How the Psalter of our Lady was Made

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1. S. Paula.

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»Eiþur oþur þus to cloþun and fede;
Such purueaunce men schulde make
Þat charite gunne not to slake,
But as he gladliche nou ȝiueþ and doþ
Þat he mowe do afturward forþ.«
Of þeos word was heo nouht aferd,

Ful myldeliche heo onswerd:
»God i take to my witnes,
For his loue do i þis godnes;
And also hit is my disir
To dye a pore beggir,
No peni to my douhtres leue,
So clene awey my good to ȝeue
Þat of myn owne leue nouht bihynde.
A schete, my bodi in to wynde,
Of moni men þat her liue,
Ȝif i bidde, þei wol me ȝiue;
A beggere ȝif he aske of me
Anoþur monnes þing þauh hit be,
Ȝif I from him þenne torne myn eȝe,
And þenne for faute þe pore mon dye,—
I take witnes of seint Poule—
God of me wol aske his soule.«

ÞIs wommon of so gret nobleye
Wolde not spende hire moneye,
Þat heo hedde kept for þe nones,
In to suche precious stones
Þat wiþ þis world and eorþe here
Passen awey al in fere,
But to stones þat meuen and lyue,
To whuche God haþ his grace iȝiue:
In eorþe her þat ben pore
And sum tyme hungren and þursten sore,—
Of þe whuche, wiþoute lipse,
Seint Jon seide in þe Apocalipse:
Þe cite of þe grete kynge
Is mad ouer alle þinge.

OÞur souuel vsede heo non
But oyle wiþ hire bred alon,
But hit were þe grettore festeday;
Þen lutel mete wolde hire pay.
Of hony oþur milk or elles fisch
Oþur eiren comen non in heore disch,
And oþur metes þat to mouþ ben swete,
Ful luyte of hem heo wolde ete.—
Sum men þer ben neuerþeles:
Al þauh þei vsen no gret deyntes,
Her wombes þei wollen wiþ such metes fille
And chastite þerfore þei spille,
And ȝit þei wene hit beo clannes
Hem to fulle wiþ suche mes.—

(JERONIMVS dicit:)

But i kneuȝ a mon of þe Susurron—
Þat is a schrewed nacion(!)—
Þat seide to hire on þis maneere:
»Þou þi self spillest here,
Þou art so feruent in vertue
Þat sum men seyn þart waxen newe
Out of þi witte; þerfore i red,
Cumforte þi brayn beter wiþ sum bred
And wiþ sum substancial mete,
Þi wit aȝeyn forte gete,
And take þe to anoþur scole,
For men þe holde but a fole.«
Þenne heo him ful sone onswerd,
As wommon þat of God was ferd:
»To gode angeles and to men
Spectacle mad forsoþe we ben:
For Cristes loue we ben holden vnwys;
But neuerþeles þenk on þis:

Þat þing þat is to God folye
To men hit is wisdam and joye.«
Þus holy writ bereþ witnes—
Good is beo war boþe more and les.

AN Abbei of men of religioun
Heo hedde mad, of gret renoun;
And aftur þat, wiþouten wene,
Heo gederde of maidens clene
Þreo wel feire cumpaignies
And hem sette in feir abbeyes,
God to serue day and niht,
Þat made alle þing, derknes and liht.
Whon eny of hem bigonne to chide,
Wiþ softe wordes in þat tyde
Heo wolde hem ouercome anon
And loueliche make hem aton.
Whon þe ȝonge in hote blood
Bigonne to waxe wylde of mod:
Þouh þei were neuer so nessche,
Wiþ fastyng heo maad hem chast heor flesche:
For þe bettre heo chose and toke
Þat þe wombe raþur þen þe þouht oke.
Heo seide: »clannes of bodi in cloþing
Is ofte þe soule defoulyng«—
Þat heo seide, for þei schulde nouht
Haue to muchel in heor þouht
Bisynesse of gret aray
For þe bodi, niht ne day.—
Deedes þat men holden no trespas
In þis world in certeyn cas,
Idon in cloystre heo hem heold
Ful gret trespas, as heo feld.
To hem heo wolde, whon þey weore seke,
Flesch and fisch let dihten hem eke,
But, þouh hire self weore seek also,
Heo nolde not ete neuer þe mo:
To oþure heo schewed hire godnes,
And to hire self al hardnes.

IN a somer hit biful,
In þe Moneþ of Jul,
Þat al hire bodi, hond and fote,
Was taken wiþ a feuere hote;
Þat hedde ibrouht hire so lowe
Þat vnneþe heo mihte breþ blowe.
But aftur þat wiþ Godus gras
Of þat seknes heo mended was.
Þen leches hire counseyled and bad,
Wiþ wordus softe and eke sad,
Þat heo schulde vse to drinke wyn,
A luitel þunne, but not to fyn;
Þei seiden wiþ o vois alle
Þat heo mihte lihtliche falle
In to a dropesye and synke,
Ȝif þat heo watur dude drinke.

(JERONIMVS dicit:)

ÞEn i bigon priueliche
To preye þe pope ful specialiche,
Þat was icalled Ephiphayn—
Of his presence heo was euer fayn,—
Þat he schulde bidde hire and constreyn
Wyn to drinke wiþouten feyn.

But heo parceyued sone hit,
Heo louh and seide hit was my wit
Þat þe pope Epiphayn
So schulde hire bidde and to hire sayn.
Whon i sauh þat heo so louh,
Out of þe hous I me drouh.
And whon þat i was out iworþe,
I abod til heo com forþe;
Þen I him asked hou he hedde isped
Of þe wordus þat I him red.
He onswerde þat heo him bad
To bidde an holde mon, þat wolde be lad,
Wyn forte drinke, for heo wolde non,
For frendes counseyl ne for fon.
Whon þat heo serwe schulde make
For deþ, for hire children sake,
Euere þerwiþ heo was meke;
But neuerþeles heo was ofte seke
For hire hosebondes diȝinge
And for hire children departynge,
Out of þis world whon þat þei went;
But euermore heo tok entent
Wiþ signe of þe holy crois
Hire mouþ to stoppe and hire vois,
Hire þouht also heo wolde refreyne,
On God þerfore þat heo nolde pleyne.
And þauh monkynde, þat is so frele.
For frendes deþ wol make gret dele,
Wiþ good bileeue and sad preyere
Hire soule heo cumforted here.
Studefastliche heo set hire wit
In muynde to haue holy writ;
Heo louede wel good stori
And clept hit foundement of soþfastnus, witerly.
Whon heo hit herde, was hire vertue
Parfytliche forte suwe
Þe spirituel vndurstondyng,
To kepe hire soule in good lyuyng.
Heo hedde also þis vertu
Þat heo couþe speken Ebru,
In so muchel, wiþouten lesynge,
Þat heo wolde boþe rede and synge
Þe salmus of þe sauteer
Wiþouten fayle al in feer,
Vppon hire tonge feire hit felle
On Ebru hire tale to telle.
So dude aftur hire hir douhtur dere,
Eustoche, þat wel couþe lere.

NOu who mihte wiþoute wepyng
Telle of þis wommons departyng
Out of þis world at Godus wille,
Þat heo disirede euere to folfulle?
In to a wondur gret seknes
Þis wommon fel, wiþouten les;

Þen hed heo founden hire desire
To wende to þat lord and sire
Þat made alle þing of nouht
And wot boþe dede and þouht.
Whon heo feled wel þat heo schulde dyȝe,
Hire limes woxun cold, þen fayled þe eȝe,
But ȝit such strengþe as heo had,
Þeos versicles heo seide and bad:
Domine dilexi decorem domus tue
Et locum habitacionis glorie tue,
And þe salm hol and sum
Quam dilecta tabernacula tua domine virtutum,
Þat alle men mihte here hire sey
Elegi abiecta esse in domo dei mei
Magis quam habitare in tabernaculis peccatorum,
Til þat þe breþ was hire binum.
But neuerþeles heo lay ful stille,
Heo onswerd no mon at his wille.

(JERONIMVS dicit:)

Ich hire asked hou þat hit was
Wheþur heo soffred ouȝt peine in þat plas,
And whi heo nolde not onswere
To men þat calden vppon hire þere.
On Gru heo onswerde wiþ good fyaunce
Þat God hir hedde isent þat chaunce
Þat heo feled no maner greef,
But al was pes: þat was hire leef.
Aftur þat made heo no res,
But sweteliche heold hire pes,
And þen hire eȝen wenten to geder,
And feir and clene as swannes feþer,
But euer þe tonge gon to sey
Elegi abiecta esse in domo dei mei,
Þat men mihte vnneþe ihere,
Wiþ þe versus tofore al in fere,
Til þat þe gost heo hedde iȝiue,
Wiþ God euermore to liue.
Þen þe monkes of þat hous
Þat heo hedde mad so glorious,
And þe maydens also
Þat heo to gedere hedde gedered þo,
Token hir bodi wiþ dreri mood
And to þe place þer heor chirche stod
Ful deuoutliche þei hit bare,
And buried hit riht sone þare,
Faste bi vndur þe churche
Þat god for hire wondres doþ worche.
Þen Eustoche, hir douhtur, leope
To hire sepulcre, forte wepe;
So gret deol heo made, parde,
Wiþ hire iburied heo wolde haue be.
God is witnesse, i dar wel say,
Hir modur wiþ hire lafte no money,
But raþur in oþur mennes dette;
Þat was hard to hem þat wer sette
Þorwh hire in religiun,
Monkes and maidens of deuociun;

Þenne was hard hem forþ to fynde,
And worse was (ha) left al bihynde.
Al þis storie, hol and sum,
Telleþ to ou þus seint Jerom,
Þat kneuh hire lyf and hire ende.
Þerfore haueþ hit wel in mynde!
Fare wel, Paula, and prey for vs
To Godus sone, þat is Jhesus!

2. S. Ambrosius.

HErkeneþ, sires! for my purpose
Is ou to telle of seint Ambrose.
But furst his name i wol expoune:
Lustneþ wiþ good deuocioune!
Ambra is a spicerye,
Of gret pris, smelleþ swotelye:
Þerof is called þis name Ambrose:
For riht as hit sauereþ in monnes nose
Riht so dude he in word and dede,
Monnes soule to gete gret mede;
And precious was to holy churche:
Doctur he was and tauhte to worche
Cristene men heore God to plese,
In charite to lyue and pese.

OÞer elles þou maiȝt sei þat Ambros
Is seid of ambra and syos:
Syos is to seyn »God« riht,
And ambrum good sauour pliht.
Þenne, for he wiþ good preching
Made men knowe God ouer alle þing,
God is good sauur to vche mon
Þorwh his techinge, þat good con.
For Ambros is and also was
Good Cristes sauour in eueri plas.

OÞer þou maiȝt wel diuise
Þe nome of Ambros in þis wyse:
Ambrum is to seye fadur of liht,
And syon a luytel child ful riht.
Þen Ambros him seluen
Is fadur of moni gostliche children,
He was lihtful in expounyng
Holy writ, wiþouten lesyng,
In conuersaciun he was eke
Riht as a chyld wondurliche meke.

OÞur þou maiȝt expoune hit, and not varie,
As seiþ þe bok, iclept Glosarie:
Ambrum is heuenlich smel of sauour:
So sauerede he in halle and bour
In gode fame and contemplaciun,
He hedde gret deuociun.
Celestis Ambrosia, wiþouten lete,
Is vndurstonden Angles mete:
Þat is to seyn þat inward siht
Þat Ambrose hedde in God Almiht.

ÞIs word also Ambrosium
Is to seyn al and sum
An heuenliche honycombe:

Þat hedde seint Ambrose in his wombe
Þorwh swetnesse of exposicioun
Of holy writ in religioun.
Now haue I expouned his name,
And hou he sauered in gode fame.
Herkneþ nou, hosbonde and wyf,
And i schal tellen ou of his lyf,
Riht as a clerk, was clept Paulin,
Wrot hit to seint Austyn.

AMbrose of Rome was prefecte,
And of his wyf wiþouten lette
He gat a child, was clept Ambrose,
Þat mon was aftur of gret lose.
Hit bifel vppon a day,
Whil he was ȝong, in cradel he lay,
And, forte stille him of his wepe,
Rokked he was and fel on slepe;
Þer he lay wiþ open mouþ.
Þen ful a cas wondur selcouþ:
For sodeynliche a cumpaygnye
Of beon þer come, swiþe monie,
His mouþ þei fulden and his face—
Þat men seȝen wel in þat place,—
Þei fullen in and out blyue
As þeiȝ his mouþ hedde ben heor hyue.
And afturward þei toke þe fliht
In to þe eir so fer on hiht
Þat no mon mihte on eorþe wiþ eȝe
Seo þis ben whodur þei dude fliȝe.
Whon his fadur þis wondur hedde seyn,
He seide, as mon þat was riht fayn:
»Þis child, i wot, so mot i þeo,
Sum gret mon schal he beo.«
Whon þis child com to fourtene ȝere
Of age, he wente ofte tyme in fere
Wiþ modur and sustur to þe churche,
Goode dedes forte worche.
He tok good hede to vndurstonde
Hou þei cussed þe prestes honde.
Whon he com hom, he wolde, iwis,
Profre his sustur his hond to cus,
And he wolde sei on his pleying
Þat moste heo do nedelyng.
For he was ȝong, non hede heo tok,
Heo wolde him bidde go to his bok.
Whon he was lettred and vndurstod,
Monye causes, bi þe rod!
In þe noble cite of Rome
Sikerliche he vndurnome,
Rihtfuliche he hedde in mende
And lawefuliche brouhte hem to ende.
Whon þe emperour parceyued þis,
To him he sende anon iwis,
To gouerne þe prouinces of Lygurie
And also of Emylye.
Whon þat he com to Melan,
Þer of þe bisschop ded was þan,
Þe peple gedrede euerichon
To chese to bisschop sum god mon.
But heretykes dwelled hem amon(g),
Weren called Arrianus, of wit ful strong,
Þat sumwhat weren out of bileeue.
Gode feiþful men and þei þenne streue
Who schulde beo bisschop and hed;
Þei neore not alle in on red,

Þer ros a gret sediciun
Tofore þat ilke elecciun.
Ambrose þenne wiþ gret res
Tok þider þe wey, to make al pes.
As sone as he þenne comen was
Þider as þe pepul was gedred in plas,
A vois anon of an innocent
Was herd of alle, verement!:
»I put ȝou alle in sad hope,
Ambrose schal ben oure bisschope.«
Þei sented alle to þat vois,
»Ambrose«, þei crieden wiþ gret noys,
»To vr bisschop we wol haue;
Þat he assente, onliche we craue«.
Whon þat he þus vndurstod,
Wiþ fere he wolde ha torned heore mod,
And ȝit he dude anoþur þing:
To þe juges seete he wente hiȝing
And aȝeynes his olde wone
Sum men tofore him dude he come,
Als he sat for juggement,
And hem comaunded to turment—
For þe pepul schulde wel se
Þat he hedde ben ful of cruwelte.
Þis holy mon caste þat,
For he disired non such stat,
And for þei schulde ha lost heor hope
Him haue had to heore bisschope.—
But þe peple for al his gyse
Cried on him vppon þis wyse:
»Let beo þi fare, mak hit not þus!
Þi sunne þer of falle hit on vs.«
Þen was he stourbled in þouȝt and eȝe
And wente him hamward in gret hyȝe;
He wolde to philosophye him (ha) professed.
But he was called aȝeyn and cessed.
And for he nolde bisschop haue ben,
He made þe moste comun wommen
Openliche come to his in,
Þat bisschopriche for he nolde wyn,
And, þauȝ he dude not bote good,
He wolde haue mad þe peple wood,
Anoþur mon forte haue chose
And of him laft heore purpose.
Þe peple euere and ay in on
On him þei criede euerichon
Þat þei wolde bere al þe synne,
Þat bisschophede so he wolde winne.
He sauȝ þat he þus miht not spede:
Þe nexte niht wiþoute nede
He stal awey and wolde haue gon
To þe toun of Ticinun anon.
Þiderward, þe soþe to say,
He wende he hedde holden þe way.
Whon hit was day, he loked aboute:
Þen sauȝ he wher he stod þer oute:
At on of þe ȝatus of Melan,
Þat is called þe ȝate Roman.
Þenne men sone him fonde
At þe ȝate, þer he dude stonde.
Þei him kepte and word sent
To þe emperour Valentinian, verrement,
Hou þei to bisschop him hedde ichose,
Preyeden him assente to heor purpose.
Þe emperour þenne ful joyful was
Þat him schulde falle so feir a caas
Þat a juge, þat he hedde isent

To kepe his lawes wiþ good entent,
Was ichose so feiþfuliche
A bisschop to beo verreyliche.
Þe prefecte, þat corteis was of wille,
Was glad þat he þat schulde folfille;
For, whon Ambrose was to Melan sent,
Þe prefecte seide wiþ good talent:
»Go forþ now, as no domusmon,
But as bisschop ouer mony on.«
Whil þat þeos tiþinges þus hynge,
Ambrose him hudde, wiþoute lesynge;
But he was founden amongus hem.
He leued wel, but him lakked baptem:
Þen was he cristened in watur cler
And þe eihteþe day set in bisschops chayer.
Þenne at þe four ȝeres ende
To Rome forsoþe gan he wende.
His sustur þat maiden was, an holy wommon,
His riht hond heo custe anon.
He smyled and seide: »suster, hit is wust,
Þou hast cussed a prestes fust;
I seide þe sum tyme hit moste so be,
But neuerþeles þou leuedest not me.«

HIt bifel afturward sikerliche
Þat in a cite voyded a bisschopriche.
Þider he went al in certeyne,
A bisschop þer forte ordeyne.
Whon þer on ichosen was,
Þen nolden heo assente to þat caas,
Þe emperice, was clept Justine,
Ne oþur heretykes monye and fyne,
For þei wolden þat þe eleccioun
Hed fallen vppon on of here sori religioun.
Þen a maiden of secte of þe Arian
Hedde þouȝt haue wrouȝt Ambroses ban;
To seint Ambrose anon heo stert
And tok him smartly bi þe skert,
To þe wymmen heo wolde him haue drawe,
And þei him wolde ha smite ful fawe,
Him boren an honde þen vuel talent
And, bi þe lawe! þenne him haue schent
And from his churche wrongfuly
Haue put him out wiþ vileny.
Þenne to hire he seide corteisly:
»Prest ich am, þauȝ i beo not worþi.
Forsoþe, þou art vuele itauht,
To set hond on prest bi semeþ þe nauht.
Godus dom þou scholdest haue in drede;
Þou nost what may falle to þi mede.«
Hit byfel as he seid:
Heo was on morwen ded on bere ileyd.
Touward hire graue of his godnesse
Þen he hire ladde for al hire schrewednesse.
Þen alle men þat þis wondur herd
Of God and him woxun aferd.

