University of Virginia Library

[II.]

[Marie Moder, Mylde Qween]

Marie Moder, Mylde Qween,
Send vs grace synne to flen,
Þat we mowe þi sone i-sen
And euere wiþ hym in Blisse ben.

Ihesu, swete is þe loue of þe;
Ne may no þing so swete be,
Nouȝt þat mon may þenke or se,
Ne haue swetnesse aȝeynes þe.

Ihesu, no song mai be swettore,
Ne þouȝt in herte Blisfollere,
Nouȝt may be feeled lihtsomere
Þen þou, so swete a louyere!

Ihesu, þi loue was vs so fre
Þat hit from heuene brouȝte þe,
ffor loue ful deore bouȝtest þou me,
ffor loue þow henge on Roode-tre.

Ihesu, to þi disciples dere
Þou seydest wiþ ful dreri chere
As þei seeten alle I-feere
A luytel ar þou taken were—

Ihesu, þou seydest þat þou wore
fful of serwe and herte-sore,
And beed hem dwellen a while þore
While þou beo-souȝtest þi ffader ore;

Ihesu, þou eodest on þi feete
To þe Mount of Olyuete,

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452

And to þi ffader, er þou leete,
Þow madest a boone wiþ herte swete:

To him þou seidest: “ȝif hit may be,
Deore ffader, I preye þe,
Þis peyne passe a-wey from me;
As þow wolt so moot hit be!”

Ihesu, þou tornedest to hem þan:
And founde hem slepen vch a man;
Þow beede hem waken, &, er þou blan,
A-non aȝeyn þe wey þou nam.

Ihesu, þus eft þe selue boone
Þat þou beo-fore bi-gonne to done,
And eke þe þridde tyme sone
Þow madest, wiþ a Milde mone.

Ihesu, wiþ þat þou preye gon,
Þe swot of blood from þe ron.
ffrom heuene an Angel lihte þon
And þe cumfortede, God and Mon.

Marie Mylde, freo and gent,
Preye for me—þou art present—
Whon my soule is from me went,
Þat hit haue good Iuggement.

Ihesu, for loue þou soffredest wrong,
Woundes sore and peynes strong;
Þi peynes reuþful weore and long,
Ne may me hit telle in spel ne song.

Ihesu, for loue þou suffredest so wo
Þat bloodi stremes Ronne þe fro;
Þi white bodi was bleyk and blo—
Vre sunnes hit made, weylawo!

Ihesu, þi Coroune sat þe sore,
Þe scourgyng whon þow scourget wore;
Hit was for me—Ihesu, þin ore!—
Þe peynes þat þow þoledest þore.

Ihesu swete, þow heng on tre
Not for þi gult, but al for me,

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453

ffor sunnes and gult aȝeynes þe—
Swete Ihesu, for-ȝif hem me.

Ihesu, whon þow streyned wore,
Þi peynes woxen more and more.
Þi Mooder euer wiþ þe was þore,
Wiþ serweful sikynges and wiþ sore.

Ihesu, whi weore þou pyned so
Þat neuer wrouȝtest wrong ne wo?
Hit was for me, and moni mo,
Þat þou so harde were bi-go.

Ihesu, what sauh þow on me
Of ouȝt þat neodful was to þe,
Þat þou so harde on Roode-tre
ffor me woldest pyned be?

Ihesu, whi weore þou so gelous,
So feruent and so disirrous
To buggen wiþ pris so precious
Wrecche Mon so vicious?

Ihesu, for vs þou henge on Rode,
ffor loue þou ȝeeue þin herte-blode;
Loue þe made vre soule foode,
Þi loue vs brouhte to alle goode.

Ihesu my lemmon, þou art so fre,
Þat al þou dedest for loue of me:
What schal I for þat ȝeelde þe?
Þow kepest not but þe loue of me.

Ihesu my god, my lord, my kyng,
Þou askest me non oþer þyng
But trewe loue and herte longyng
And loue-teres and stille mournyng.

Ihesu my deore, my loue, my liht,
I wol þe louen, and þat is riht.
Do me þe louen wiþ al my miht,
And after þe Mourne dai & niht!

