 | The Wheatley Manuscript |  |
II
[A PRAYER TO THE BLESSED VIRGIN]
Hayle, bote of bale, blissed Qwene!
To sight so semely is noon sene;
Lady of aungels, qwene of heuen,
Emprice of helle is þat I [n]eue[n].
Haile Mary, modir of grete mercy,
To the with hart I calle and cry,
On hast thow here þis wrecched thing
That maketh to the this pure pra[i]yng;
7
That prey to the me wille lett;
For in erthe, in welthe and woo,
Thow haue[s] þi freende and I my foo,
Þow art syker and I am in drede;
Too deeth my synnes wil me lede,
And saith me it is no bote
Though I falle the too foote.
If I myne eghen vn-to the cast,
Ther-agayne my synnes er faast,
And saith me þat I doo nought ryght,
For I wrethed the with my sight
Whanne I behelde wantonnes
And sett my thought o[n] wykkednesse.
How schal I thanne be so boolde
The with myne eghen to be-holde,
That haue the wrethed wrangly,—
How schal I of the gete mercy?
A! Lady, what schal I doo
If I dar nought loke the too,
Or how schal I on the eghen caste
That I wote to the haue trespast?
Thus my synnes will me feer
For sight that I may nought for-bere;
But here-agayne I wend to say
That the, Lady, loue I ay;
And, how soo I me mys-bare,
On the my troost was euer-mare.
But sone come it in-to my thought
That this answere avayleth nought,
For Ihesu thi sone hateth al synne
And alle the folyes that men lyf inne.
For-why our synne that we noght leue,
It is no drede that we hym greue.
Lady, who greueth hym and payith the?
How schul his fomen on the see?
For they greue hym so rightwisly,
And thow louyst hym so tenderly.
8
Allas, allas, that hard syth!
That may I say, allas, allas,
For now is warre thanne ere was.
Lady, I haue greued yow bothe,
And that vnto myne owen skathe.
Lady, who schal halde me fro peyne
If [ȝ]e too halde me agayne?
If [ȝ]e wil me saue, borowed I be,
And if [ȝ]e wil nought, may non help me.
A! synnes, synnes, wo yow be,
For fouly haue [ȝ]e gyled me;
For soo ye reft me skilwys syght,
Whenne I yow wrought ye semed light,
But whenne I w[eie]de my trespas,
Neuer no leede so heuy was.
Wele I wote I was a fonne
Whenne I troosted yow vpon.
For þat I ere loghe, now I grete;
Allas, I wroght yow euer yette!
First were ye soft, and now ye prik;
A, wist I nought ye were soo wyk!
First were ye stille, now are ye hye;
First ye glo[þer]ed, now ye wrye.
My frendes haue ye made my foon;
To whom for help may I goon?
Me schames to loke vp-on brade,
And haue wrechid synnes made.
Wher-to for syght schuld me schame?
I haue no lym with-outen blame.
I wolde be blynde as any stane,
Soo þat othir synnes hade I nane;
But with my handes I haue done ille,
With mouthe synned agayne skille,
With heryng lyked my wantonnes
And hirked sone to here goodnesse;
In hert haue I halden pryde
Night and day many a tyde;
9
Of couatyse qwyt am I nought,
My feete to ille haue gane, I knowe,
And vn-to goodnesse been ful slawe;
Dauid worde haue I vptane,
Þat says, “In my flessh is heel nane.”
A! Marye qwene, of wymen floure,
Cristes modir, Goddes boure,
Neuer noo synne in the was;
What may I praye the for my trespas?
Alle thing þat I knawe in me
Is welatesom to thi sone and to the;
My handes ar lothe, my mouthe is filde,
My wikked hert hath ben to wylde,
Alle thing þat I þere-of [t]elle
Is filed of þat foule welle.
Lady, whethir is better I hald me stille,
Or with my mouthe speke the vn-tille?
Or what wille þow amendes take
For my sinnes grete and blake?
Hert, if thow thi peril wist,
It were no wondir if þou woldist brest.
What goodnesse fyndist þou in synne,
That thow lyked soo ther-inne?