AFtur þat, in certeyn,
To Melan he tornde aȝein.
Þen Justine, þat emperice,

On maners wox boþe wylde and nice,
And of þe peple heo worschiped moni on
And ȝiftus ȝaf to vche mon,
Hem to sture aȝein Ambrose—
Þat was iwis an vuel purpose.
Þei weoren aboute, of vuel wil
To haue put him in exil.
A schrewe þer was among oþur—
I trouwe he was þe deueles broþur—
Þat was so wod in his doyng
Þat bi his chirche he made his dwellyng
And in his hous he hedde redye
A cart, seint Ambrose to carie
Out of þe lond, fox of fyl,
Whon he weore dampned to exil,
Þat no bodi wox so bolde
In londe him aftur forte holde;
Þis was þe cast of Justine,
Þe emperice, a schrewe ful fyne.
But bi Godus ordinaunce
Þenne bifel þis ilke chaunce:
He þat hedde arayed þe cart
He was exiled swiþe smart
Vppon þat ilke same day
Þat wende to ha lad Ambrose away,
In þe same cart he was caried
Out of þat lond, and foule ihariȝed.

SEint Ambrose was þe furste man
Þat in þe churche of Melan
Ordeyned offyces and songe
And melodye of vois and tonge.
In þe cite of Melan
Was þat tyme moni a man
Þat wiþ þe deuel acumbred were
And weren ibrouht in muchel fere;
Þe deuel made hem crie in heore turment
Þat Ambrose hedde hem ischent.
But Justine, þat wikked womman,
Wiþ heretykes of þe secte of Arrian,
Þat to gedere token heore dwellyng,
On Ambrose maden a lesyng:
Þei seiden hit was soþ verrey
Þat Ambrose wiþ his money
Hedde hured men to þat entent,
To seiȝe þat þe deuel hem dude turment,
And eke of Ambrose verreyliche
Þis lesyng þei maden falsliche.

HIt bifel sodeynliche þan
Þat on of þe secte of Arrian
Wiþ þe deuel sone was take;
For wod he grenned and gon to quake,
He fel adoun among hem alle
And gon to crye and to calle:
»I wolde þat alle þat nou ne purpose,
Þat nou ne byleeue on Ambrose,
Þat þei ne weore turmented als am I—
I suffre serwe, sikerly!«
Confuys þenne was þat cumpaygnye;
Þer þei him slowen for his crye
And þenne wiþ heore oune honde
Þey him dreynte in a ponde.

A maister heretyk þer was on,
An hard mon of conuercion
And a scharp mon of wit

To plede aȝeynes holy writ.
Vppon a day he com to here
Seint Ambrose preche, þe peple to lere,
And he sauh at Ambroses ere
An angel speke þe wordus þere
Þat to þe peple he dude preche—
Wel forte lyue he dude teche.
Of þat siht he was ful feyn,
To cristene feiþ he tornde aȝeyn
And defended strongliche
Þat he hedde dispysed falsliche.

A coniuror þer was also
Þat þouȝte to Ambrose worche wo;
He calde vp fendes and forþ hem sende,
Seint Ambrose forte schende.
But þei nedde pouwer, wiþ no gin,
To neihe þe hous þat he was in,
Ne nouþur nuyȝe his persone—
God ȝaf him grace, þat sit in trone.
Hit bifel bi þat coniurour
Þat he was take and put in tour.
Whon he was turmented for his misdede,
He seide seint Ambrose him put in drede;
On seint Ambrose he cried out—
Þei wondred on him þat stoden about.
Þer was a mon in Melan
Þat þe fend was fallen on.
In to þe citee whon he schulde go,
Þe deuel wolde him fleo fro;
And whon þat he schulde outward wende,
In to þat mon he wolde lende.
He was asked hou þat was.
Þe fend onswered in þat cas
And seide: awei from him he fledde,
For seint Ambrose sore he dredde.

ANoþur mon bi nihtes tale
In to seint Ambroses chaumbre stale:
Justyne, þat wikked emperice,
Him hedde i huired to beo so nice,
Þat holy mon forte sle
And afturward awey to fle.
Þis mon wiþ his riht hond
His swerd out drouh, as brennyng brond,
Forte haue smiten þis holy mon;
But his arm druyed vp anon,
He ne mihte on none wyse
Þerwiþ aftur do no seruyse.

ANoþur mon þe fend hedde take,
And turmented him wiþ muchel wrake
And maad him crie in his wodnes:
»Ambrose me pyneþ wiþ wikkednes.«
Ambrose seide: »pes, þou foule fende!
Ambrose þe doþ no þing schende,
But þyn envye, for þat þou sest
Of cristen men, boþe lest and mest,
Steyhȝe vpward from whennes þou fil;
Ambrose nis not inflat of wil.«
Þe fend þenne ouercome wes
And of his criȝing heold his pes.

HIt bifel vppon a day,
As Ambrose wente bi þe way,
A mon slod aȝeynes his wil,
Adoun to þe eorþe sone he fyl.
Anoþur mon, þat þer was,

Stod and louh at þat cas.
Seint Ambrose þenne wiþ deuocion
Seide: »þou þat stondest, fal nouȝt adoun!«
Vnneþe seint Ambrose þus hed seid,
Þe mon fel doun, on eorþe was leid,
And sori was for his oune fallyng
Þat of þe toþur monnes fal made lauhwyng.

ÞEr was also þat tyme a mon
Þat was icalled Macedon,
He was chef mayster of offyces,
Hem to rule and punissche vices.
Ambrose toward him went vppon a day,
For a pore mon him to pray;
But he his ȝate fond ischut,
Þat ingoinge miht he non get.
Þer of seint Ambrose was sumwhat irke
And seide to him: »þou schalt come to kirke,
And, þouh þe dore al open stonde,
In þer at schalt þou not fonde.«

HIt bifel sone afturward
Þat Macedon hedde enemys hard;
To chirche needes fleo moste he þo,
Þe dore was open, he miht not in go.
Þen was fallen þe purpose
Of þe holy mon seint Ambrose.

HE was of so gret abstinence,
For loue of god and reuerence,
Þat he fasted alway,
Saue saturday and sonday
And oþur principal festes,
He spared not for no gestes.

HE was of so gret largesse
Þat he deled al his richesse
To holichirche and to pore men;
Nouȝt to him self wolde he kepe þen.

HE was of so gret compassion
Þat he wolde for deuocion,
Whon eny mon dude to him knoweleche
His sunne wolde and his wreche,
He wolde wepe so bitterly
And þer of beo so sory,
Þat þe mon þat him so hedde ischriue
Schuld him repente sore to liue;
For his sunnes he wolde constreyne
A mon to wepe and suffre peyne.

HE was so ful of mekenesse
And of trauayl: boþe more and lasse
Þe bokes þat he made, God hit wot,
Wiþ his oune hondes he wrot,
But he were greued in his bodi
Wiþ seknes oþur wiþ maladi.

HE was so ful of pite
And of swetnesse, parde,
Þat, whon men tolden him tiþing
Of bisschopes oþur prestes diȝing,
He wolde so wepe and gret deol make,
Þat no cumfort wolde he forþ take.
Whon men made him þen askyng
Whi þat he made such serwyng

And wepte for holy men and murie
Þat passed weren vp to glorie,
He wolde onswere: »ne leeue ȝe nouht
Þat i þus wepe and falle in þouht,
Out of þis world for þei ben gon
To him þat mad vs euerichon,
But for þei ben gon tofore me,
And for hit is hard, so mot i þe,
Forte fynden aftur such a mon
Þat such an offys so wel do con.«

HE was of so good constaunce
And strong in spiryt in eueri chaunce:
Þouh emperour or kyng in dede were nice,
He nolde not suwe hem in no vice,
But he wolde in certeyne
Wiþ opene vois him wel repreyne.

ÞEr was a mon þat wikkedliche
An vuel dede hedde don openliche.
Tofore Ambrose whon men him brouht,
He seide, as hit was in his þouht:
»Hit bihoueþ, seid Ambrose, þat þis man
Beo bitaken to Sathan,
Þat wheþer he beo hard oþur nessche
Him to chastise in his flessche.«
Þat word vnneþe Ambrose hadde seid,
Þat þe mon al wod abreyd,
A wikkede spirit þe bodi torment,
So þat þe soule schulde not be schent.

VPpon a tyme bi godus dome
Seint Ambrose tok þe wei to Rome,
And in a toun, þat hette Trissye,
He was herborwede, sikerlye,
At a riche monnes hous,
Þer he in dwelled and his spous.
Seint Ambrose apposed þis man
Of his stat hou hit stod þan.
He seide: »Sire, so mot i þe,
Ich am in gret prosperite,
Mi self, mi wyf and min hous,
We ben wondur glorious:
Ich haue plente of richesse,
Men and wymmen, more and lesse,
Me to serue niht and day
Euer more to my pay;
Ich haue moni a mon ful fyn,
Children, nevues and cosyn,
I haue alle þing at my wille,
Þer nul no wiht me greue ne spille;
I hedde neuere aduersite,
Ne gret serwe ful non on me.«
Whon seint Ambrose þeos wordes herd,
Wondurliche he was aferd,
And to hem þat were of his cumpaygnye
He bad hem faste þeonnes heiȝe,
»For i wot wel now in þis space
Þat God nis not in þis place;
Hiȝe we faste on vre goyng,
And as we gon makeþ no dwellyng,
Leste þorwh Godus veniaunce
Vs falle vppon sum mischaunce
For þis ilke monnes sinne,
Of his hous now dwellen inne.«

Vnneþe Ambrose and his meyne
Weoren passed out from þat citéé,
Þat sodeynliche opened þe eorþe:
Þer lafte nouþur þe þridde ne feorþe
Þat in þat hous dwelled and swonken,
But alle in to þe eorþe þei sonken,
Þat of hem no steppe was seyn;
Þer þe hous stod al was pleyn.
Whon seint Ambrose þis biheold,
Wiþ his meyne þat stod in feld,
He seide: »lo, how merciful God is
To hem þat soffren here iwis
In þis world aduersite,
And of his grace sendeþ so to be,
And hou he punisscheþ, her mow ȝe se,
Hem þat han al prosperite.«
In þat ilke same plas,
Þere as bifel þis cas,
Is a deop put alway,
Þat euer schal laste, as men say.

OF alle maner vuel þe rote
Is auarice iclept and ihote.
And whon he sauh þat in monkuynde
Auarice was most in muynde,
Among holy churche and worldly men,
Muche deol he made þen;
Out of þis world, so sori place,
He preyed God þat in schort space
He schulde him bringe at his wille,
And þat his soule schulde not spille.
God hit him graunted specialiche:
An angel him warned priueliche.
Whon he was war of þat day
Þat he schulde passe hennes away,
Þerof he was joyful and feyn
And tolde his breþeren in certeyn
Þat til þe feste of þe resureccioun
He schulde wiþ hem dwelle her doun.

A fewe dayes tofore he fel seek,
He was aboute—i telle ow ek—
Forte endyte wiþ wit ful cler
Þe foure and fourtiþe psalm of þe sauter,
And wiþ him was his notarie:
Þat sauh on him a siht of glorie:
Sodeynliche in maner of a scheld
A schort fuir his hed þen held
And lutlum and lutlum
In to his mouþ crep hole and sum,
As þouh hit hedde ben in to his hous;
Þen wex his face al glorious
And lyk to snouh hit wox al whit,
But aftur to his oune kynde turned hit.
Þat day he made an endyng
Of writyng and endyting,
Þat psalm þen mihte he not parfourme—
Nere Godus wille, þat mihte men mourne.
A fewe daies aftur þat
Wiþ seknes he was al to squat.

ÞEn þe eorl of Ytalie

At Melan was and mad him murie;
But, whon he herde of þis tiþinge,
He made del and gret mournynge
And gedered to gedre alle þe grete
Of þat citéé on an aftur mete,
And seide to hem: he dredde peril,
Leste þer schulde falle sum il
To þat ilke cuntray,
Whon þat Ambrose wer gon away;
Þerfore he preyed þat þei schulde gon
To seint Ambrose swiþe anon,
To preye him preye God wiþ good face
Forte sende him lengor space,
Wiþ hem to dwelle sumwhat more,
Ȝif þat his swete wille wore.
Riht so þei seiden and he hem herd,
But riht anon he onswerd:
»I haue not liued amongus ȝou
Þat i am not aschomed nou,
Ne i drede not to dye, iwis:
We haue to lord þe kyng of blis.«
Four dekenes of his,
Whon þat þei herden of þis,
Þei come to gedere in þat plas
Þer he seek ileyd was,
Sumwhat also þei stoden afer,
For þat he scholde not hem her.
Þei gonne to treten in þat hour
Who mihte be best his successour;
Amonges hem softly þei seiden þan
Hit were best chese Simplician.
Al þouh þei made no gret nois,
He onswerd, as he hed herd heore vois,
Þries he seide wiþ mylde mod:
»He is old, but he is god.«
Alle foure þen woxen aferd,
Whon þat þei his vois herd.
But neuerþeles, whon he was ded,
Symplician þei chosen to heore hed.

ÞE bisschop of Verçellenen—
Honoratus him cleped men—
He bod Ambrosus passyng.
But as he fel on slepyng,
He herde a vois þries þo
Seiȝe: »rys, for nou he schal forþ go!«
He ros and þenne to Melan went
And ministred to Ambrose þe sacrement.
And he in maner of þe crois
His hondus streihte, wiþoute nois;
In preyers, as he bisied him most,
To god he ȝeld vp þe gost.
Þis mon regned in lyf ful fyne
Aboute þe ȝeres þre hundred heihti and nyne
Of þe date of vr lord,
An holi mon in dede and word.
To þe chirche an ester niht
As men him beren forþ riht,
Cristen children and innocent
Seiden þei sauh him verrement
As a juge sitte in a chayer,
Riht as þe sonne briht and cleer;
Summe wiþ heore fyngres, verreyliche,

Scheweden heore frendes openliche
Vpward hou þei sauh him stihe
Wiþ heore bodiliche eiȝe;
Summe seiden þey seȝen wel a fyne
A sterre ligge briht and schyne
Euene aboue vppon his brest—
Signe hit was of wel god rest.

ÞEr was a prest, sat at a fest,
Wher men of Ambrose speeken mest;
Þe prest bigon him to bakbyte
And bi his godnes he set luyte:
Wiþ seknesse he was smiten anon,
Þat to his bed þen moste he gon—
I not wher he dude him schriue,
But þer he mad ende of his lyue.

ALso in þe cite of Cartage
Þ(r)e bisschops of gret parage
Weren iset at a fest
And iserued at þe best,
But on of hem gon to bacbyte
Seint Ambrose wiþ gret dilyte.
Þen of þe prest on him told
Hou hit bifel, þat was so bold
To speke harm of þat mon,
And hou vengaunce ful him vppon.
He onswerde: so god him spede,
Þerof tok he but luytel hede.
And sodeynliche a deþes wounde
Him tok, anon he fel to grounde—
Þer he made his laste ende
For bacbytyng of Godus frende.

NOte ȝe nou þis, for hit is able:
In mony þinges he was comendable,
Furst in liberalite:
For alle þinges þat hedde he
To pore folk forsoþe he ȝaf
Þat bedreden weore or wente wiþ staf.
Þerfore of him a tale men telle,
Þat is as soþ as gospelle:

AN emperour to him sent,
Þat he schulde wiþ good talent
Ȝelde vp a noble churche to him—
For he þouȝte, wiþ wille ful grim,
Hit to heretykes haue ȝiue,
Þat were not worþi þer in to lyue—
He seide þat he was of al þing lord
And wolde hit haue at o word.
Ambrose onswerde wiþ honour:
»Ȝif þat, he seide, þe emperour
Asked of me þing þat myn wer,
Þouh hit were gold or seluer
Oþur elles hous or lond,
Hit scholde beo redi to his hond,
And þauh al þat i haue here, i wot wel,
Is pore mennes catel—
So ich hit holde, and euer schal be
Þorwh Godus oune charite.
But holichirche to God doþ longe,
Þerfore as wel he mihte me honge
As make me ȝiue him such a þing;
Hit weore a cursed doyng,
For, þauh he beo muchel of miht,
To such þing haþ he no riht«.
Þus þis gode mon, iwis,
Knouleched þat al þat was his
Was pore mennes at heore nede—
Such a prelat god wol spede.

ALso he was comendable, wiþouten les,
In puirte of clannes:
For he was a mayden clene—
Leeue hit wel wiþouten wene!—
Seint Jerom telleþ he herde him say
Þeos wordus to him vppon a day:
»We speken not onliche of maydenhede,
But we hit kepe also in dede.«

IN studefastnesse also of fe
Comendable he was al wei.
Þer as i aboue seid:
Whon þe emperour him vpbreid,
For þat þe chirche he wolde haue had,
Seint Ambrose raþur him bad
Furst his lyf take him fro
Þen his feiþ—he seide him so.