Ihesu, do me so loue þe
Þat my þouht ay on þe be;

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454

Wiþ þin eȝen lok on me,
And Myldeliche my nede se!

Marie ladi, Mooder briht,—
Þou darst, þou wolt, þou art of miht,—
Myn herte loue, my lyf, my liht,
Þou prey for me boþe day & niht.

Ihesu, þi loue is al my þouht,
Of oþer þing ne recche I nouht,
But þat I haue a-ȝeyn þe wrouht
And þou hast me so deore a-bouht.

Ihesu, al-þauȝ I synful be,
fful longe hastou spared me;
Þe more owe I to loue þe
Þat þou wiþ me hast ben so fre.

Ihesu, forsoþe now nis no þing
In al þis world of such lykyng,
Þat con so muche of loue-longyng,
As þou Ihesu, my deore swetyng.

Ihesu, wel ouȝt I loue þe,
ffor þou me schewest þi Rode-tre,
Þi Coroune of þornes, and nayles þre,
Þe scharpe spere þat þorw-stong þe.

Ihesu, of loue I seo tokenyng:
Þin Armes spradde to loue-cluppyng,
Þin hed bouwede to swete cussyng,
Þi syde al opene to loue-schewyng.

Ihesu, whon I þenke on þe
And loke vppon þe Roode-tre,
Þi swete bodi bi-bled I se:
Lord, do þat siht to wounde me!

Ihesu, þi Moder þat bi þe stood,
Of loue-teres heo wepte a flood;
Þy woundes and þyn holy blood
Heo maden hire haue a dreri mood.

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455

Ihesu, loue þe dude to wepen,
Loue þe dude þi blod to sweten,
ffor loue þou were sore beten,
Loue þe dude þi lyf to leten.

Marie, I prei þe, as þou art fre,
Of þi serwe parte wiþ me,
Þat I mowe serwe here wiþ þe
And partiner of þi blisse be.

Ihesu, þi loue þou tauhtest me
Wiþ swete wordes of herte fre
Þat þou speek on Roode-tre—
So ful of loue ne mihte non be.

Ihesu, þe furste word was, as I rede,
Þat þou þi deore ffader beede
Þat he forȝaf hem heore misdede,
Alle þat duden þe to dede.

Ihesu, þat oþer was I-wis
Þat þou seidest, as writen is:
Þat þe þeef schulde haue blis
Wiþ þe þat day in paradis.

Ihesu, þe þridde was of Mon:
Whon þi Mooder þe schulde forgon,
A Sone þou hire be-tauhtest on,
And seidest: “wommon, tak heer Ion!”

Ihesu, as þou weore pyned more,
Þe ffeorþe word þou seydest þore:
“A,” seydest þow, “me þursteþ sore”—
Hit was for hem þat dampned wore.

Ihesu, þe ffyfþe word Reweþ me
Þat þow seidest on Roode-tre:
“Mi God, Mi God, hou may þis be
Þat þou hast al forsake me?”

Ihesu, þe Sixte word hit was
Whon þou seidest “In manus tuas,”
Be-tauhtest þi ffader in þat plas
Þi soule, as his wille was.

Ihesu, In al þi peyne mest
Neuere was so meke best—

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456

Þou seydest “Consummatum est,”
Þyn hed fel doun, þou ȝelde þe gost.

Ihesu, þou seidest; “alle ȝe
Þat passen be þe wey bi me,
A while a-bydeþ, comeþ and se
Ȝif eny serwe is lyk to me.”

Ihesu, þou seidest: “tel þow me,
Mi deore folk, what hit may be,
What haue I gult aȝeynes þe
Þat þou so bitter art to me?”

Ihesu, þou seydest þenne more:
“Mi deore folk, ȝe tel me ȝore,
Haue I wiþ myn holi lore
And gode dedes I-hurt so sore?”

Ihesu, þou seidest after ȝet:
“Mi deore wynȝard, ne haue I þe set,
Mi ffader blisse þe bi-het,
Wiþ al my-self—what woldest þou bet?”

