben of Adames kinne,Þ [at her in erþe haue don sinne],
S[OMITTED]
O[OMITTED]
H[OMITTED]
A[OMITTED]
31
178
[OMITTED][OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
179
Th[OMITTED]B[OMITTED]
In þe paine of purgatori;
And bot he haue þe better chaunce,
At domesday he is in balaunce
Oȝaines God in glorie.
180
Þe bischopes þe kniȝt heteTo tellen h[e]m, þat he no lete,
Wheþer heuen were white or biis,
Blewe or rede, ȝalu or grene.
Þe kniȝt seyd, ‘Wiþouten wene,
Y schal say min aviis.
181
Me þenkeþ it is a þousandfoldBriȝter þan euer was ani gold,
Bi siȝt opon to se.’
‘Ȝa,’ seyd þe bischop to þe kniȝt,
‘Þat ich stede, þat is so briȝt,
Nis bot þe entre.
182
And ich day ate gate o siþeOus comeþ a mele to make ous bliþe,
Þat is to our biheue:
A swete smal of al gode,
It is our soule fode.
Abide, þou schalt ous leue.’
183
Anon þe kniȝt was war þere,Whare sprong out a flaumbe o fer,
Fram heuen-gate it fel.
Þe kniȝt þouȝt, al fer and neiȝe,
Þer ouer al paradis it fleiȝe,
And ȝaf so swete a smal.
32
184
Þe holy gost in fourme o ferOpon þe kniȝt liȝt þer,
In þat ich place;
Þurth vertu of þat ich liȝt
He les þer al his erþelich miȝt,
And þonked Godes grace.
185
Þus þe bischop to him sede,‘God fet ous ich day wiþ his brede,
Ac we no haue noure neiȝe
So grete likeing of his grace,
No swiche a siȝt opon his face,
As þo þat ben on heiȝe.
186
Þe soules þat beþ at Godes fest,Þilche ioie schal euer lest
Wiþouten ani ende.
Now þou most bi our comoun dome,
Þat ich way þat þou bicome,
Oȝain þou most wende.
187
Now kepe þe wele fram dedli sinne,Þat þou neuer com þerinne,
For nonskines nede.
When þou art ded, þou schalt wende
Into þe ioie þat haþ non ende;
Angels schul þe lede.’
188
Þo wepe seynt Owain swiþe sore,And prayd hem for Godes ore,
Þat he most þer duelle;
Þat he no seiȝe neuermore,
As he hadde do bifore,
Þe strong paines of helle.
189
Of þat praier gat he no gain.He nam his leue and went oȝain,
Þei him were swiþe wo.
Fendes he seiȝe ten þousand last,
Þay flowe fram him as quarel of alblast,
Þat he er com fro.
190
No nere þan a quarel miȝt fle,No fende no miȝt him here no se,
For al þis warld to winne;
And when þat he com to þe halle,
33
Oȝaines him þerinne.
191
Alle þai held vp her hond,And þonked Ihesu Cristes sond
A þousand times and mo,
And bad him heiȝe, þat he no wond,
Þat he wer vp in Yrlond,
As swiþe as he miȝt go.
192
And as ich finde in þis stori,Þe priour of þe Purgatori
Com tokening þat niȝt,
Þat Owain hadde ouercomen his sorwe,
And schuld com vp on þe morwe,
Þurth grace of God almiȝt.
193
Þan þe priour wiþ processioun,Wiþ croice and wiþ goinfainoun,
To þe hole he went ful riȝt,
Þer þat kniȝt Owain in wende.
As a briȝt fere þat brende,
Þai seiȝe a lem of liȝt,
194
And riȝt amiddes þat ich liȝtCom vp Owain, Godes kniȝt.
Þo wist þai wele bi þan,
Þat Owain hadde ben in paradis,
And in purgatori ywis,
And þat he was holy man.
195
Þai ladde him into holi chirche,Godes werkes forto wirche.
His praiers he gan make,
And at þe ende on þe fiften day,
Þe kniȝt anon, forsoþe to say,
Scrippe and burdoun gan take.
196
Þat ich holy stede he souȝt,Þer Ihesus Crist ous dere bouȝt
Opon þe rode-tre,
And þer he ros fram ded to liue
Þurth vertu of his woundes fiue:
Yblisced mot he be!
197
And Bedlem, þer þat God was bornOf Mari his moder, as flour of þorn,
And þer he stiȝe to heuen;
34
And monkes abite vndernome,
And liued þere ȝeres seuen.
198
And when he deyd, he went ywisInto þe heiȝe ioie of paradis,
Þurth help of Godes grace.
Now God, for seynt Owain's loue,
Graunt ous heuen-blis aboue
Bifor his swete face! Amen.
Explicit
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