IN couetise of martirdom,
Forte come to þat blessede hom,
He was to comende witerli.
I schal ȝou telle þe skile whi.
Whon Valentinian þe emperour
His churche coueyted wiþ errour—
As i tolde ȝou a luitel bifore—,
An officer greued Ambrose sore
For he nolde not þerto assent,
And sende word to him wiþ gret talent:
»Þen þou wolt not fulfille
Mi lord, þe emperoures, wille,
Þin heued þerfore I wol haue,
Þi lyf, þi self schaltou not saue.«
Ambrose onswerde loueliche:
»God ȝiue þe grace smartliche
To parfourne þi manase,
Whon euer þe luste and what place!
Wolde god þat on þat maneer
From holi chirche to turne heore vuel cher
Þei wolden and vengen hem al on me
And kele heore þurst in sleing me!«
Of his deþ he ȝaf luyte,
Þat þerwiþ his chirche wolde quite.

IN bisynes of orisoun
He was comendable of deuocioun.
Aȝeines þe emperice Justine
Þat proued he wel wiþ hert ful fine,
For aȝeynes hire woodnes
He schewed alle goodnes,
He fendet him not aȝeynes hire
Nouþur wiþ scheld ne wiþ spere,
But wiþ wakyng and preyer,
Vndur an holy auter
He preied God his chirche defende
And of mendyng grace hire sende.

HE was comendable and ȝep
In habundaunce of teres and wep.
Þreo maner of teres here
He vsud—nou ȝe mowe hem lere:
Furst he hedde teres of compassiun,
For he wolde wepe for deuociun
For hem þat hedden don amis
And gulti weren in heore dedis;
Paulin seiþ for þat of him aboue:
Whon eny wiht him schrof to him forloue
Of eny gult þat he hedde don,

Þerfore he wolde wepe anon,
And riht so he wolde constreyne
Þe mon to wepe for his peyne.

ANd teres he hedde of deuociun
Euer to preye, in feld and toun,
Out of þis world forte go—
Þat was his disyr euer mo;
Þerfore—tofore as hit is seid—,
Whon þat Paulin him wolde vpbreid
And aske whi he wepte so sore,
Whon holi men dyed him bifore
Þat in to joye weren ipast
Þat wiþouten ende schal last,
He bad him leeue neuer þe mo
Þat he made deol and wepte so
For þei passed þis world fro,
But for þei weore tofore him go
To þe kyngdom of blis,
Þat euer schal laste wiþouten mis.

OF compassioun eke he hedde þe tere
For hem þat wronges suffreden here.
Þe knihtes þat weren fers and grim
He onswerde, þat weren sent to him
From Valentinean þe emperour
Þat þouȝte him to worche harde stour,
He seide: »ich vse nouþur spere ne charmes,
Mi bitter teres beoþ myn armes«—
And so þei schulde to alle clerkes
Þat suwen wole seint Ambrose werkes—
»Þeos, he seide, ben prestes defens,
Oþur nul i make no resistens.«

ÞE bok also bereþ witnes:
He was comendable in studefastnes.
þat bisemed in þreo þinges
þat he vsud in his liuinges:
Furst in defendyng—as þe bok seiþ—
Of soþnes of holichirches feiþ.
Whon þe modur of Valentinian,
Þat Justine men called þan,
Þe whuche meyntened mani a man
In þe heresy of Arrian,
Bigon to distorble þe stat
Of holichurche, and mony prelat
And prestes manased to exile,
But ȝif þei wolde reuoke þe counsyle
Þat was iholde in þe citéé
Þat men cleped Arimminence:
In þe whuche alle þe clergye
Hedde dampned þe heresye
Of þe Arrianes lore
And heretykes icorsed þerfore,
And þer vppon was mad a decre,
Þat euermore schulde iholde be;
Ambrose of hire tok non hede,
But stod studefast at þat nede
And he him self was wal and tour,
To kepe holichirches honour,
And he on hond tok þat batayle—
Hem he distruyed wiþoute fayle.

HE was comendable ek parde

In kepyng of þe liberte
Of holichurche wiþ honour.
Þerfore, whon þe emperour
A chirche from him wolde haue take,
He hit wiþstod for Godus sake
And he onswerd, as mon wel sage,
To hem þat wer sent on message(!):
»I am comaunded, he seide, of knihtes
Þorwh þe emperoures mihtes
Þat i schulde wiþouten irke
Delyuere vp to him a kirke.
I onswered(!) wiþouten lesyng:
Ȝif þat ȝe aske weddyng,
Takeþ me forþ wiþ ou away—
I schal ȝou suffre, par ma fay;
Ȝif my bodi ȝe wolde hent,
I wol come to ȝou, verreyment;
Ȝif ȝe wole me bynde wiþ bondes,
I schal neuere fleo ȝor hondes,
Nouþur to chirche ne to auter,
Beo ȝe neuer so strong ne feer;
But for þe auter wiþ god wil
I schal me putte in to peril.
I am comaunded delyuere þe chirche:
Þat were a wondur werk to worche!
Þe biddyng of þe emperour
Þreteþ me wiþ gret irrour,
But holy writ comfermeþ me
Þat seiþ þus, in good lewte:
Þou hast ispoken on þe gyse
As on of þe wymmen þat weren vnwyse.
»Þerfore, emperour, greue not þe,
Ne trowe þou not, he seide, parde,
No maner riht þat þou maiȝt haue
In heuenlich þinges noþur hem craue;
Paleises longen to emperours,
And halewed chirches ben prestes tours.
Ȝif seint Naboth wiþ his oune blood
His vynȝard defendet wiþ herte god,
For he hit wolde not vp ȝelde:
I hope þat god schal ben vr schelde,
Þat sunful dede schul we not worche
To ȝelde þe emperour vr churche.
Þe tribute is duwe to Cesar—
Hit to deniȝe vche mon bi war!—
Holychirche is godus al one,
Þe emperour þerwiþ haþ not to done.
Ȝif he aske ouȝt þat is myn,
Lond or rente or gold so fyn,
Wiþ gode wille I wolde him take
And þerof no daunger make;
But I mai not ȝiue awei
Godus temple, ne hit bitray,
Ne to no temperel lord hit ȝelde,
Þouh he beo gret in toun and felde;
Forte kepe hit is me take,
Nouȝt to ȝelde vp, for godus sake.«

HE was also comendable,
For he hem wolde blame þat wer not stable,
And repreyne hem of wikkednesse,
Boþe more and eke lesse.

De Theodosio imperatore.

HIt bifel sum tyme in certeyn
In þe cite of Tessaleyn
Þat þer was a gret rysing
Of þe pepul þer dwellyng
Aȝeynes þe juges of þe lawe,
Þe pepul hem stened and duden of dawe.
Teodosius þe emperoure
Þerwiþ was wroþ and gon to loure,
He comaunded men hem to sle,
Þat non of alle awey schulde fle;
Bote he dude noþing goodly,
For he slouh gulti and vngulti:
Þe noumbre was, men seide in londe,
Almost to fyf þousunde.
Aftur þat þe emperour
To Melan wente wiþ gret honour,
In to þe chirche he wolde haue gon.
Ambrose aȝeines him com anon
And, whon he com riht to þe ȝate,
He him forbad cum in þer ate.
Þen Ambrose him gan vbbreide
And þeose wordus to him seide:
»Whi woldust þou nouht, sir emperour,
Aftur þi wodnes and errour
Knowleche þi presumcioun,
Þat þou hast wrouht as feloun?
But parauenture hit may be
Þat þe grete miht of þyn emperorite
Make þat þou nult nouȝt knowleche
Þi foule sunne and þy wreche.
Hit schulde ben euere in þi dome
Resoun, þi miht to ouercome;
Þouh þou beo prince and emperour
Ouer men wiþ gret honour,
Þou schuldest þenke bi good steem
Þou nart but riht as on of hem
Tofore god, ȝif þou take hede.
Avise þe wel of þi dede!
Hou dorstest þou beo so bold
Wiþ þin eȝen to bi hold
Þe temple of vr alre lord,
Oþur so hardi to speke a word?
Hou maiȝt þou fynde in þin entent
Wiþ þi feet to gon on þe pament?
Hou mihtest þou wiþ eny moode
Holde vp þin hondes to þe rode,
Þat ȝit aren fouled wiþ þe blod
Of innocens, whon þou were wood?
Hou mihtest þou wiþ þi mouþ
His blod receyue þat for vs couþ
Mon bicom, riht as beo we,
And for vs dye on rode tre,
Þat wiþ þi mouþ ȝaf juggemens
For to sle innocens
And hem þat were not gulti
As hem þat trespast verreyli?
Go forþ, he seide, þerfore þi way,
Leste þi secunde sunne to day
Eche þi former wikkedhede
And god take vengaunce of þi dede!
Þe bond þat god haþ þe wiþ ibounde
Tak hit, and walk forþ on þe grounde!
Þat is þe moste medecin
Þat mon may take for his sin«—
Þat was to sei: for his misded
From holychirche he was departed.

Þe emperour þen was aschamed
And obbeyed, as he þat was blamed;
Wiþ gret deol and wiþ wepyng
Hamward he rod to his dwellyng.
Sire Rufin, maister of his knihtes,
Asked him anon rihtes
Whi þat he loked so dreri,
Þat of cher was so sori?
He onswerde: »þou wost wel luyte
What is my wo or myn edwyte;
For to beggers and to bonde men
þe temple ȝates open ben,
To my self þat am al on
Ingoyng nou is þer non.«
And euere as he þeos wordes seid
He wept and snobbed and ofte abreid.
Þen seide Rufin, þat kniht:
»I schal not stunte but anon riht
Renne to Ambrose, ȝif þat þou wilt,
Þat he forȝiue þe þi gilt,
And also, þat he take on honde
To vnbynde þe of þat bonde
Þat he bond þe wiþ last,
Þorwh power of holichirche so fast.«
Þe emperour onswerde þan:
»Þou schalt not ouercome þat man
For no fere of no miht
Of emperour, kyng ne kniht,
For no mon may make him wiþ awe
To don aȝeynes godus lawe.«
But Rufin biheet wel inowe
Þat he wolde make him bowe.
Þe emperour bad him go tofore,
And he him suwed wiþ herte sore.
Anon as seint Ambrose
Sauh Rufin come, his purpose
Knewe and seide wiþ vois ful round:
»Þou art vnschomefast as an hound:
Þou were autour of þat slauhter,
But þer of nou þou makest lauhter
And in þi forehed nis no schame,
Ne þou dredest for no blame
Forte berke and wod be
Aȝeynes godus maieste.«
But neuerþeles for þe emperour
Rufin preyed him at þat hour
Þat he him þenne wolde vnbynde,
And tolde þat he com him bihynde,
Him suwyng so for his loue
Þat in heuene sitteþ aboue,
Istured of þe holi gost,
»His herte is sori, wel þou wost.«
Þen Ambrose gan to sey:
»Þe tofore i telle, þe wey
I forbeode him algate,
Þat he entre in not atte ȝate
Of Godus oune holy place,
Til þat he haue geten grace;
And ȝif þat he wiþ tirauntrie
Eny þing do to my bodye,
Þouh he me sle, for godus sake
Ful gladliche þe deþ schal i take.«
Þat Rufyn þe emperour tolde
And wherto þat he schulde him holde.
Þe emperour mekeliche »forsoþe« he seide,
»Hou so euere he me vpbreide,

I schal to him go to his place
And suffre him to myn oune face
Sei, what so euer his likyng be,
And take hit wiþ god charite.«
Whon he to seint Ambrose com,
He preyed wiþ good deuocion
Þat he his grace mihte fynde,
His harde bondes to vnbynde.
Seint Ambrose ran him aȝein
And bad him trauayle not in veyn,
For he him bad schortly also
In to þe churche schold he not go,
And seide: »mon, þou art ful lewed,
What penaunce hastou nou ischewed
For þi grete wikkednesse,
Þi sunne and þyn vnbuxumnesse?«
Þe emperour wiþ gret deol
»Sire«, he seide, »i wot wel,
Hit falleþ to þe, comaunde me,
And me, obeysaunt forte be.
What euer þou bidde for my soule hele,
I schal hit do eueridele.«
Neuerþeles þe emperour forþwiþ
Alegged hou þe kyng Dauid
Hedde idon auoutrye
And monnes slauhtre wiþ felenye,
And hou þat he ȝit hedde space
Him to amende þorwh Godus grace.
Seint Ambrose þenne wiþouten weer
Onswerd him on þis maneer:
»Ȝif þou haue suwed Dauid in vuel doyng,
Suwe his dede in amendyng!«
Þe emperour þat so mekeliche tok
Þat open penaunce he not forsok,
But, riht as Ambrose bad him don,
Parfourned his penaunces euerichon.
Seint Ambrose him reconsyled
To holychirche and him asoyled.
Þe emperour in to þe chirche wente þo,
In to þe chauncel he dressed him þro;
In his deuociun Þer he stod,
Ambrose him asked wiþ mylde mod
What he abod þat he stod þer.
And he onswerd wiþ mylde cher:
»Sire, he seide, wiþ myn entent
Is to receyue þe sacrament.«
Ambrose spared for non honour,
But seide: »ȝe, sire emperour,
Þis place is ordeynt onliche for prestes,
And not for lewed men ne beestes.
In to þe churche þerfore go doun
And wiþ oþur men in comoun
Stond and bidde þi preyere;
Þer schulde no such mon stonden here.
Þyn aray of purpur palle
Makeþ an emperour wel wiþ alle,
Prestes, þouh, ne makeþ hit non.«
Þe emperour forsoþe ful son
Obeisaunt was to his biddyng,
Out of þe chauncel tok his going
And stod adoun in þe bodi
Of þe chirche, as mon modi.
Anoþur tyme whon þe emperour
To Constantynople wiþ honour
Was comen and wolde here messe,
To þe churche wiþ more and lesse
He went and tok his stondyng
Wiþouten þe chauncel, aftur þe teching
Of seynt Ambrose, þe noble clerk,
Þat him tauhte to worschipe prest and clerk.

Þe bisschop þenne of þat citéé
To þe emperour so fre
Seide: »sire, hit besemeþ ou wel
To go in to þe chauncel,
Þer to make ȝoure standyng
Or, ȝif ow luste, ȝoure knelyng«.
Þe emperour þenne gon to say:
»I lernde sum tyme on a day
What is þe difference
In doyng of reuerence
Bitwene a prest and an emperour.
Þe chauncel is place of prestes honour.
Vnneþe among old or newe
Fond i euere mayster trewe,
But i put ȝou out of whonhope:
Ambrose is worþi be called bisschope.«

COmendable he was eke and fyn
In his holy doctrin.
Ierom, þat spekeþ of doctours twelue,
Ambrose comendeþ ouur oþur him selue
And seiþ of him in þis manere:
Þat he is lyk to a brid þat set were
Vppon a pynacle to fleo an heiȝe,
As eny mon mihte seo wiþ eȝe:
Þe herre he fleoþ to take þe wynde
Euer þe beter he may fynde:
So ferde he in his þouht,
For euer þe furror þat he souht
Þe saddor grount and fruit he fond—
His bokes witnessen, itake an hond.
Þerfore nou his sentence
Is of stable credence
And piler, as seint Jerom seiþ,
Of holy churche and of þe feiþ.

HOse of him tok hede oþur cure,
He was of comely stature,
And þerto of so gret wit
Þat seint Austin comendeþ hit
And seiþ: þat þe feiþ of Rome
Of seint Ambroses bokus come,
And of al translatours in to latyn
He was flour enditour fyn;
He was so feiþful and pure of wit
Þat an enemy miht not repreyne hit.
He was of such auctorite
Þat olde doctours wolden, parde,
Þat his ensaumples for his sake
For gret auctorite was take.
Seint Austin tolde to Januarie
Þe tale, þat i nul not in varie:
Þat his modur hedde gret wondring
Whi þat men vsud no fastyng
At Melan on þe saterday—
Þat was noþing þe Romaynes lay—;
Þerfore Austyn asked Ambrose
Þer of what was þe purpose.
He onswerde wiþ good dome
And seide: »whon i come at Rome,
I kepe þe maner of þat fay

And þenne i faste þe saturday.
To what churche so euer þou cum,
Þer of kep þou þe custum,
Ȝif þou nult desclaundred beo
Ne oþur men for loue of þe«.
Seint Austin seide þat sentence
He hedde in as gret reuerence
And euer hit to haue in mende
As from heuene hit God hed sende.—
Of þis lyf is þer no more.
God ȝif vs grace to beo not lore!

3. De quadam virgine in Antiochia.

AT Antioche, as men han sayde,
Dwellede sum tyme a mayde
Þat was a wommon of god fame—
Þe bok telleþ not hire name,
But seint Ambrose, hose lust to lok,
In his secunde bok
Þat he made of maydens clene,
Þe storie of hire al bidene
Telleþ vs on þis manere.
Herkneþ now, and ȝe mowe here!
At Antioche in þat cuntre
Þer was a mayden feir and fre,
Þat hire peyned wiþ al hire mihtes
To holde hire out of comun sihtes;
Fleo heo wolde and huide hire þen,
Þat heo neore not iseȝen of men.
But þe more þat heo hire hud,
Þe more men coueytud
Hire feirnes forte se.
Þer of hedde heo no deynte,
For feirnes iherd and not seyn
Þe more disired is, certeyn,
A mon is stured on þat wyse
Wiþ twey kene prikkes of couetise:
Þe ton is loue wiþoute doyng,
Þe toþur is knowyng of þat þing,
Þat is: whon mon loueþ hotly
And ne haþ not his purpos fully,
And luytel plesed þauȝ þat beo he,
Wel more plesaunce he weneþ þer be;
Þe eȝe ȝiueþ not þe juggement,
Bote wel disireþ to parfourne his talent:
So wilful loue weneþ he se
Of whom he þenkeþ al þe beute,
Al þouh þe eȝe seo hit nouht,
For þe knowyng þen is in þe þouht;
In hope þerfore is heore lykyng
Wiþ eȝe to seo þe same þing.
Forte cese such hopyng,
Þis mayden made auouwyng
Of chastete and clannes
And þerto let hire self profes—
Þat heo dude men to restreyne
Þat hire louede al in veyne,
For þei schulde loue hire no more,
But let hire passe as þing forlore.
Nou gode men of deuocion
Mow here of persecucion.