Thow hast fordone thin owen state
And take to helle the euen gate,
Thow hast wrethed Ihesu and swete Mary;
Therfore the aght to be sory,
For to alle in heuene art thow lothe
Whiles thoo too ar with the wrothe,
Dar noon schewe the lightsom mode
Whiles thei be wrothe þat be so good.
Hardely synnes haue sorowful eendes,
Þat maken a man lese swich too frendes,
For more likyng is on hem to se
Than a thousand wynter in synne to be.
Hert of ston, wilt thow nought melt?
For sorow me thynk the aght to swelt;
10
Bot Ihesu and Mary wil with the saghtil.
Dry hert, thow haues hard telle
How Crist says in his gospell
Ilk a tre þat on rote stode
And brought forth no fruyt gode
Shal be hewen doun at the laste,
And in the fyre to brenne it schal be cast.
A! wrecched hert, fyre bronde,
How longe on rote wenist thow to stonde?
Thi fruyte is roten and baysk for synne,
To the fyre thow moost goo to brenne
Bot Ihesu and Mary schewe ther goodnesse,
That thow wrethed with thi wikkednesse.
A! Ihesu, Ihesu, for thy grete vertu,
Schew to me thow hatte Ihesu;
For that knawes olde and [ȝ]yng,
That Ihesu is saueour of alle thyng.
Saue me therfore fro endles schame,
For of saueour thow berest the name;
How schal thow thin owen name tyne
To put me wrecche to sorow and pyne?
Or whi schul we the Ihesu calle
If thow þare synful dampne alle?
My synnes er gretter than me gode ware,
Bot I wote thy mercy is wel mare.
Warne me not, Ihesu, for my mysdede;
Of thi mercy is me grete nede.
A! Mary, whanne I began my tale
Th[e] I called bote of bale.
To me this synful be thow bute
Whanne I schal to þ[at] aweful mute,
To answere of ilk dede and thought,
On þat dredeful day thow fail me nought.
Lady, Moyses in the olde lawe
Wrote to the folk swich a sawe,
Who-so other mannes gode may fynde,
Thei schul nought leue it hem be-hynde,
11
And gyuen agayn whan it were sought.
But Lady, byfore Ihesu face,
Sayde the aungel, thow hast founde grace;
And I haue losed grace for my trespas,
Therfore to the I come þat funden it has.
Of thi grete grace geete me a droope,
And thool me neuer falle in wanhope.
Lady, mankynde trowen it wele
That thow was haylsed with Gabriel
And glathed with the Holy Gaste
When thow conceyued God of myghtes maste.
I pray þe hartly for that grete blys
Forgyf me that I haue don amys;
For the aungel taght the al holynes,
And I was egged to wikkednes.
Sithen vmthenk the þat [þou] was fayn
When thow bare Ihesu with-oute payne,
And onely had a child, as clerkes rede,
With-outen losyng of thy maydenhede.
For that ioy and blys þat thow had there,
Haue pite of my rewful fare,
For I brought forth wikkednesse,
And losed al my clennes.
Mary, who myght thy joyes telle
Whanne Ihesu thi sone heryid helle
And rose froo deeth on sonnes morne,
That he tholed for vs beforne?
Lady, what blys had thow thanne,
Whanne thi sone roos bothe God & man,
F[rom] deeth þat he tholed thare,
That thow loked on with sorow & care!
For that grete blys I the beseke
With worde of mouthe and hert meke,
Reyse me fro deeth, þat ille has wrought,
And bryng to Ihesu þat me dere bought.
Lady, who may wete how þou were glad,
Or telle with tong what ioye þow had,
12
Thi sone stegh vp with his bodily myght,
And sett hym on his fader right hand
To be Lorde and God alle weldant?
Of joye, Lady, the vmbethyng,
And thole me neuer to helle doun synk
For my synnes heuy as the leede,
That me wil drawe to sorow steede.
Thow were glad, Lady, as telleth the boke,
Whenne thi sone Ihesu to hym the vptooke;
Glad thow were whanne ȝe two mett,
Abouen aungels kynde there he the sett.
Whanne þow sittist coronde in heuene,
To the I pray with mylde steuen,
Haue pite of me in thi wel-fare,
That left is here in sorow and care.
Vmthynk the, Lady, thi sone me wrought,
And sithen on roode me dere bought,
Thi sone made me to his lyknesse,
Though I fyled me with wykkednesse.