Ihesu, þou seidest: “hou is þis,
Mi Swete, what haue I do mis
Þat þou wiþ-outen eny lis
Me ȝeldest schome aȝeyn Mi blis?”

Marie, þat slakest alle wo,
Helle-peynes schild me fro,
And ȝif me grace her do so
Þat I from henne to heuene go.

Ihesu, ffyue welles I fynde in þe,
Þat loue spring to drawe me;
Of Rede blod þe stremes be,
Mi soule of synnes wasschen heo.

Ihesu, my soule drauȝ þe to,
And mak myn herte wyde vndo;
Ȝif hit þi loue to drynke so,
Þat flessches lustes ben fordo!

Ihesu, Muchel Ich owe þe:
Who schal hit al ȝelde þe?

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457

Me bi-houeþ þi-self hit be,
As þou pyne suffredest for me.

Ihesu, þi loue ȝef me follyke,
In myn herte þat hit stike,
Mi soule hit þurle Inwardliche,
Þat hit be þyn enteerliche.

Ihesu, do me loue þe so
Þat, wher I beo or what I do,
Þat I for weole ne for wo
Ne let myn herte torne þe fro.

Ihesu lord, Mi swetyng,
Hold me euere in þy kepyng,
Mak of me þi derlyng,
Þat I þe loue ouer alle þing.

Ihesu, my weole and al my wynne,
Al my Ioye is þe wiþ-Inne:
Now and euere kep me from synne,
To do þi wille let me not blynne!

Ihesu, mihtful Heuene-kyng,
Þi loue beo al my lykyng,
Mi mournyng and my longyng,
Wiþ swete teres wepyng.

Ihesu, ȝif me for þi name
Pacience In peyne and schame,
Þat to my soule is note and frame;
And mak myn herte Mylde & tame.

Ihesu, Al þat is feir to se,
Þat to þe fflessches lykyng may be,
Al worldes blisse do me fle
And al my tent ȝiue to þe.

Marie, Swete Mayden fre,
ffor Ihesu [crist] be-seche I þe:
Þi swete sone do loue me,
And mak me worþi þat hit so be.

Ihesu, in þe beo al my þouȝt—

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458

Of oþer þyng ne recche I nouȝt;
Whon I of þe may felen ouȝt,
Þen is my soule wel of þouȝt.

Ihesu, ȝif þou for-lete me,
What may me lyken of þat I se?
Blisse may non wiþ me be,
Til þat þou come aȝeyn to me.

Ihesu, þat me hast deore abouht,
Al þat to synne draweþ ouht
Holliche puyt out of my þouȝt,
So þat I ne wraþþe þe nouȝt.

Ihesu, my soule is weddet to þe—
Wiþ rihte hit ouhte þin owne to be;
Þauȝ I haue synget aȝeynes þe,
Þi Merci is euere redi to me.

Ihesu þi Merci, bi-leue I craue—
Me bihoueþ þat I hit haue;
Þe deuh of grace vppon me laue,
And worþi me make þi loue to haue.

Ihesu, þou be al my ȝernyng,
In þe be, lord, al my lykyng,
Mi þouȝt, my dede, and my Mournyng
To haue þe Euere in loue-longyng.

Ihesu, my leof, Mylde of mood,
Mi soule haþ neode of þi good:
Mak hit clene and þolemood,
And ful hit of þi loue-flod.

Ihesu, my soule preyeþ þe,
Let hit nouȝt vncloþed be;
Cloþe hit wiþ þi loue fre,
Wiþ goode werkes þat lyken þe.

Ihesu, Beute ne aske I þe nouȝt,
Ne proude cloþes nobli wrouȝt,

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459

Londes ne Rentes, deore bouȝt,
But hertly loue and clene þouȝt.

Ihesu, whonne so hit lykeþ þe,
Loue-sparkes send þou me;
Mak myn herte al hot to be,
Brennynde in þe loue of þe.

Marie, þi sone preye hertely
ffor me, wrecche vnworþy,
Þat he wole enterly
Graunte me his Merci.

Ihesu almihti, heuene-kyng,
Þi loue is a ful derne þing;
May no mon hit witen þorw knowyng,
But he hit feele þorw herte þenkyng.