Þis mayde þat coude not fleo away,
In drede liuede day by day
Leste heo hed fallen among hire fon
Þat al wey spyed hire vppon;
Heo greiþed hir wil of good clannes
To vertuwes and parfytnes;
Heo was so religious þat heo ne dredde
Ne deþ of mon wiþ knyf ne bedde,
Heo was also þerto so clene
Þat deþ heo bod, wiþouten wene,
Atte vche mon aboute al way.
[OMITTED]
Þat heo schulde for deuocioun
Of martirdom take þe croun,
Tofore hem þat hire loued had
Heo was brouht and forþ ilad.
Þen bihoued hire, certeyn,
Stifly stonde in batayles tweyn:
Forte kepe wiþ charite
Þe religiun, and þe chastite
Þat heo hedde ymad a vow to
Forte kepe euere mo.
Heo was þrat forte beo ded,
But heo wolde do aftur sum red.
And whon þei seȝen hire deuociun
And constaunce of perfecciun,
And þat heo was schomeful, and not bolde,
Þat men hire schulde biholde,
And for drede to leose hire clannes
Was redi wiþ al mekenes
Forte suffre al þe wo
Þat þei casten to don hire þo;
For þei parceyued hire deuociun
Þat heo hedde, þat hire religiun
Wolde kepe hire chastite
And make men heore loue to fle:
Þei caste alle wiþ felenye
Hou þat hope þei mihte distruye:
Oþur to make hire do sacrefyse
To false goddus on heor wyse,
Oþur elles þei casten, as fendes fel,
To puyten hire to þe bordel.
Whon þat heo vndurstod þis,
To hire self heo seide iwis:
»A lord God, what do we now?
For þat i wole kepe my vow,
To day martir moste i be,
Oþur kepe my maidenhod, parde.
I wot riht wel, þe to coroun
I schal take wiþ deuocioun,
Bote heo nis not worþi bere maidens name
Þat forsakeþ þe lord of þat fame;
Hou schulde heo beo mayden holde
Þat hordom herieþ wiþ herte bolde?
Or hou schulde mayden bi holden heer
To caste hire loue to avouter?
Or hou schulde heo be mayden
Þat disireþ loue of men?
Hit is more betur beo mayden of þouht
Þen of þe flesch þat serueþ of nouht.
Boþe beo goode whose moote
From erþly strengþe kepe hire cote;
And, ȝif we mou not for such power
Kepe vr flesch clene her,
To vr God þat is so good
Kepe vs chast in þouht and mood—

For of þe wil he takeþ hede,
Whon he schal quite a monnes mede.
Þe bible bereþ witnesse
Of a wommon of vnclennesse,
Þat þat tyme was Raab iclept,
But aftur þat heo for hir sunnes wept
And in God hedde good bileue,
And God hele hire sone had ȝeue.
And also þe byble witnesseþ hit:
Þe noble wommon Judit,
Forte plese an auouter,
Made hire gay and liht of cher;
For heo dude þat not for loue
Ne for no displesyng of God aboue,
Þer wente no mon bi þe wey
þat heo avouteres was wolde sey«.
And þen heo seide: »beo my hode,
Nou ben þese ensaumples goode:
For, ȝif Judit dude þat for religiun
And wiþ good deuociun
Kept hir clannes and hire cuntre,
In hap hit may falle so by me:
Ȝif i kepe my religiun wel,
I may me kepe chast eueridel.
»Ȝit, heo seide, i seo more:
Ȝif Judit hedde iput bifore
Clannes raþer þen religioun,
Par auntre heo hedde ifallen doun
And lost cuntrei and clannes
And al þe name of goodnes«.
Þe wordus in herte heo heold wel
Þat crist seide in þe gospel:
Who so leoseþ his lyf for me
He schal hit fynde aȝein, parde.
Whon heo þus hedde iþouht and seid,
Wondurliche heo abreyd
And wepte sore and heold hire pes,
Lest eny auouter hed herd hire res;
Ne heo chese nouȝt of hire clannes
Þe wrong, but refused wiþ mekenes
Þe wrong don to Crist of miht,
Þat lord is of alle riht.

SEint Ambrose bit us take nou hed
Of þis wommon maydenhed:
Wheþer hir bodi miht do auoutrie,
Ȝif hit weore constreyned be maistrie,
Whos vois to lecherie nolde assent,
Þouh þe bodi schulde beo torent.
Sum tyme mi resun aschomed was,
Ambrose seiþ, to here þis cas,
Or of þe orible doing
To schewe ouht in seying;
But alle ȝe Godus maidenes clene,
Schutteþ ȝor eres al bidene!
For þenne þis mayden—þat was del!—
Lad heo was to þe bordel.
Bot, þauh ȝor eȝen renne on teres,
Ȝit, maidenes, openeþ ȝor eres
And vndurstondeþ: sikerli,
A maiden wiþ strengþe may beo leȝe bi,
But aȝeines hir wil such vilenye
Schal beo told for non avoutrye;
For wher so euere Godus maiden is,
Þer Godus temple is, iwis,
Ne þe bordel place, parde,

Defameþ noþing chastite,
But chaste place is of god name
And doþ awey al vuel fame.

NOu, ȝe maidens, alle and sum,
Lerneþ þe miracles of martirdom,
Lerneþ also wiþ liht faces
Þe nomes of such maner places!
In hous is schut a coluere meke,
Þe sparhaukes wiþouten heor preies seke,
Vche wiþ oþur striueþ, par fey,
Whuch schal furst take þat prey.—
Þus Ambrose seiþ beo þat maiden
And bi þulke lecherous men
Þat lykyng of hire wolden haue had,
Aftur to bordel þat heo was lad.—
But whon heo was comen in to þat hous,
A heef vp hire hondes glorious,
As to an hous of good preyere
Heo hedde icomen, masse to here—
Heo heold hit non hous of lecherie,
But raþur a feir diuersorie,—
And þenne heo seide wiþ mylde mood:
»Crist, þat art boþe mon and God,
Þat hast ichasted lyouns feer
Wiþ ȝerdes in eorþe heer,
Þou maiȝt chaste at þi willyng
Þe woode þouȝtes of men liuing.
To þe Caldeyes þe fuir aȝein rauht,
And to þe Jewes þi merci was hauht,
Whon þe watur drouh bihynde,
Huld vp also not of his owne kynde;
Susanne at hire torment
kneled to þe wiþ good entent
And of hem hed heo maistrie
Þat wolde ha wrouht wiþ hire auoutrie;
Þe riht hond also, sikerlye,
Of him weorned and wox al drie
Þat hedde defouled wiþ vnþriftes
Of þi temple þe feire ȝiftus:
Nou þat same temple þat is þyne
Þei ben aboute to foule and tyne:
Þat is my bodi, I vndurstonde.
Lord, þou take me in to þyn honde,
Ne suffre no mon, mest ne leste,
Of sacrilege to do inceste
Wiþ me, as þou art al weldyng
And hast not suffred stelyng!
Nou, lord, iblessed beo þi nome,
And euer more kep me from schome,
Þat I to auoutrie am icome,
Mayde mowe passe hol and sume!«
Vnneþe heo hedde an ende ymad
Of þat preyere þat heo bad,
Þer com in to hire wiþ good spede
A mon arrayȝed as kniht in wede,
A muche mon and a grim.
Þis maiden, whon heo lokud on him,
Heo was aferd sumwhat þon
To ben al one wiþ such a mon.
Þen com þat lessun to hire mende
Of Susanne, þat wommon hende,
And þenne heo seide softly sum del:
»Þe innocent child Daniel
Com to abyde þe passiun
Of Susanne wiþ discreciun,

And, þauh þe peple hire dampned had,
He alone wiþ vois ful sad
Asoiled hire fro þat dampnyng
And demed þe juges to dyȝing.
Hit may bifalle, heo seide, parde,
Þat vndur wolues cloþing a schep þer be.
Vr lord Crist haþ his knihtes
And also legiouns of gret mihtes.«
And to hir self ȝit heo gon say:
»A smiter ȝif þer beo to day,
Me to sle, nou icomen in,
Wiþ eny strengþe or elles gin,
Wiþ staf or ston oþur elles swerd,
Mi goode soule, beo not aferd!
For suche men for Godus sake
Ben wont martires for to make!«
Þe feiþ of þis mayden
Saued hire from wikked men—
As I schal nouþe ȝou tel,
Ȝif ȝe wole herken me wel.
Þen þe kniht »suster«, he seid,
»Beo not aferd ne abreid!
As a broþur I am come,
Mi soule to saue atte day of dome.
Kep þou me, and i schal þe,
I preye þe for charite!
I com hider as avouter:
Ȝif þou wolt, i schal go out marter.
Chaunge we nou vre cloþing,
For hit wole beo wel semyng
Þat þi cloþing beo don on me,
And also myne vppon þe;
For, soþ to seye, þis is my list
Þat boþe two we seruen Crist.
Þi cloþing schal make me verrey kniht,
And my cloþing þe maiden briht.
Þou schalt be cloþud swiþe wel,
But i moste beo spoyled eueridel,
Þat he þat pursuweþ so harde þe
Mowe riht wel knowe me.
Tac þou nou my cloþing on
Þat wel wol huyde a wommon,
And tak me þyne anon riht her:
Þei mowe me halewe a marter.
Do on my mantel þat is so syde,
A maidenes membres þat wol hyde;
Set myn hat vpoon þyn hed,
To huide þin her and eke þi sched,
Hit wole also schadewe þi faas,
Whon þou schalt go forþ þi paas:
Aschomed, forsoþe, woned þei ben
Þat in to bordel entren.
Wayte wel, whon þou art gon oute,
Loke not aȝein, for no doute:
Of Lothus wyf loke þou haue mynde,
Hou þat heo lost hire ownekynde,
For heo loked hire bihynde
On hem þat to God weoren vnkynde;
Al þouh hir oune eȝen weren clene,
Þat heo biheold, wiþouten wene,
Was vnclene—þerfore þat place
Distruyȝed was þorwh Godus grace.
To no mon loke þou verreyed beo
Who þat þou art, whom euer þou seo,
For hit mihte falle on þat wyse
Sumwhat to perissche of vr sacrefyse«—
Þat forsoþe to hire seide he
Þat he for hire wolde martired be;
Þerfore to hire he seide: »þou trist,
For þe i schal me offre to Crist.

And loke þerfore boþe day and niht
Þat for me þou beo good kniht
To Crist, þat wiþ good chiualri
Clannes þou kepe and beo holi
For þat ilke same huyre
Þat wiþouten ende schal duyre.
Þe habergoun of rihtwysnes
Loke þou haue wiþ meknes—
Ȝif þat hit þi bodi close,
Þou schalt not flecche from þi purpose,
But specialiche of þi bodi
Hit wol beo keper from vileny.
Loke þou haue þe scheld of feiþ,
For, as þe holy bok seiþ,
Sinful woundes þou schalt wiþstonde,
And þou hit take wel forþ on honde.
Þe helm of helþe also þou take,
Þat wol þe saue from eueri wrake.
Þer vre defence is, iwis,
Þer Jhesu Crist him seluen is:
A wommones hed is ay mon,
But maidenes hed is Crist al on«.
Among þeos wordus þis ilke kniht
Dude of his mantel in hire siht,
But neuerþeles in her eiȝe þer
Sumwhat semed of auouter
And eke of an enemy,
Þe cloþing suspecte was, pardi.
Hire hed þauh adoun heo bent,
And þe kniht wiþ good entent
Wiþ bliþe cher and hiȝing fast
His mantel on hire hedde icast.
Wondur couplyng in such a place
Þer was bitwene bost and grace,
Whon þei in hous of hordom
Striuen so faste of martirdom.

NOu to gedere beo þer tweyn,
A maiden and a kniht, certeyn;
Vnlicchi þouh þei ben of kuynde,
Lichchi inouh in þouht and mynde;
Nou ben ifed to geder wiþ honour
A wolf, a lomb in o pastour,
And nouȝt onliche to gedere so,
Bote to God offred boþe two.
Whon heo hed chaunged hire cloþing,
Forþ heo wente wiþ gret hiȝing,
Out of þat hous, as brid fro gren,
Heo fleih awei and scaped þen:
Þorwh Godus grace heo was bore
Wiþ spirituel whinges, and nouȝt ilore,
And þat was neuer seiȝen but þat day:
A maiden from bordel plas gon away;
But heo was Cristes maiden iwis
Þat kepte hire and alle his.
Þe rauinoures þat hire abiden
Ne seȝen hire nout; þen in þei slyden,
For þei wenden swiþe wel
Þe maiden ha founden in þe bordel.
On entrede faste wiþ gret heiȝe,
Þe moste schrewe of þe cumpaignie.
Whon he sauh þer þe kniht sittyng
In a maydens cloþing,
»A ha«, he seide, »what is þis gyn?
A mayden, forsoþe, wente her in,
But now, forsoþe, as i seo con,

Ȝonde sitteþ a verrei mon.
Nou i seo soþ as men han sayde:
Lo heer an herte for a maide,
Hit is soþ, as to my siht:
Of a mayden we haue a kniht.
I haue ofte herd men seye a clatur
Þat in to wyn Crist torned þe watur,
And nou he leueþ not beohynde
For to chaunge monnes kynde.
Go we heonne, for ȝit we ben
As we weren-hit is wel sen.
Wheþer i beo chaunged, nou i meue,
On forte seo, anoþur to leeue?
Whon i com to þe bordel sted,
Þer me þinkeþ i seo a wed
For þat þing þat was ido,
And i my self am chaunged also:
Out of þis hous chast schal i go,
Þat as avouter com in wel þro«.

HIt bifel aftur, certeyn,
For Godus loue þat mon was slayn.
And riht also was þe kniht.
But þat was a wondur siht
Þat out of þe bordel schulde take þe wey
A mayden clene and martires twey.
Hit is told þat, whon þis kniht
Touward his juwyse was idiht,
Þe maiden to þat place ron
And wiþ him þus striue bigon:
»Wenestou, heo seide, þat þou for me
Schalt take þe juwyse and ded be,
And i so schulde leose my mede
Þat i schulde haue for martirhede?«
Þen þe kniht seide: »certeyn,
I am sent hider to beo slayn;
Þe sentence, mayden, asoyleþ þe,
Whon þat hit passeþ on me«.
Þen heo cried and seide: »nay, nay,
I ches þe not my wed to lay
For my deþ, but i þe ches
To beo pris of my clannes;
For þauh my clanhed beo isouht,
Ȝit my kuynde chaungeþ nouht;
Ȝif þat men asken my blood,
I nul hit not borewen, beo þe rod!
For i haue þis ilke day
Wher of my self forte pay.
In me þis sentence is ȝiue,
For me hit is þat i not liue.
Herken hou i schal hit schawe
Bi good proces of þe lawe:
Ȝif þou heddest for mypreyere
Mi borwh bicomen for money here
And aftur þat for myn absence
Þe juge hedde ȝiuen such a sentense
Þat þou to him schuldust make þe pay
Of whom i borwed þe monay,
Þe same sentence condempne schuld me
To paye to þe þat ilke mone
Of myn oune heritage,
Ȝif þat i were of ful age;
Ȝif i refused þat to pay,
Who is þat, þat nolde say
Þat I nere worþi to beo dede
Þat so vnkuyndely quit þi mede?
Nou þou maiȝt seo þe same skile
In þis doyng, ȝif þat þou wile.

Nou wol I wiþ good entent
Raþur dye an innocent
Þen liuen a while and lete þe dye
And leose so innocencie;
To day for me schal go no mene—
And þat, forsoþe, þou schalt wel sene:
Oþur i schal beo gulti of þi blood
Oþur martir beo wiþ mylde mood.
Ȝif I beo sone comen aȝein hom,
Who is so hardi holde me þer from?
And ȝif þat I haue dwelled to longe,
Me to asoyle ho dar vndurfonge?
I haue agulted more to þe lauh,
For out of prisun þat i flauh,
And I am gulti, þow wost, also
Of þe toþur monnes deþ þerto
Þat in to prisun tok þe way
And þerfore was slayen þat day.
I þe telle wiþ open breþ:
Mi membres suffisen to þe deþ,
Þe whuche, forsoþe, nouȝt gon longe,
Weore not sufficient to þe wronge.
A maiden haþ on hire bodi
Place, woundes on to suffri,
To whom, leeue wel! hit is non ese
Ne no good, mon forte disese.
Sclaundre þauh þat i fled in þouht,
To ȝelde vp martirdom to þe þouȝt i nouht:
Þauh I my cloþing leide adoun,
I chaunged not my professioun.
Tofore me to deþ ȝif þou woldest go,
Þou hast not bouȝt me from wo,
And i may sei in herte þen sone:
Þou hast me gyled and vndurgone.
Be war, be war, I preye nou þe,
Aȝeinsei me not, strif not wiþ me!
Þat þou me ȝaf, þe benefice,
To take hit me fro, be not so nice!
We schul make good al vr biheste,
To god, wiþouten eny cheste,
Ȝif þou me soffre now in certeyn
Furst ar þou forte beo sleyn;
Anoþur peyne vppon þe
Þei han icast to do, parde.
Þe more joyful þou shalt beo,
Of avouteres ȝif þat þou seo
A martir þat þou hast maad,
And þou þer aftur þe more sad,
Þen þat þou furst a martir were
And lafte me aftur to avoutere«.
Whon þat þei þus hed striuen,
As þe dom was iȝiuen
Boþe forsoþe weoren do to dede—
God þerfore haþ quit heore mede.
Þe biginnyng of þis martirdom
Furst of þat mayden com,
But þe kniht þe effecte folfuld,
For þat he was furst iculd;
But, as God wolde for þe nones,
Þei toke heor coroune boþe at ones.

De duobus veris amicis.