For loue of thi sone visage
Haue rewthe on me, his fyled ymage;
Of synne and filthe thow make me clene,
For mercyful thow art and myghty qwene.
If thow say, Lady, thi sone is wrothe,
And synne to hym hath made me lothe,
I wot wele I haue wrethed hym ille,
But thow may saghtil vs if þow wille.
Schew hym þi eghen þat for hym greete
Whenne he on rode þanne payed oure deet;
Schew hym thi mouthe þat kissed hym swete
Whanne he was ȝonge and litil ȝete;
Schewe hym thi pappes for my trespas,
That he soked whenne he ȝonge was;
Schew hym thi handes þat handild hym soft,
And thi armes þat hym bare oft;
And wele I wote saghtilde I be,
If þese tokynes of loue thow schewe for me.
Lady, ȝit if it be sayde
That the fader of heuene be myspayde
13
In wil, in werk, in worde and thought,
Pray thi sone schewe hym for me
What payne he tholed on rode tre,
And sone I hope to gete forgyfnes
Of my synnes more and les.
Lady, ther is no thing þat me may dere,
If thow aboute be me to were.
Alle sary hauen ioy of thi gode fame,
To them is ioye þi blisful name;
For wele is thi name made, swete Lady,
Of M and A, R and I.
M is medycyn to alle seke
Þat it wil pray with hert meke.
Thi medycyn, Lady, to me þow schewe,
For my grete sekenes wele I knowe.
To the I ȝelde me, fayr pray[ande],
Lat me neuer perisshe vndir þi hande.
If thow for sekenes me wil forsake,
Wil noon to hele me vndirtake.
A is autour of holynes,
Where Ihesu goodnesse offyrde is.
To þat auter I wil my offryng make,
If ther were any þat wolde it take;
But the auter is ryche, þe keper is grete,
With my pore offryng wele may th[am] w[l]ete;
But Ihesu in the gospel boke
Þe wedow offring to þe most thank toke,
Two mytes of a ferthing prys,
For þe maner was gode and wys.
But, swete Lady, þow me nought wyte,
I haue now a-nother myte;
Body and soule ar mytes two,
Omange þi offryng thole þam goo,
And, whethir þat I wake or slepe,
On thise two mytes gyf þow kepe.
The thred lettre of thy name, Lady,
R, is ryuer of mercy.
14
But of þat water I haue a draght.
Lady, wha[m]e wil þow mercy bede,
If thei þat pray þe may not spede;
Or, if þe wille of mercy be any tyme dry,
Who to þe for mercy wil any tyme cry?
Þerfore, Lady, schewe thi godenes,
Lat me not in þis thriste goo dryngles.
I, Lady, is þe ferthe lettre, I wote;
Þat wele acordes vnto þi state;
For als iustice of lyueraunce we þe calle,
Þat God hath sett to help vs alle.
Þi commission is trewe and large,
Þerfore to me be schelde and targe,
And thole neuer dome passe me agayn,
Bot saue me euer fro endles payn.
Lady, I am fayn þat þow fares wele;
Haue reuth of my wo þat I sore fele;
And a thyng, I pray þe, to hert þow take,
Þat Ion þi cosyn in his book spake:
He says, “Who-so haues þe worldes gode,
And to þe nedful noght turnes his mode,
Of hym þat can I not telle
How charite in hym schalle dwelle.”
A, Lady, what blys has þow and wel-fare!
What sorow haue I and whatkyn care!
How schuld charite in the be
Ȝif þow haue no-kyn reuthe of me?
Lady, comly qwene of hey state,
Þis begger mesil crieth at thi ȝate;
Sende to me some almes dede,
Or elles I perische in sorow and nede.
Lady, þow art called my sister in þe book,
Þi sone oure brother þat oure kynde took,
Brothir and sister, I can na mare,
But bryng me oute of my [mys]fare,
And, if ȝe brothirhede wil me warne,
Help me als a godesluf-barne.
15
For his loue þat made bothe sone and mone,
Þat alle þat wil þis lere or rede
Þow be þer help at her moost nede,
And forgyf hem þat haues done mys,
And bryng vs alle to þi sone blys.
Amen.
| The Wheatley Manuscript | |