Ihesu, ȝif me þat I may see
Þe Muchele good þou hast do me.
And I vnkynde aȝeyn haue be,
ffor-ȝif me, lord, þat art so fre.

Ihesu, þi loue and fleschly þouȝt
Wonen to-gedre ne mouwe þ[e]i nouȝt,
As Hony & galle to-gedre brouȝt;
Swete and Bitter a-cordeþ nouȝt.

Ihesu, wiþ herte I þonke þe.
Þouȝ I wrecche and sunfol be,
In trewe hope I preye þe,
Þi Blisse & Merci graunte þou me.

Ihesu, þauh I be vnworþi
To loue þe, lord Almihti,
Þi godnesse me makeþ hardi
Mi soule to don in þi Merci.

Ihesu, þi Merci cumforteþ me:
ffor no mon may so synful be,
Þat synne wol leue and to þe fle,
Þat Merci ful redi fyndeþ he.

Ihesu, for synful, as writen is,
Þou lihtest from þin heiȝe blis

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460

In to Marie wombe, I-wis,
To ȝiuen vs alle reste and lis.

Ihesu, þauȝ I synful be,
I haue euere trust hope in þe;
Þerfore, lord, I preye þe
Þat of my synnes amende þou me.

Ihesu, þou art so good a mon,
Þi loue desyre I as I con;
Me to lette suffre þing non,
Swete Ihesu, my deore lemmon.

Ihesu, euere beo-seche I þe,
Þin Inward loue þou graunte me;
Þouȝ I þerto vnworþi be,
Þou mak me worþi, þat art so fre.

Marie Milde, ful of pite,
Prey þi deore Sone for me
Þat he graunte me to be
Euere in blisse wiþ him and þe.

Ihesu al swete, þat art al good,
Do þi loue drynke myn herte-blod.
Þi loue me makeþ so swete-wod
Þat wonder blisful is my mood.

Ihesu, do me do þi wille,
Nou and euere, loud and stille;
Wiþ þi loue my soule fulfille
And soffre neuere þat I do ille.

Ihesu, þi loue is swete and strong,
Mi lyf is al þer-on I-long:
Tech me, lord, þi loue-song,
Wiþ swete teres euer a-mong.

Ihesu, ȝif þou be from me go,
Min herte is ful of serwe & wo;
What may I sey but weylawo,
Whon þou, my swete, art went me fro?

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461

Ihesu þin ore, þou rewe on me!
Whon schal my soule come to þe?
Hou longe schal hit here be,
Þer I ne may þe, my lemmon, se?

Ihesu, þi lore techeþ me
Wiþ al myn herte to loue þe:
Þorw þi miht mak hit so be,
Þat þerto, lord, constreyne me.

Ihesu my lef, my lord, my kyng,
To þe my soule haþ gret longyng,
Þou hast hit weddet wiþ þi Ryng:
Whon þi wille is, to þe hit bring.

Ihesu, þat deore bouȝtest me,
Mak me worþi to come to þe;
Alle my sunnes forȝif þou me,
Þat I may comen & wone wiþ þe.

Ihesu al feir, my lemmon briht,
I þe be-seche wiþ al my miht:
Bring my soule in to þi liht,
Þer is day and neuer niht.

Ihesu, þin help at myn endyng,
Tac my soule at my diȝyng,
Seende hit socour & cumfortyng,
Þat hit ne drede no wikked þing.

Ihesu, ffor þi Merci fre
In siker hope do þou me
To scapen peyne & come to þe
And euere in blisse wiþ þe be.

Ihesu, Ihesu, Blessed ben heo
Þat in þi blisse mowe þe se
And haue folliche þe loue of þe:
Swete Ihesu, þou graunte hit me.

Ihesu, þi Blisse haþ non endynge;
Þer nis no serwe ne no wepynge,

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462

But pees & Ioye wiþ gret lykynge:
Swete Ihesu, þerto vs bringe. Amen.—

Hose ofte seiþ þis wiþ good wille,
Schal fynde grace his loue to fille;
Holygost his herte schal tille,
ffrom synne him bringe & ffendes ille.