SUm tyme men reden þat þer was
In a cuntre, clept pittogoras,
Dwellynge þere twey men,
Iclept Sithia and Climonen;
To gedere þei loued hem wondur wel
And frendes weoren at murþe and mel.
A tiraunt þer was of wikked red,
Jugged þat on to ben ded.
Anon riht þen in þat place
He preyed þe tiraunt of sum space,
Þat his good he mihte dispose
As he hedde cast in purpose.
But for þe tiraunt leeued þon
Þat he schulde ha founde no mon
In þat caas his borwh haue be,
Anon riht graunted he,
So þat a borwh he mihte fynde
In þat caas wolde him bynde,
Ȝif he ne come not at his day,
Þe deþ to take for him, in fay.
His felawe þenne his borwh bicom,
And þe toþur wente him hom.
Þe day was come, he was ful longe:
His borwh þe deþ schulde vndurfonge.
And as he was riht atte caas,
Þe toþur com in to þe plaas,
His nekke forþ he streihte ariht,
To saue his borwh, as he hedde hiht.
Þen þe tiraunt wondrede þer
Þat þeose two men were more cheer
Of heore loue þen of heore lyue;
He preyed hem him to receyue
In to heore loue for euer more,
And he heore lyf hem graunted þerfore.
Þis was grace of gret vertue,
Frendschipe to kuiþe, to old and newe;
But þis was lasse worþi of meed
Þen þe knihtes and þe maiden ded:
For þulke weren boþe men,
Þe þride was a wommon clen
Þat is more frele of kuynde
Þen mon, as bokus maken muynde;
Þulke were frendes of long tyme met,
Þeos weoren vnknowen, and no steuene set;
Þulke to on tiraunt hem ȝolde,
But þeose to moni on, stout and bolde,
Þat weren more cruel þen was he,
For he hem spared, þeose let hem sle;
Þei for loue deþ wolde haue nome,
But þeose for þe croune of martirdome;
Þulke hedden heore þonk tofore men,
But þeos tofore God glorious ben.
Þis lyf endyted seint Ambrose
On latyn. tak hede to his purpose!

4. De S. Theodora.

AT Alisaundrie, tel i ow con,
In þe emperours tyme Zenon
Dwelled a wommon—þe bok seiþ swa—
Þat men called Theodora,
A noble wommon and a feir,
And hire hedde iweddet a riche heir,
A semely mon and muri of mod,
Þat God dredde and dude muche good.
Þe deuel, so ful of tricherie,
To þis wommon hedde envye,
Tempted so a riche mon
Þat he coueyted þis wommon.
Messagers þen he hire sent,
And ȝiftus, to haue hire assent.
Þe messagers heo forsoke,
Of his ȝiftus non heo toke.
He bisied him þouȝ neuerþeles,
Þat heo mihte wel haue no pes,
And put him to þouȝt and trauayle,
Til he bigon neihond to fayle.
Atte laste ful wikkedliche
To þat wommon he sent a wicche,
Wiþ hire to talke his entent
And forte maken hire assent.
Þe wicche wiþ sotyl wordus þan
Bigon to talke to þis womman,
And hou þat heo scholde bere þe gult
For þat mon, ȝif he weore spilt.
Þe gode wyf seide: »for Godus eiȝe
I dar me not auntren, þouȝ i schulde diȝe,
Þat wiþ his eȝen whateuer we do
Seoþ, tyde and tyme, and euermo«.
þe wicche þen þe fend was wors—
Alle suche haue Godus curs!—
And seide: »al þat euere is don bi day
God almihti seo wel may,
But, aftur þe sonne is forþ gon,
He may seo noþing what we don.«
Þen onswerd þe gode wyf:
»Is þat soþ, bi þi lyf?«
And heo onswerd: »dame, beo my fey,
Hit is soþ nou þat i sey«.
Heo was bigyled verreylichche,
And þen heo seide to þe wicche:
»Þat þou seist, nou i beoleeue.
Bid him come nou sone at eue:
I schal beo redi to folfulle,
When þat he comeþ, al his wille«.

WHon þat þe wicche hed told him þis,
He was a joiful mon, iwis,
And atte same tyme he com
And fond Theodora at hom;
Wiþ hire he dude what him lust,
And went his wei, whon he hedde cust.
Whon heo biþouȝt hire aftur wel,
Heo weopte and made muche deol
And beot hire owne face ful sore,
And among criede euer more:
»Allas allas, what haue i do!

Mi soule is lost for euermo,
I haue destruyȝed nou þe siht
Of my beute, þat was so briht«.
Whon hir hosebonde comen hom was,
He biheold hire in þe fas,
And whon he sauh hire heui cher,
Þerof he hedde gret wonder.
He asked hire what hire was.
Heo nolde him not telle of þat cas.
And he hire cumforted ofte siþe,
But for no þing wolde heo beo bliþe.
Vppon þe morwen, whon hit was day,
Heo wente hir to an abbay
Of nonnes, and of þat abbes
Heo asked sone, wiþouten les,
Wheþer God mihte wite a gret trespas
Þat heo dude þe niht þat last was
Tofore, aftur þe sonne went doun.
Þe abbesse onswered wiþ deuocioun
Þat »God so mihtful is al way
Þat he seoþ as wel bi niht as day
And wot al þing þat is ido,
What tyde, what tyme, what vre also«.
Heo onswerde, wepyng bitterli:
»Reche me þe bok of þe Ewangeli,
Þat i mowe assaye, for i wite mot,
What schal me falle nou for my lot«.
Heo opened þe bok. anon heo fond
Þe wordus þat Pilat seide her in lond,
On Latyn þat is: Quod scripsi scripsi,
And on Englisch is, sikerli:
»Þat haue i writen þat wrot I«,
To þe men þat stod him bi.
Theodora went hir hom þan,
As a ful sori womman.

HIt bifel vppon a day
Hir hosebonde was out of þe way:
And þenne of hire owne witte
Al hire her awey heo kutte,
And in monnes cloþing
Tok þe wey wiþ gret hiȝing
Touward a munstre of monkes blake,
And þer heo preyed for Godus sake
Þat amonges oþur men
A monk of þe hous heo mihte ben.
Þei wende heo hedde ben a mon,
And þerfore þei asked hire þon
What was hire rihte name—
Heo schulde hem telle wiþoute blame.
Hire name, þat was femynyn
Of gendre, heo turned in to masculyn:
Theodora hire name was, parde,
But Theodorus heo hiht, seide heo.

ÞEn of þat mon þe monkes were glad
And token him in wiþ chere ful sad.
Þat tyme monkes neih lewed men were.
Þis mon þei dude among hem schere
And to bere þe blac abyt
Of heore ordre wiþ good dilyt.
Þei putten him to an offyce—
Þat nouþe schulde bi holde nyce—:
To ȝoke þe oxen, so mot i þe,
And fette oyle at þe cite.
Theodorus feir and wel
Dude his offys eueridel.
Hire hosebonde was ful sori
And of chere al dreri,

For he wende heo hedde beo gon
Awey wiþ sum oþur mon.

ON a tyme God almiht
Him cumforted bi an angel briht,
And seide to him: »vppon alle wyse
Loke to morwe þat þou rise
And stonde in þe same way
Þer Petur and Poul vppon a day
For Cristes loue tok martirdome;
And þe furste wommon þat þou seost come
Heo hit is þat is þy wyf,
Þat þou louedest as þy lyf«.
Vppon þe morwen he tok þe pas,
Til he com to þe same plas.
Theodora wiþ hire chamayles
Com þer forþ, to fette hire oyles.
Whon þat heo sauh hire hosebonde,
Heo kneo him wel, boþe fot and honde,
And to hire self softly heo seid,
And sykede sore in herte and breyd:
»Allas allas, my gode fere,
Hou sore i trauayle in eorþe here,
Of þat sunne dilyuered to be
Þat i haue sunged aȝeines þe!«
Whon þat heo neihȝed him neih,
Wiþ open vois al an heih
Þenne to him heo seide þis word:
»Stondeþ murie, sire, my lord!«
And he stod stille al in þouht,
For outurliche he kneuh hir nouht.
Whon heo was bi him passed hir way
And he hedde longe abide þat day,
He gan to crie and faste he weyled
And seide þat he was bigyled.
In his bed whon he was leide,
At niht a vois to him seide:
»He þat þe saluwed ȝesterday
Was þi wyf, sire, in good fay«.

THeodora forsoþe wes
Of so gret holynes
Þat God for hire miracles wrouhte
For moni men, as heo bisouȝte.
A wylde best hedde al totoren
A mon and al most forloren,
But heo saued þat mon, certeyn,
And him reised vp aȝeyn;
Þe best heo corsed witerliche,
And hit fel doun ded sodeynliche.

ÞE deuel hedde gret enuye
Þat þis wommon was so holye;
To hire he apeered vppon a day
And grimliche gon to hire say:
»Now artou wel imet,
Þow vyle foule stumpet,
Ouer al oþure more and lesse
Þou foulest avouteresse!
Þin hosebonde þou hast forsake,
And here þi dwellyng þou hast take,
For þou woldest me dispise.
I schal þe quyte on oþur wyse:
I þe telle wiþouten fayle,
Aȝeyn þe i schal reyse a batayle,
I schal þe make wiþ muchel wrake
Þe crucifixe forte forsake;
And but þat hit beo so, verreily,
Sei þou þat I nam not I«.

Whon þat heo hed herd his vois,
Heo schewed him þe signe of þe crois,
And þenne þe schrewe anon riht
Vanischt awey out of hire siht.

HIt bifel, as ȝe schul here,
Vppon a tyme of þe ȝere,
Fro þe citéé as heo com
Wiþ hire chamayles, forte gon hom:
Heo was herborwed in a plas
And to bedde ibrouht was.
A damisele com to hire þon,
As þauh hit hedde beo to a mon,
And seide: »sire, so mote þou þe,
To niht slep þou wiþ me!«
Theodora þenne þat forsok,
And þe maide þe wey þen tok
To anoþur monnes bed
Þat in þat same hous was leid.
Whon hire wombe was gret iwaxe,
Mony men þenne gonne hire aske
Whos þat child mihte þenne be.
»Theodorus þe monk haþ leȝen bi me«
Heo seide, and was noþing aschamed,
And al, for he schulde beo blamed.
Whon þe child was ibore,
Anon riht wiþouten more
Þe men, þat weren of vuel entent,
To þe abbot þe child þei sent
And seiden: his monk was waxen to wyld:
Þat hedde igeten him such a child.
Þe abbot þenne his monk gan blame
Of þat ilke wikkede fame,
And, þouh he neore not gulty,
He asked forȝiuenesse mekely.
Þen þe abbot anon riht þo
Wende hit hedde beo riht so,
And caste þe child in þe monkes lap
And bad hem boþe vuel hap,
He put hem boþe from þat abbey
And bad him go forþ on his wey.

THeodora þenne seuen ȝeer
Heold hire fro þe munster;
Wiþ milk of beestes, tame and wyld,
Heo norissched feire vp þat chyld.

ÞE deuel forsoþe wiþ gret anuye
To hire pacience hedde envye,
And in liknesse of hire hosebonde
Tofore hire þenne gon he stonde
And seide to hire: »bi þi lyf,
What dostou here, myn owne wyf?
Lo hou sek I am for þe!
I may no cumfort take to me.
Cum wiþ me, my swete leue,
And i þe, certes! schal forȝeue
Ȝif eny mon haþ bi þe leyȝen,
I nul þe þe lasse louen, certeyn«.
Heo wende hire hosbonde he hed bene,
And him onswerde wiþ herte clene:
»I schal neuer dwelle wiþ þe more,
Min herte, iwis, hit is ful sore,
For I sunged foule aȝeines þe,
Whon Jon, þe knihtes sone, lay bi me«.
In to hire preyere heo ful þo,
And þe deuel vanischt hire fro.

ÞE deuel eftsones wiþ wyles cast
Hire to fere, and atte last
In wylde beestes liknes
Deueles, boþe more and les,
To hire he sent, and a man
Hem suwed and seide þan:
»Go forþ, ȝe beestes, euerichon
And eteþ þis comuyn wommon!«
To God þenne heo made hire preyere:
Þei vanischt awey alle in fere.

OF knihtes heo sauh a cumpaygnie
Anoþur tyme wiþ hire eȝe,
And as a prince tofore hem dude gon
And þei him worschiped euerichon,
To Theodora þe knihtes gon sei:
»Arys vp al in good fey
And vre prince loke þou adoure,
Þat lord is of gret honoure!«
Þen heo onswerde anon riht:
»I worschipe him wiþ al my miht:
Mi lord God, of mihtes most,
And bouht vs alle þat weren lost«.
To heore prince aȝein þei breid
And tolden him what heo hedde iseid.
And he comaunded wiþ gret talent
Þei schulde hire trauayle wiþ torment,
Til þat heo weore wel neih dede,
»Loke ȝe quyte hire so hire mede!«
And þen þei alle vppon o fliht
Vanisch(t) awey out of hire siht.

ÞE deuel in anoþur wyse
Tempted hire wiþ couetyse:
For on a tyme heo say muche gold
And oþur tresur monyfold.
Heo blessed hir þenne wiþ þe crois
And wiþouten more nois
Heo preyed God to ben hire help,
Þat, where he loueþ, wol not ȝelp.
Heo fleyȝ þerfro as hitterly
As mon wolde from an enemy.

ANoþur tyme þer com to hire
A mon þat a basket dude bere,
Ful of alle maner of mete,
And seide: »þe prince þat þe bad bete
Bad þou schuldest take þerof and ete,
And þat for noþing þou schuldest lete;
For vnwityng he bad his men,
And wiþ wrong, bete þe þen«.
Þenne wiþ þe crois heo hire blessed,
And anon þenne hit vanisched.

AT þe seuen ȝeres ende
Þe abbot tok riht wel to muynde
Theodorus longe pacience,
And of good concience
His monk reconciled aȝen,
Wiþ his child in munstur to ben.
And aftur þat al two ȝer
Wiþ monkes in cloistre liued in fer.

VPpon a day wiþouten were
In to hire celle heo wente hire,
In to hire þat child heo clept
Þat heo so longe tofore hed kept,
And, whon heo adoun was set,
Þe dore to hire faste heo schet.
Whon þe abbot of þis wuste,

He sende his monkes forte luste,
Priueyliche forto here
What þei tweyne speken ifere.
Heo tok þe child loueliche
In hir armes, ful sweteliche
Custe hit and seide: »child, haue in mende:
Tyme is comen of my lyues ende.
To God of heuene nou leue i þe,
A good mon loke þat þou be,
Tac him þin helpere and þi syre:
He wol quite þe wel þin hire.
Mi swete sone, beo bisy ay
Him to serue boþe niht and day
Wiþ fastynge and god preyere,
Whil þat þou schalt liuen here,
Deuout loke on alle wyse
Þat þou beo in þi breþer seruyse.«
Wiþ þat word heo ȝald þe gost
To God, þat is of mihtes most.
Whon þe child þerof was war,
He wepte and made muche car.

ÞE abbot þat same niht at euen
Him þhouȝte he say al in his sweuen
A wondur swiþe gret weddyng,
And þer to was a gret comyng
Of angeles, prophetes, grete and smal,
Of martires and of halewes al;
And hem among was a wommon,
Wiþ wondur gret blisse bigon;
Whon heo com to þat weddyng,
Vppon a bed was hire sittyng,
And as þei stoden hire aboute
Þei worschiped hire, al þe route.
And þen he herde a vois sei þus:
»Abbot, þis is Theodorus
Þat falsliche acuised was
Of þat child in þi plas;
Seuen tymes wiþouten les
Vppon hire chaunged þer wes.
Heo was chastised tofore hire ded,
For heo brac hire spoushed«.
Þe abbot ros him vp anon
And waked his breþeren euerichon.
And whon þei to þe celle were gon,
Þei founden hire ded as eny ston.
Hire þere þenne þei vnheled:
A wommon þer þei sayȝ and feled.
Þen þe abbot was aschamed
And sent aftur hir fadur þat hire defamed.
»Þe mon is ded, he seide, verreyli,
Þat þi douȝtur hedde child bi«.
Whon þe cloþ was taken hire fro,
A wommon he sauh, he wuste wel þo.
Þei weoren aferd and aschamed
Alle þat euere hire hedde defamed.

AN angel, þat from God was sent,
To þe abbot seide þis entent:
»Tac þin hors, loke þat þou ride
In to þe cité in þis tyde;
Whomeuer þou metest, whon þou comest þider,
Tac him wiþ þe and bring him hider!«

Þe abbot rod forþ his way.
A mon he mette and he gon say
And asked also »whodur rennest þou?«
And he onswerede »I hiȝe me nou
To seo my wyf þat nou ded is—
Of hire haue i had ful gret mis«.
Þe abbot þen tok þis mon him wiþ,
And wenten wepyng bi feld and friþ,
Til þat þei to þe abbei com,
Þer þe monkes þei founden at hom.
Þe bodi þenne wiþ swete song
Þei burieden þo hem among.
And in þat ilke same celle
Þer Theodora was wont to dwelle,
He dwelled aftur al his lyue
And preyed for his noble wyue,
And at þe last to God he went,
Blisse to haue, verreyment.
Þe child also þat his wyf
Hedde inorissched in hire lyf,
Among his breþeren iloued so was
Þat he was chosun of þat plas
Heore abbot and heore hed to be,
Hem to gouerne in charite,
Aftur þat he to God was go
Þat abbot was tofore him þo.
God graunte vs grace wel to do,
And ȝiue us heuene blisse also! AMEN.

5. S. Bernard.

SEint Bernard born was at Burgoyne,
In þe castel men calleþ Fountayne,
Of wondur noble kinred
Of gentrie and of goodhed.
His fader was a worþi kniht
Boþe to þe world and to God almiht.
Men called him sir Tecelyn.
He hedde also a modur fyn,
Þat men called tofore hire deþ
Bi þulke dayȝes dame Aaleth.
Seuen children in þat londe
Heo hedde bi hire hosebonde:
Þe sixe weor knaue children, as men saide,
And þe seuenþe was a mayde;
Þe knaue children vchone monkes were,
A nonne bicom heore douhtur deore.
Heo was wont wiþ herte myld,
As sone as heo hedde ibore a child,
Wiþ hire oune hondes deuoutely
Offre hit heo wolde to God almihti.
Hem to norissche heo wolde not lete
Wiþ milk and wiþ oþur mete
Non oþur wommon, witerly,

But al hir oune body:
Heo trouwed wel, wiþouten lees,
Þat, ȝif þat eny goodnes
Hedde ben in þe modur kynde,
Þe child hit schulde best fede and fynde.
Whon þei woxen ouȝt of stature,
Whil heo of hem hedde þe cure
Heo norissched hem raþur to desert
Þen in court to lyue apert:
Wiþ comuyn metes and boystous
Heo hem norissched in heor hous,
For þei schulde not aftur ben aferd
Hardnes to soffre in desert.

WHon þat wommon meke and mylde
In wombe hedde þe þridde childe,
Þat was icalled afturward
At þe cristendom Bernard,
Heo hedde a sweuene of him, wituring
What he schulde beo in tyme comyng:
Hir þhouȝte þat in hir wombe heo had
A luytel whelp, of mouþ ful glad,
And was as whit as swannes federe,
His bac was rouh eke al to gedere.
And to a good holi man
Þe goode wyf tolde hire sweuene þan,
And he onswerde, as a prophete:
»I schal þe telle what is þi meete:
Þou schalt beo modur of a whelp
Þat schal boþe berke and ȝelp
And also þerto gret noyse make
Aȝeynes enemys for Godus sake,
For þer schal bi tak eto him
Godus hous for to ȝem;
Þat is to sei: wiþouten let
He schal beon a prechour gret
And wiþ þe medecyn of his tonge
Of sunne hele boþe olde and ȝonge,
He schal beo mon of holy churche,
Of grete wondres þer inne worche«.

WHil he was ȝong and tendre ek,
His hed ook: þat made him sek.
Forte sauen him of þat harme,
Þer com a wommon his hed to charme.
Whon þat he þerof was war,
He criede and made muche far
And bad men schulde hire bidde forþ gon,
For of hir charmes wolde he non.
Þe child anon, witterli,
Þerfore felede Godus merci,
For þe ache was went awey,
And he aros and went to pley.

VPpon a cristemasse niht
To þe churche he wente forþ riht
And abod þer wiþinne;
And whon matyns schulde biginne,
He coueyted wiþ al his miht
To wite what hour of þe niht
Crist vr saueour was bore.
And as he stod in þouht þerfore,
Him þhouȝt he sauh child Jhesus
As he boren was amongus vs,
In þe tyme riht of þe burþe,
As hit hed ben wiþ muchel murþe
Of his modur riht þenne, so dere,

As heo in trauaylyng were.
He leeuede euer aftur þat þat same hour
Jhesus was boren, vr sauiour.
And aftur þat tyme his wit was more briȝt
To knowe and seo wiþ spirituel liht.
Þe sacrament of incarnaciun;
Þen was him ȝiuen deuociun
And deppore wit to vndurstonde,
And copious to beo of tonge in londe.
Afturward þerfore wel sone
Of vr ladi and hire sone
In þe biginning of his makyng
He made a wondur worching,
Þat is: a lessun of gret leornyng,
To vche monnes heryng,
In þe whuche he expouned þe gospel
Missus est angelus Gabriel.

WHen þe fend kneuh his purpos,
He was aboute destruye his los
And mad him moni a temptaciun
Of chastite, to leue his deuociun.

VPpon a tyme on a wommon
To loke hire wiþ eȝen liked him þon;
And whon him self he hedde biþouht,
He wox aschamet and nolde hir nouht.
Þerfore to pyne his oune flesch,
Þat was so frele, him þhouȝte, and nesch,
In to a pol þat was froren
He sturte sone in—he was not boren;
So longe forsoþe þer he stood
Forte kele his hote blod,
Þat he was in poynt almost
Forte haue ȝolden vp þe gost.

SOne aftur þe damysel
Þe fend hedde tempted & mad so fel
Þat heo crep in to þe bed
Þer he to slepe hed leid his hed.
Whon he hire feled in þat tyde,
He tornde him to þat oþur syde
Of þe bed, and nouht he seide
Ne made no noyse ne noþur abreyde,
And leet hire haue þat partye
Þat heo com in ate forte lye,
And he him self on slep fyl.
And heo lay stille a luytel whil,
Þen heo groped him atte laste
And put vppon him swiþe faste.
But whon heo sauȝ he wolde not stire,
Þat forsoþe aschomed hire,
And gretliche wondred and aros
And dude hire forþ out of þat clos.

EFtsones in his lyf
He was herborwed wiþ an hosewyf.
For he was semely in hire eȝe,
On him heo gan loke and prye,
Heo coueyted inwardliche
He schulde ha knowen hire flescliche.

Heo let maken a bed ful sone,
Him self to liggen in al one.
Whon þat he to bed was brouht,
Þe hosewyf wolde do as heo þouht:
Al wiþ silence and wiþ pes
Vp heo ros, and made no res,
heo ne spared for no grim
In to þe bed to go to him.
Whon he hire feled, he cried out
And seide: »þeues ben her about«.
Þe hosewyf was aferd þan,
Vp heo ros, awey heo ran.
Þe seruauns alle at þat cri
Risen vp wel smartly
And souhten þe hous anon wiþ liht,
But þei ne founden no wiht.
Þe seruauns wente to bedde wel prest
And wenden forte ha taken heore rest—
Saue þe sori hosewyf,
Þat þouhte neuer forte þrif:
To Bernardus bed heo wente eftson.
And he criede »out, out« anon,
»Aryseþ, men, loke ȝe ne blynne,
For þer ben þeoues her inne«.
Þei risen and souhten bisyliche,
Þei founden no mon, treweliche.
Whon vche mon for his best
Was gon to take eftsones rest,
Þe þridde tyme heo wolde ha sayed,
But for fere heo was affrayed,
And, for heo sauh hit nolde not be,
Heo let him ligge in pes, parde.
Vppon þe morwen, whon hit was day
And he hedde itake his jurnay,
In his sleep what he was dreiht
His felawes asked him, þat niht,
Whi he so faste on þeoues cried,
And þer mihte non beon aspyed.
He seide and swor: »so mot i cheue,
I was biset wiþ a þeoue,
For þe hosewyf of þe hous,
Þer we hedde iherborwed vs,
Mi tresour of chastite
Heo wolde ha boren awey, parde;
To me þat wolde ha ben gret pein:
I schulde hit neuere (ha) rekeuered aȝein«.
He sauh he miht not dwelle siker
Wiþ a serpent wiþouten biker:
He him caste hou he mihte fle,
To lyue in pes and charite.

ÞEn he forsok þe worldly þewes,
To take þe ordre of Sistewes.
Whon his breþeren knewen his þouht,
Þei him forboden he schulde nouht;
But God þat grace þen him sent
Þat he torned heor aller talent
To ben men of religiun,
And moni anoþur wiþ deuociun
He won to God wiþ his techyng
And wiþ his goode lyuyng.

HE hedde a broþur, þat was a kniht,
Þat of his wordus lette pure liht

And þouȝte þat he spac al in veyn,
Gerard was his nome, certeyn.
Bernard bi wei of charite
Sumwhat meued was, for he
Aftur his counseil nolde nouȝt do,
And to him he seide þo:
»Broþur myn, wiþouten wening
I knowe riht wel þi menyng.
Aftur holichirche seiȝing
Tribulaciun onliche schal ȝiue þe vndurstonding«.
His finger he put þen to his syde:
»Or ouht longe hit schal beotyde«,
He seide, »þe day schal not longe abyde,
Þat a spere schal perse þi syde;
And riht so forþ to þin herte
Whon þou felest hit so smerte,
Þou schalt repente wiþouten fayl
Þou neddest don aftur my counsayl«.
A fewe dayes afturward
Enemys token sire Gerard:
In þe same place stak a spere
Þer his broþur putte his fyngere;
He was ibounden swiþe fast'
And þerto in prisun cast.
Whon seint Bernard herde of þis,
Wiþ him to speke he wente, iwis;
But þei þat hedden him in kepyng
Wolde not soffre heor spekyng.
Þerfore seint Bernard cryed al out,
Þat he mihte here and al þe rout:
»Wite þou wel, broþur Gerard,
Not long tyme her afturward
We schullen to gedere take þe way,
In to an abbeye to dwelle al way«.
Þe same niht riht, as he seet,
Þe fetres fullen fro his feet,
Þe prisun dore eke ful abrod,
And he him self out þerate glod.
Whon to his broþur he was come,
He tolde him al hou he was nome,
And seide: »i kepe no knihtes los,
Ichaue ichaunged my purpos;
I haue trauayled and eke iswonke,
But i þenke to ben a monke«.

OF ȝeeres two and twenti
Of age Bernard was, witerli,
Whon he wiþ felawes þritti
Tok þe ordre deuoutli
Of Cistewes, þe whuche hous,
And þerof þe constitucioun glorious,
Tofore þat fol fiftene ȝer
Was ifoundet, good and cler;
Þe date of vr lord him selue
A þousund an hundrut and twelue
Was, whon seint Bernard was ischore
Wiþ his breþeren, as i seide bifore.

WHon þis children glorious
Wenten out of heor fadur hous
Toward þe hous of Cistewes,
To god, for þei wolde haue gode þewes:
Gy, þat was þe furste childe,
Sayȝ his ȝonge broþur murie and wilde,
Þat Niuard was cald, verreyment,

Pleyȝe him vppon þe pament
Wiþ oþur children of his age,
Þat lusten wel to pleye and rage.
He seide to him: »broþur Nyuard,
Herken þou nou hiderward!
To þe schal falle feld and toun,
Vr lond and vre possessioun«.
Þe toþur þouȝte, þauh he were wyld,
He onswerd noþing as a child:
»A, he seide, heuene ȝe schul haue
And ȝe leue me lond onliche to craue?
Me þinkeþ in my resoun
Þis is non euene diuisioun«.
Wiþ his fadur a luytel while
He dwelled aftur wiþouten gyle,
And aftur þat wiþ deuociun
He suwed his breþeren in to religiun.

WHon Bernard hed taken his abyt,
In God he hedde so gret dilyt
Þat al his bodiliche witte
Out of vse he hedde flitte,
And al his spiret outurliche
Was rauischt so heuenliche
Þat, whon he hedde iben a ȝer
Wiþ oþur nouices in fer
In an hous wiþinne þe plas
Þat for þe nouices ordeynd was,
He nuste neuere beo his eȝe
Wheþer þeron weore a rof on hiȝe.

IN þe gable ende of þe churche
Ben þreo wyndouwus of noble worche:
Long tyme he went in and out,
And so luytel loked him about
Þat he wende, bi seint Jon,
Þat þer hedde ben but on.

ÞE abbot þen of Sistews
Sende monkes to Clereuaus,
Gode men and religious,
Forte builde þer an hous.
Tofore hem alle, God hit wot,
He mad Bernard heore abbot.
Þer long tyme in pouerte
Þei lyueden and wiþ charite,
Þat ofte þei eten bechene leues,
Þat þer growed among þe greues.

SEint Bernard wok boþe day and niht
More þen monkuynde feire bere miht;
Ofte he wolde pleyne wiþouten bost
And sei: þer was no more tyme lost
Þen while he lay to slepyng;
And euere he made a liknyng
Bytwene slep and monnes deþ:
»Saue onliche a luytel breþ,
A ded mon to God on slep is holde,
A slepyng mon to men is tolde
As good as ded for þe tyme,
Bi niht or day, vndurne or pryme«.
Ȝif þat he herde þerfore on route
Or esyliche ligge wiþ cloþus aboute,
To him hit was so gret offence
Þat vnneþe he mihte his pacience

To constreyne, þat he nolde sei openliche
Þat hit was to wordliche
Or elles to muche loue of flesche,
A mon to kepe him self to nessche.
He tok non hede of no dylyt
Of metes, ne of appetyt,
But onliche to susteyne his kynde,
To serue his God wiþ good mynde,
To mete he went wiþ such entent
As touward his owne turment.
Whon he hedde eten, he wold him biþink
Boþe of his mete and eke of his drynk
Wher he hedde don ariȝt his cure,
Þat he passed not his olde mesure;
And ȝif he parseyued þat he hedde so don,
He him repente wolde anon.
He kepte him so fro glotenye
Þat for þe more partye
Þat he nedde discreciun ne sauour
Of metes ne drinkes ne oþur licour;
Þerfore oþurwhile he wolde drynke
Oyle for watur, and nouȝt þeron þynke,
Whon þat recheles men
Serued him of drinken þen,
Ne hit nas parseyued no more
Til þat his lippes þerof dude glore.
He eet ofte tyme rau blood
In stude of buttur, wiþ good mod,
Whon he was serued rechelesliche:
Þerof he tok hit meokeliche.
He seide þat watur onliche
Sauered him verreyliche,
For þat hit wolde riht weel
His jouwes and his þrote keel.

AMong his frendus þat he loued wel
He was wont forte tel
Þat al his lernynge of clergye
Was in þenkynge and preying deuoutlye
Among wodus and feldes wy(l)de:
Þer he wolde wake wiþ herte ful mylde;
Ooþur maister hedde he non
But okus and beches, swiþe gret won.
Knowleche he wolde ofte tyme also
To hem þat he louede þo,
Þat, whon he was in meditaciun
Or in preyer wiþ deuociun,
Al maner þing of holy writ
Was vndurput to his wit
Oþur elles expouned verreyli,
Wiþouten eny maistri.

ONes he biþouhte him on a speche
Þat þe holigost dude him teche,
Þe whuche, þouh he leeued hit wel,
He nedde hit not in mynde eueridel;
Þerfore he þouhte what oþur þing
He mihte take in tretyng.
A vois to him þen gon sey:
»In veyn þou trauaylest, al in fey;

Aftur oþur matere þar þe nouȝt craue,
Til þat þou holde and in muyde haue
Þat furst was put in to þi wit.
Þenk on þerfore and hold wel hit!«

IN cloþing pouerte lyked him euere,
But vnclennesse louede he neuere.
Whon he sauh men wiþ veyn glorie
Haue likyng in heore oune eȝe
Oþur elles in oþur mennes siht,
Þerof forsoþe he wolde lete liht.
Ouþur wiþ herte or wiþ mouþe
A prouerbe þat he riht wel couþe,
He wolde sey on þis manere,
As ȝe mowe nouþe ihere:
»He þat doþ þat doþ no man,
On him wondreþ vche mon þan.«
Þer tofore mony a ȝere
Next his bodi he wered þe here,
As longe as hit priue was;
Aftur þat he wuste men knewe þe cas,
From him awey he dude þe here
And tornede to comun manere.
He his herte neuer cast
Inwardly to lauhwhe so fast,
Þat he nas bisy hit to restreyne
Wiþ al his mihtes and to refreyne.

HE wolde sey ofte wiþ concience
Þat in þreo þinges stod pacience:
In soffring wrong of vuel word
Of comun mon or of lord;
And in los of vre þing
Meble, ded oþur lyuyng;
And in hurtyng of vre bodi,
Druye strok oþur blodi,
Oþur elles fals enprisonement—
He þat may þeose suffre, is pacient.
Þat he was pacient and wise,
Bi ensaumples he proued on þis wyse:
An apistle to a bisschop he wrot
And him amonested, God hit wot,
Wiþ riht parfyt charite,
A certeyn defaute he schulde fle.
Þe epistle to þe buschop was loþ,
He wrot aȝeyn, as mon al wroþ,—
Þat he him hedde scorned, wel he wende,
Þerfore in þe lettre þat he aȝein sende
He ne seide good day noþur god morn,
But: »saulucȝ and nouȝt þe spiryt of scorn«.
Whon Bernard þis lettre vndurstood,
He wrot aȝein wiþ mylde mood:
»I leeue þat i haue nouht
Þe spirit of scorn, in word ne þouȝt,
Ne corse no mon i can
Or wille to curse, child ne man,
And also nouþur nomeliche
Him þat gouerneþ principaliche
Þe peple and is souereyn—
Þat weore to me a werk of veyn«.

AN abbot him toward vppon a day
Six hundred mark him sent of pay,
A newe abbey forte make

In a plas, for Godus sake.
Toward him as hit schulde come,
Þeues þe men hit hedden binome.
Whon seint Bernard wuste of þis,
He seide noþing elles, iwis,
But: »blessed beo God þat þus haþ spared
Of þat charge we schulde ha cared!
But we mosten take þe lihtor heed
Of hem þat hit toke, so God vs speed;
On is for þe Romayns couetyse
Þat hit tok awey on heore wyse,
Anoþur is, for þe grete soun
Of þat moneye ȝaf hem occasiun
Hit to take so, witerly.
God of hem nou haue merci«.

VPpon a tyme he was at hom,
A chanoun ruleer to him com
And made to him a gret preyer,
A monk þat he wolde him scher.
Seint Bernard him onswered, in certeyn,
And bad him go to his churche aȝeyn.
Þe chanoun him þenne gon vbbreyd
And on þis maner to him seid:
»Wherto wiþ so gret deuociun
Hastou comendet þi religiun
In þi bokes, as a clerk,
And to him þat coueyteþ þat werk
Graunte hit þou nult for noþing?
I holde hit but a fodyng.
Wolde God in hond i hade
Þe bokes þerof þat þou hast made:
Ful vuel þauh hit schulde þe dere,
Forsoþe i wolde hem al totere!«
Seint Bernard seide in good fey:
»In no bok, i dar wel sei,
Þat euer i made, þat þou sauh ȝite,
Þou raddest neuure þeron iwrite
Þat þou mihtest not beo parfyt
In þi cloystre, ȝif þou heddest delyt;
Of mennes maners amendyng,
And not þe places chaungyng
I haue comendet in my bokus,
Vppon hem hose riht lokus«.
Þe chanoun was ȝong and hot of blod,
And, as a mon þat waxen weore wod,
He smot seint Bernard vndur þe chek,
Þat he wox red and aferd ek.
Þei þat stoden abouten hem þan
Wolden ha risen vppon þat man,
But Godus seruaunt wiþouten blame
Hem forbad on Godus name
Þat þei schulde him non harm do
But let him passe feire hem fro.
Whon þat nouices schulden ben schorn,
To hem he wolde seye biforen:
»Ȝif þat ȝe heȝe nou bisyliche
To þing þat beon wiþinne, deuoutliche,
Ȝor bodies wiþouten loke þei beo laft
From þe world and al his craft,
Þat ȝe com fro, and comeþ in
Onliche in spirit, wiþouten gin;
For, ȝif ȝe take good hede of þis,
Þe flesch profyteþ noþing iwis«.

HIs fadur, þat Tecelyn hedde to nome
And al one was laft at home,
To þe munster þen he went
And dwelled toward þat couent,
And afturward soone in good elde
To God of heuene þe gost he ȝelde
He hedde a suster þat tyme also,
Þat wedded was and riche þerto:
Vppon a day wiþ gret delyte
Heo wente hire breþeren to visyte.
Whon heo to þe abbey com,
Heo fond hire breþeren alle atom;
But, for heo com in stout aray,
Wiþ moni men, and hire self gay,
Seint Bernard wolde hire not se,
As a þing of horriblete,
And seide: heo was lyk þe deueles nette,
To take mennes soulus þat were isette.
On of hire breþeren was porteer,
And he hire seide: »what dostou heer?
Þow art lyk a toord, he seide,
Þat in a feir cloþ weore leyde«.
Whon heo sauh al in certeyn
Non of hire breþeren coomen hire aȝeyn,
Weopynge heo seide þan:
»Þauh i beo a sunfol womman,
For suche Crist dyede for his pite
And he may haue merci on me;
And for i knowe my sunfolhede
Boþe in word, þouȝt and dede,
I com gode men forte seche,
Me to counseyle and to teche.
And þouȝ my broþur my bodi foule
Dispise, ȝit schulde he not my soule
Bustousliche þus nou forsake,
But as Godus seruaunt hit to him take.
Let him come and comaunde me:
I schal hit do, what euer hit be«.
Whon he herde of þis biheste,
To hire he wente wiþouten cheste
And tok wiþ him his breþeren alle,
Whon he hed beden hem forþ calle.
Seint Bernard wuste wel bi Godus lawe
Þat heo miht not hire wiþdrawe,
Whil þat hire lasted þe lyf,
From him þat hedde hire taken to wyf;
Þerfore wiþ god mekenesse
He hire forbed þe bisynesse
Of þis world and eke þe blis
Þerof—forsoþe, nouht hit nis!—
And comaundet hire for Godus sake
Ensaumple of hire modur take
And suwen hire in good liuyng,
In preyers and in fastyng.
Heo torned hir hom hiȝingliche
And chaunged was al sodeynliche:
He tok non hede þat heo was wyf,
But ladde holy hermites lyf,
As þauȝ þe world heo hedde forsake
And to God hire al bitake.
Atte last wiþ mony a preyere
Heo ouercom hire hosebonde dere,
Þat he ȝaf hire leue feir and wel
In an abbey for to dwel;

A nonne þerinne heo was ischore
And serued God so euermore.

VPpon a tyme seint Bernard
Was itaken wiþ seknesse hard,
Þat hit was a comuyn sawe
Toward þe deþ þat he dude drawe.
His spirit rauisched was anon
Tofore God, sittinge in tron,
And þer was al redi þe fend Sathan,
Þat him þere accused þan.
Whon þat he his tale hedde told,
Seint Bernard dredde not, but was bold
And seide: »for myn vnworþines
Of meryt oþur of goodnes
I knowleche wel I may not craue
Þe kyngdom of heuene for to haue;
But for my lord haþ double riht
To þat kyngdom so ful of liht:
Bi wei of heritage of his fader
And bi merit of his passion togeder,
He is wel payed of þat one,
Þe toþur he me ȝaf as Godus sone«.
Þe fend confuis wente awey þan,
Þe spirit aȝein to þat man
Turned: and þerwiþ he awoke
And lyfliche aboute him he gon loke.

HE abstined him so wondurliche
And trauailed and waked so bisyliche,
His bodi he brouhte so lowe eke:
Þat continueliche he was so neiȝ seke,
In so muchel þat vnneþe
Him serue nolde his oune breþe,
Þe couent forte suwe þo,
To þe chirche whon þei schulde go.

VPpon a tyme wiþ seknesse stronge
He was itaken, þat heold him longe;
His breþeren for him preyed so faste:
He fond him amendyng atte laste.
Aboute him he gedred hem euerichon
And to hem alle he seide anon:
»Wherto, my breþeren dere,
A wrecched mon holde ȝe þus here?
Ȝe ben strengore þen I,
Þerfore ȝe han þe mastri
Wiþ ȝor preyere touward our God.
I preiȝe ow alle wiþ mylde mood:
Spareþ me, i preye ou, spareþ me nou
And leteþ me passe hennes from ȝou!«

OFte forsoþe wiþ good hope
He was chosun to beo bisschope,
But specialiche of citees tweyn:
Ianuesse and Melayn;
And whon þei asked his assent,
He onswered þus, verreyment:
»Seruaunt, he seide, am I non,
But I am deputet nou al on
To þe seruyse of oþur men,
Þat as worþi as I ben«.

Bi counseil of seint Bernard þan
Þei wolde chese hem anoþur man.

VPpon a tyme wiþ good delyte
He rod out to visyte
Þe freres of Charthous—
Þat is an ordre glorious.
Þer wiþ gret deuocioun
He tauht hem good edificacioun.
But o þing þer was of liht repreue
Þat þe prior of þe hous gon meue:
Þat þe sadel semed al forlet
Þat seint Bernard inne set.
Þis þe prior tolde to
On of his breþeren þo,
And he þenne to seint Bernard
Spak þerof afturward.
Seint Bernard þerof wondur had
And þe sadul bringe to him he bad;
He hedde riden fro Cleruous
Til he com to Charthous,
What maner sadel he rod inne
Wuste he neuere, more ne mynne.

ON a tyme his wey lay
Al a dayes jurnay
Bi þe lake of Lausan,
Þat knoweþ wel mony a man.
He wente so þer al in þouht
Þat þe lake sauh he nouht.
At niht whon his felawes eke
Of þat lake gunne to speke,
He hem asked for his oune sake
Þei schulde him telle wher was þe lake.
Whon þat þey so asken him herde,
Þey wondred muchel whi he so ferde.

ÞE heiȝenes of his name
Wiþ meknes of herte he ouurcame;
Al þe world miht him not reise:
So he him self wolde dispreyse.
Of men he was holden mest,
But he him self heold aller lest;
Eueri mon wolde him putte forþ,
But he huld him self lest worþ.
Ofte tyme he wolde knowleche
Þat, whon he herde of him gret speche
And was among most honour
And in þe peples feire fauour,
Bi him self he þhoute riȝt wel
As mon þat weore chaunged eueridel,
And he him self hedde such entent
Þat he huld him as absent,
And trouwed hit hedde ben a sweuen
Þat falleþ on him þat slepeþ at euen.
But whon he was among symple men,
As his breþeren weoren þen,
Þat he mihte vse his mekenes
Wiþ frendschipe and goodnes:
Þen he wolde be wondur glad,
As mon þat to lyf beo turned had.
Euere a mon mihte him fynde
Preyinge or redyng or writynge

Or in good meditacion
Or to his breþeren in edificacion.

VPpon a tyme he stod vp to preche
To þe peple, and hem dude teche;
Men herden him bisyliche
And token his wordus deuoutliche.
Whil he þus was in his predicacion,
Þer ful on him such a temptacion
Þat to him self: him þhouȝte, he seide,
As he auctorites forþ leide:
»For þou prechest nou in þe best
And þe herkneþ nou boþe mest and lest,
On þe to loke þei ben bolde,
Of hem alle wys þou art holde«.
Whon he biþouȝt him vppon þis,
Temptacion he hit heold iwis,
A luytel while stille he stod
And biþouȝt him on his mood
Wher him weore bettere forþ to sey
Or elles let of and go his wey.
Þorwh Godus help, þat nul not fayle,
Anon riht of good counsayle
To þe temptour softeliche
He seide þeos wordus wyslyche:
»Beo þe made I not my biginninge,
Ne for þe nul I make non endynge«,
And forþ þen aftur deuoutliche
He prechede þe peple bisyliche.

A monk ones he hedde wiþ him.
Þat in þe world was sum tym
A ribaut and a pleyer grete,
Whon þat he mihte wiþ felawes mete.
Þe deuel him tempted so, certeyn,
þat to þe world he wolde go ȝeyn.
Whon Bernard sauh he wox so bolde
Þat he him noþing mihte wiþholde,
He asked him, as he hedde iþriue!
Hou he schapt him forte lyue.
Anon he onswerd and gon to seye:
»At þe echesse i con wel pleye:
Þerwiþ schal I liue riht wel
And winne þat me nedeþ eueridel«.
Seint Bernard þen gon to him seye:
»Ȝif i take þe þe chef moneye,
Wiþ to pleye, woltou be my feer
And come aȝein ȝer bi ȝer
And parte wiþ me half þi wynnyng
And take þe toþurdel to þi liuyng?«
Whon he þat herde, he was ful glad
And þerof wiþ him god couenaunt mad.
Seint Bernard in hyȝing
Comaundet him twenti schilyng.
He þenne þerwiþ went his wey,
Wiþ his felawes in þe world to pley.
Seint Bernard dude þis, for certeyn,
Forte make him come aȝeyn:
And so hit ful þe nexte ȝere,
Anon riht as ȝe schul here.
Þis mon went aboute faste to pleye,
And lost faste his moneye,
Atte laste he lost al togedere
And leue hedde to pley him wiþ a fedre.
To þe abbey ȝate þen he went,
As a mon worþi beo schent.
Whon seint Bernard þerof herde,

Ful gladly out to him he ferde
And huld his lappe abrod, lauȝwhyng,
And asked him half his wynnyng.
He seide: »fadur, nay nay,
But I haue lost vr chef monay.
I preye ow for charite,
For þat moneye tac nou me«.
Seint Bernard of his godnesse
Seide þus to him wiþ mekenesse:
»Seþþe hit is so, beter me is
Take þe, þen leose al at onus«.

SEint Bernard to a place wolde go,
Vppon his hors he set him þo.
Beo þe wei as he rod,
He mette wiþ a boistes mon of mod;
Forþ wiþ him þen gon he walke,
Of diuerse maters þei gunne to talke.
Atte laste, wiþouten fable,
Þei speken hou a mon schulde beo stable
And þenke vppon non oþur þing,
Whyl he weore in his preying.
Þe cheorl þerof hedde dispyt
And bad he schulde him nouȝt edwyt,
He seide his herte was al stable,
»And forte preye hit is nouȝt able,
But hit beo wiþouten eny lettyng
Of eny oþur maner þyng«.
Seint Bernard caste þenne anon
To ouercome his presumpcion;
»Þat i schal seo«, he seide, »parde!
Wiþdrauh þe sumwhat from me.
Þi pater noster loke þou biginne
Wiþ al þe entent þat þe is inne;
And ȝif þou mowe wiþ stable mende
Wiþouten lettyng make an ende,
Þe hors, forsoþe, þat i on sit,
Ȝif þou soþ seye, þow schalt haue hit!
Þou schalt bihote me bi þi fey
Þat þou schalt þe soþe sey«.
Þen wox he a wel glad monne,
His hors he wende he hedde wonne.
Hardiliche he wente him fro,
His pater noster bigon he þo
Wiþ as god wille and talent
As he couþe, and good entent.
He nas vnneþe þe middel ipast,
Þat in his herte anon he cast
Wheþer he mihte þe sadel craue
Wiþ þe hors þat he schulde haue.
Whon he abreid out of þat þouht,
He wuste wel he was worþi nouht.
He wente forþ to þat holy mon
And tolde al to gedre þon
What mater ful in his mende,
His pater noster or he mihte ende,
And ȝaf him to deuocioun,
Forsok eke his presumpcioun.

HE hedde ischoren his kinnes man,
Þat frere Robert men called þan:
Þat men brouhten aftur in such deuocion

Þat he wente to þe abbey of Cloun;
He wende he hedde idon riht wel,
And was bigyled eueridel.
His fadur was war of þat gyle
And suffrede hit a luytel whyle,
But he him biþouȝte atte laste
And him to reuoken þen he caste
To þe abbeye, as he wel wust,
Þer þat he was ischoren furst.
As Bernard a lettre gon to endyte,
Anoþer monk also hit to write:
As þei seten þer oute, in certeyn,
Þer fel a gret drift of reyn;
He þat þe lettre a writen scholde,
For fere togedere he gan hit folde.
To him þen seyde seint Bernard:
»Loke þou beo noþing aferd
To write forþ, as a clerk,
For þis nou Godus werk«.
Among al þe reyn þe lettre he wrot:
Þeron ful no drope, God hit wot,
Hit reyned aboute oueral,
But þeron ful nouþur gret ne smal.

IN a munstre þat he hedde mad,
And a couent of beryng sad,
Hit biful þat mony anuyȝes
þey hedden þerin þorwh noumbre of fliȝes.
Whon þat com to Bernardus ere,
»I hem curse«, he seide, »al in fere«.
Vppon þe morwe alle weore founde
Ded liggyng vppon þe grounde.

VPpon a tyme þe pope him sent
To Melan to þis entent,
Þer to dwelle a luytel whyle,
Hem and heore chirche to reconcyle
Þat dwelleden in þat cite,
For þey hedden trespassed, parde.
Þat dede he dude deuoutelye
And was tornd aȝeyn to Papye.
In þat cite þer was a mon
Þat hedde to wyf an old wommon
Þat þe fend so cumbred had
Þat heo was verrey wod and mad.
In hope of hele to seynt Bernard
He hire brouhte afturward.
Anon riht in þat tyde
Bi þe wommones mouþ he gan chide
To seint Bernard and gan to seyn:
»Þou schalt not putte me out aȝeyn
Out of þis luttel schepes bodi,
Þat gnaweþ lekes a(n)d weodes wiþ foly«.
Seint Bernard bad hem deuoutely
Þat to þe churche of seint Syri
Þei schulde hire lede tofore þat mele,
Þer þat heo mihte geten hire hele.
But seynt Syri on Godus part
Þouhte to do worschipe to seint Bernard,
And lete hire passe as heo com.
And þei tornd alle aȝein hom,

And aȝeyn to seint Bernard
Þey hire ladden afturward.
Þe fend seide þan wiþ gret schout:
»Seint Syri me naþ not cast out,
Ne Bernard schal neuer þe mo«.
Seint Bernard onswered anon riht þo:
»Nouþur Syry ne Bernard þe schal out cast,
But Jhesus Crist atte laste«.
Seint Bernard made his orisoun
To God wiþ gret deuocioun:
Anon þe fend þen gon to sey:
»Ful fayn wolde i go my wey
Out of þis luytel croume brid
Þer mony day i haue me hid,
For nou i suffre muche wo,
And fayn wolde I henne go,
But I may not haue mi miht
For þe grete lord of riht«.
Seint Bernard þenne asked þis word:
»Who is þat ilke grete lord?«
Þe fend onswerde wiþ foul breþ:
»Hit is Jhesus of Nazareþ«.
»Bernard him asked for þe nones:
»Sauh þou him euere? sei me at ones!«
And he onswerde þenne aȝeyn:
»Ȝe, ȝe haue i him seyn«.
»Where?« quaþ Bernard, »tel me þis!«
And he onswered and seide: »in blis«.
»In blis«, quaþ Bernard, »hastou be?«
»Ȝe, wite þou þat riht wel! »quaþ he.
»Hou«, quaþ Bernard, »ful þou þer fro?«
»Wiþ Lucifer«, quaþ he, »and moni mo«.
Alle þeose wordus brode and couþ
Þe fend spac wiþ þe wommones mouþ.
Bernard seide: »þen tel me þis,
Woldustou not gon aȝein to blis?«
He made a mouwe, þat foule mate,
And seide: »nouþe hit is to late«.
Þorwh preyere of seint Bernard þan
He went out of þat womman.
But as sone as Bernard was gon,
In to þe wommon he wente anon.
Hire hosebonde þenne anon riht
Aftur him ran wiþ fot liht
And tolde him in þat plas
Hou þat þe fend icomen aȝeyn was.
Seynt Bernard him tok a luyte bok,
A scrouwe iwriten on to lok,
And bad him byde not to longe
Aboute hire nekke hit forte honge.
And þat scrouwe was no more ne min
But þeose wordus on latin:

In nomine domini nostri Jhesu Cristi precipio tibi, demon, ne hanc mulierem amodo contingere presumas—

Þat is to sei vnto þe ende:
»I þe comaunde, þou foule fende,
In vr lord Jhesu Cristes name,
Þis wommon þat þou ne touche ne tame—
No more loke þou beo so hardi«.
Whon þe hosbonde hedde so don soþly,
Þe fend nas so hardi afturward
To come aȝein, for seint Bernard.

AT Aquitayne was a wommon
Þat a fend hedde so bigon
And idon so gret anuye,
Þat wiþ hire he dude lecherye—
Such a fend, as þe bok telleþ vs,
Is icalled Incubus.
Sixe ȝer so he hire schent
And dude wiþ hire his talent.
Hit bifel vppon a day
Seint Bernard was comen to þat cuntray.
Þe fend hir bad »beo not so hardi
Seint Bernard þat þou come not nyȝ«;
He seide hit schulde hire profyte nouht,
And seide he hedde cast in his þouht
Þat, ȝif þat heo wente to him,
He wolde to hire beo ful grim
And, riht as he hedde loued hire wel,
He wolde hire pursuwe fers and cruel.
But neuerþeles þe wommon þon
Wente to þat holy mon
And wiþ seruhfol wepyng
Tolde him þe maner of doyng.
»Wommon, he seide, in þe nome of þe trinite
Tac nou here my staf to þe
And in þi bed loke þou hit lay;
What he may do þenne, let him assay«.
Þe wommon to bedde wente þat niht
And leide þat staf bi hire doun riht.
Þe fend þenne com anon,
Riht as he was iwont to don,
But he nas not so hardi
Hire bed to neihe, to ligge hire by,
But he hir manased þenne anon
Heo schulde abugge, wer Bernard gon.
Whon heo to seint Bernard tolde þis,
He called þe peple togedere iwis
And bad þat vche mon schulde fonde,
A brennynge candel holde in his honde.
Þer wiþ candel, bok and belle
Þey corsud þe foule fend of helle
And comaunded him in Godus name
He schulde no more hir neihȝe ne blame.
Þus was þe wommon wiþ good entent
Delyuered of þat encumbrement.

ÞE pope him sende, in certayn,
In to þe prouince of Aquitayn,
Þe duyk þerof, þat corsud was,
To reconcyle: þat was þe cas—
And meke to beo to holy churche.
But he forsok þat werk to worche.
Seint Bernard to þe auter went,
To make þe holi sacrament,
And, while his masse he was aboute,
Þe corsud duyk stod þe churche wiþoute.
Whon þe masse was come so neih
Þat Bernard seide Pax domini,
Goddus bodi he tok þen
And leyde vppon þe paten,
Wiþ furi face and brennyng eȝe
He bar hit to þe duyk in heiȝe,

To him þenne þeos wordus he spake
And seide: »vre wordus and us þou hast forsake,
We haue þe preyed, þou wolt not here.
Þerfore loke and seo nou heere
Þat maydenes sone is and lord ful riht
Of holichurche, and God of miht,
Þat þou hast pursuwed so longe.
Aske merci and vndurfonge:
Heer is þi juge, seo and fele,
To whom on kneo vche mon schal knele;
Heer is þi juge hol and sum,
In to whos hond þi soule schal cum.
Him nou forsake oþur dispyse
Þou wolt not on þe same wyse
As þou hast herbifore
Hem þat to þe han spoken herfore!
For Goddes seruauns þou wolt not here,
I haue þe brouht him self, þi lord, lo here!
Ȝif þat þou maiht wiþ eny riht
Wiþstonde, let seo nou al þi miht!«
Þe duyk wox þenne swiþe sore aferd
And qwok, hond, foot and berd,
Doun at his feet þer he fil,
Meoke, to suffre al maner skil.
Seint Bernard þenne, as he stod,
Put him a luytel wiþ his fot
And bad him rise, wiþ good reuerence
To here Godus sentence.
Þe emperour ros vp wiþ gret fere
And herkned wel wiþ herte and ere
Al þat euere seint Bernard bad,
And parfourned hit wiþ herte ful sad.

VPpon a tyme, al in certayn,
In to þe kyngdom of Germayn
Seint Bernard tok þe wey forþword,
For to seese a gret disscord
Þat was þer amongus hom.
And whon þa(t) he þider com,
Þe erchebisschop aȝein him sent
A worþi clerk of good entent,
Him to welcome curteisliche
In to þat ilke bisschopriche.
Whon þe clerk seynt Bernard mette,
Loueliche þenne he him grette
And seide: his lord him sente had,
Him to welcome wiþ herte glad.
Seint Bernard onswerd wiþ dim entent:
»Anoþur lord, sire, þe haþ sent«.
Þe clerk wondred gretly þo
Of his wordus, whi he seide so,
And seide: »sire, al wiþ good hope
From my lord þe erchebisschope
I am sent ow aȝayn,
Þat of ȝor comynge is riht fayn«.
Seint Bernard seide ȝit eftsonus
Qweynte wordus for þe nonus:
»Þou art bigyled, sone dere,
For a grettore lord wiþouten were
Sent þe to me aftur his list:
Þat is vr lord Jhesu Crist«.
Whon þe clerk þis vndurstod,

He onswerde wiþ milde mod:
»Wenestou a monk þat i wolde be?
God hit forbeode þat falle on me!
Hit com neuer ȝit in my þouht,
Ne in myn herte falle schal hit nouht«.
But as þei wolken bi þe wey,
Seint Bernard tornde his herte, in fey,
þat he þe world þenne al forsok
And habyt of monk of him he tok.

VPpon a tyme þorwh Goddus miht
Seint Bernard hed schoren in a kniht
Þat in werres tofore hedde iswonke
And þenne was bicome a monke.
Hit bifel sone afturward
Þat, as he folewed seint Bernard,
Sodeynliche ful him vppon
A wonder gret temptacion,
Þat made him wondur sori
And of cher ful dreri.
On of his breþeren asked him þo
What him mihte beo, to loke so.
He onswerde wondurliche
And seide: »i wot wel sikerliche,
Heraftur schal i not, parde,
Neuer in herte muri be«.
Þat oþur monk in gret hiȝing
Tolde seint Bernard his seying.
Bernard preyed God wiþ deuocion
His monk delyuere of þat temptacion.
Anon þe monk wox al muri
Þat tofore was so sori,
And gladdore of chere þen eni oþur.
Þen a monk, on was his broþur,
Blamed him for his heuynes
And bad him þenke on holynes.
»I seyde and onswerde sum tyme to þe
Þat i schulde neuer glad be,
But nou i sey, sikerly,
In herte schal i neuer beo sori«.

IN Irelond dwelled, sikerly,
A bisschop, was called seint Malachi,
Þat seint Bernard louede wel
And endyted his lyf eueridel.
Whon seint Malachi ded was,
Bernard for him song an heiȝ mas—
Of Requiem i trouwe hit were,
For a miracle þat ful þere.
God schewed to Bernard iwis
Þat Malachi was in blis,
And enspired him of an orisoun,
To seyn at his post-comoun.
Aftur þe post-comoun was isonge,
He chaunged his orisoun wiþ his tonge
Of Requiem þat he schulde seie,
And seide of seint Malachie:

Deus qui beatum Maluchiam sanctorum tuorum meritis coequasti, tribue quesumus ut qui preciose mortis eius festa agimus uite quoque imitemur exempla, per Cristum.

Þe chauntur hedde gret wondring
Þat he fayled of his seying,
And made signe, as he stod a ferre:

Of his orisoun he dude erre.
And he seide: »i wot wel
Þat i erre neuer a del«.
Þe chauntur ful adoun al mete
To þe grounde, to cusse his fete.

ONus in a lenton tym
Men of Tirone visyted him.
Þen he hem preyed goodliche
Þei schulde hem abstine deuoutliche
Vppon heiȝe feste dawes
From vanytes and nice plawes.
But þei nolden on none maner
Graunten him his preyer.
Þenne he comaundet hem þe wyn,
Such as he hedde, good and fyn.
And whon þat þe coupe was brouht,
He seide, as hit was in his þouht:
»Drynkeþ nou ȝor soules drynke!«
Þen on þat word þei gonne to þenke.
Whon þei hedden dronke sweteliche,
Þei weoren al chaunged, verreiliche:
Of wyldenesse tok þei non hede,
But serued God, to gete hem mede.

ATte laste þe day com neiȝe
Þat seint Bernard schulde on dyȝe.
To his breþeren þen he gon say:
»Þreo þinges loke ȝe kepe al way,
Þat I haue kept in my liuyng,
As I leeue to my wityng:
I nolde neuere sclaundre more ne lesse
And, ȝif eny aros, I wolde hit cesse;
I ȝaf lasse credence to myn owne wit
Þen to oþur mennes ȝit;
And ȝif þat me hurted eny mon,
Veniaunce þerof asked i non.
Loke þat ȝe kepen wel also
Þeos þreo same þinges euermo,
Þat is: charite and mekenesse
And pacient beo to more and lesse.
Þeos þreo þinges i leue to ȝou,
Þerfore kepeþ hem riht wel nou!«

MIracles he wrouht in toun and felde,
An hundred and sixti munstres he belde,
Bokus and tretes he compyled
And mony a mon he reconcyled.
Heer in þis world liuede he
Aboute sixti wintres and þre.
He lafte þis lyf and speche of word
In þe ȝeer of þe date of vr lord
A þousund and hundred fifti and þre,
And from his breþeren passed he,
To God, þat is of mihtes most,
Deuoutliche he ȝald þe gost.
Aftur þat he was ded, iwis,
To mony a mon he schewed his blis.

TO an abbot of an abbay
He apered: þat he wel say—
And bad him anon riht þare
Him to suwe he schulde not spare.
Þe abbot dude as he him bad,
And forþ wiþ him þen he him lad.
Þenne sone aftur hit biful

Þat þei comen to a gret hul.
Seint Bernard seide: »to me entende,
Vppon þis hul i mote astende,
But i þe telle wiþouten weer
Þou most dwelle stille riht heer«.
Þe abbot him asked þenne, wharto
He wolde steih vp on þat hul so.
Þen he seide: »ȝif þou wolt here,
Þider i go nou forte lere«.
Þe abbot him askede wiþ wondring:
»Fadur, what neodeþ þe of leornyng?
We trouwen þat of connynge
Beo not such anoþur lyuynge«.
And he onswerde wiþ pacience:
»Heer nis no verrey science,
Ne no verrey knowyng
Wel neih of no maner þing;
Aboue of science is al fulnes,
Aboue is verrey knowyng of soþnes«.
Whon þat he him þus hedde told fore,
Þe abbot of him seih no more.
He tok good hede what day þat was,
To wite what wolde falle of þat cas.
And he fond soþly atte last
At þat same day seint Bernard fast
Out of þis world to God aboue,
Of whom euere he hedde set his loue.
Mo miracles þen mon may telle
God wrouhte for him, as clerkes wite wel.
God for þe loue of seint Bernard
Of heueneriche blisse ȝeue us part!

AMEN.

6. S. Augustin.

SEint Austin was nempned þat name
For þreo causus of gret fame:
Þe furst is excellence of dignite,
Þe secunde is feruour of loue & charite,
Þe þridde is for þe kynde interpretacioun
Of þat name of gret renoun.
Whi? furst for excellence of dignite,
For, riht as þe emperour Augustus in his mageste
Grettur is þen eny oþur kyng,
Riht so was Austin in his teching
Tofore oþur doctours excellent
In declaryng holy writtes entent.
Þerfore, whon oþur doctours her
Weren liknet to þe sterres cler,
As Daniel witnesseþ in his boke,
Seyȝing þus, whose luste to loke:
»Þei þat techen mony men rihtwysnes
Ben lyk þe sterres in clernes«;
But to þe sonne is Austyns liknyng,
As witnesseþ þe epistle þat we of him syng,
þat seiþ: »he schon as sonne schinyng
In Godus temple wiþ his techyng«.
Þe secunde cause is, as I seide aboue,

Feruour in charite and loue:
For, as þe moneþ of August to his meete
Passeþ oþure in gret hete,
Riht so seint Austyn his herte wiþinne
Wiþ heuenliche loue, forsoþe, dude brinne.
Þerfore to God al in good feiþ
In þe bok of his confessions he seiþ:
»Min herte, lord, þou hast, ich wot,
Wiþ þi charite (i)schot«;
And »oþurwhile þou puttest me
In an affeccioun nouȝt wonte to be
Wiþinne me, i not forsoþe þer is
Such a maner of swetnis;
Þe whuche parfourned ȝif þat hit be,
I not what hit schal beo in me,
But as a þing in þis lyf
Ne is nouht, so mot i þryf«.
Þe þridde cause makeþ mencion
Of his names interpretacion:
For, as þe bok telleþ vs,
Þis name Augustinus
Of »augeo auges« mad hit is:
Þat is on Englisch »to eche«, iwis,
And of þis word: »austy«, parde:
Þat is on Englisch »a cite«,
And of þis word: »ana«, in certeyn:
Þat is »aboue« forte seyn;
Augustinus is to seyn, in verite,
As hose seiþ: echyng þe heiȝe cite.
Þerfore of him men rede and synge
Þat he passeþ oþere in echinge
Of þat ilke grete cite,
Þorw Godus grace and charite.
Þerfore of him hit is iseid
In Glosarie—þat is a bok ofte leyd—
Þat Austyn was wondur gret in liuyng
And more cler þen oþure in teching
And celi mon he was in blis.
Clerkes recorden of him þis.

AUstin þe doctour, þe noble man,
Boren was in þe prouince of Affrican
In þe cite of Chartous,
Of worschipful kunreden and glorious;
His fader men called Patrik,
And his modur hihte Monik.
He was so lernd in vche art
Þat of hem he hedde so gret part
Þat he was a philosofre and a rethor,
On þe greste þat þenne was bor:
For Aristotiles bokes and oþur moni on
He radde wiþoute teching of mon,
As he witnesseþ in his bok

Of confessiouns, hose luste to lok:
Þer he seiþ, as ȝe mowe here,
Riht clene on þis manere:
»Of artes þe bokes alle,
Þat liberales clerkes don calle,
As a seruaunt of wikked couetyse
Aftur myn oune wit and auyse
I radde al way and vndurstod
Al þat i Iadde wiþ wylde mod«.
Þis was also his seying
Þat of þe art of spekyng and of endytyng,
And of þe mesures of figures and musek,
And of alle þe noumbres ek,
Wiþouten eny gret lettyng
He vndurstod in his redyng
Wiþouten monnes teching
Or eny oþur witeryng:
»And þou, lord God, wost riht wel
Þat al hasty lernyng eueridel
And þe scharpe maner of lernyng
Is þi grace and þi ȝiuyng.
But neuerþeles on þat wyse
Tofore þat tyme dude i to þe no sacrifise;
Hit is soþ þat science wiþouten charite
Edefyeþ not, but makeþ a mon bilowen, parde«.

INto an errour þenne he fil
Þat mony a monnes soule dude spil,
Þat þulke tyme heolden þe Manichees,
Þat heretykes weren, wiþouten les:
For þei affermed sikerlye
Þat Crist nas bote a fantasye,
And þei forsok þat alle men
Schulde rise in flesch, to lyue aȝen,
At þe dredful day of dom,
Whon vs to juge Crist schal com.
Þeos opiniouns heolde nyne ȝer,
He and þe Manachees in feer.

WHon he was nine and twenti ȝer old
And of witte was waxe al bold,
He studied faste and gon to look
Vppon a philosofres bok:
Þer he radde iwriten in verite:
A mon schulde dispise þis worldus vanite.
Þe bok lyked him swiþe wel,
But, for he fond þerin neuer a del
Iwriten of vr lord Cryst,
Sori he was, þauh no wiht wist;
A luitel sauour of him he hed cauht,
As his modur hedde him tauht.
His modur for him wept euer fast,
For he schulde torne atte last
To þe vnite of þe feiþ—
As þe bok vs telleþ and seiþ.

IN þe bok of his confessiones
Þe soþe is writen for þe nones:

His modur þhouhte þat heo stood
Vppon a tyme wiþ entent good
In an euen forþriht lyne
Þat hedde beo marked wiþ þred of twyne,
And, þouh heo weore in herte sori,
Heo sauh bi hire stonde a child louely,
And asked hire þe cause whi
Þat heo was so sori.
And heo onswerde riht anon:
»I weope for Austin, my son:
I drede euere of his leosyng,
But God beo his helpyng«.
Þe to þur onswerde: »noþing so!
Beo riht siker and leue þi wo,
For þer as þou art þer is he.
Leeue wel! hit schal non oþur be«.
And as heo loked hire bisyde,
Heo sauh anon riht in þat tyde
Hou þat Austin stod hire by.
And heo him tolde þen openly
Hou on seide to hire parde:
Þer as þou art þer is he.
And he onswerde: »nay, modur, nay,
He seide riht þus, as i leeue may:
Þer as I am þer art þou«.
And heo seide: »sone, þou gabbest nou!
For hit nas not iseid to me:
Þer as he is þer art þou, parde,
But: þer as þou art þer is he—
Þat was þe word was seid to me«.
His modur wiþ riht good entent
Preyed a bisschop, verreyment,
For hire sone þat he schulde preye
Þat he weore brouht in to rihte weye.
Of hire preyere he lihtly dude lete,
But seide to hire as a prophete:
»Fare wel, he seide, and haue no fere!
For an inpossible þing hit were
Þat tat child ilost schulde beo
For whom þi teres so faste doun fleo«.

AT Chartouse he tauȝte mony ȝeres
Rethorike to his scholeres.
Þen priueliche aftur his oune dome
He stal awey and wente to Rome,
Þat his modur schulde not wite,
Leste heo þerfore wiþ him hedde flite.
Þer ful to him gret repeyre
Of clerkes, to lerne boþe wel and feire.
Þat same tyme men of Melan
To þe prefecte of Rome senden þan,
Hem to seenden witerlike
A doctour in rethorike;
Bisschop þat tyme wiþouten glose
Of Melan was seint Ambrose.
Þenne wiþ good entent and fyn
To Melan was sent seint Austyn.
On him was euere his modur þenkyng,
And, forte seo him, com wiþ hyȝing,
Forte herken of his stat.

But þen wox heo sumwhat mat,
For heo fond him not fulliche holdyng
Wiþ þe Manachees erryng
Nouþur fulliche in rihte wei
Of alle cristene mennes fei.
Whon he com to Melan,
Þerof was glad moni a man,
And for þe bisschop seint Ambrose
Was a mon of gret lose
And preched ofte swiþe wel
To alle maner of pepel,
Austin hedde gret likyng
Forte go here his preching.
Ambrose in his sarmoun
Hedde euer gret discrecioun
Þat aȝeyn þe heresyes on Manachees,
Nouþer fore, nouþur more no les
He nolde him entremete ne seye,
But take raþur anoþur weye.

VPpon a tyme, þauh, afturwarde
Ambrose disputed wondur harde
Aȝein þat ilke heresye,
Wiþ strong resun hit to distruye;
So longe he spac of þis mateer
Þat Austyn þhouȝte his seiȝing cler
And from his herte outurliche
Putte þulke heresye, verreyliche.
What ful afturward of þat,
In þe bok of confessiouns he telleþ sumwhat
And seiþ: »whon I þe kneuh furst ariht,
Þe syknesse þou beetest of my siht,
Schynynge wiþinne me wondurliche,
And I for fere qwok, treweliche,
I fond fro þe þat fer I was,
As in a kyngdam of vnlikenes,
As i hedde herd a vois from hiht
Þat to me hed seid þus riht:
To grete men I am þe mete,
Bileeue: and me þen þou schalt ete!
But in to þe þou schalt not chaunge me,
As mete þat þou puttest in to þe,
But i schal make bi charite
Þat þou schalt beo chaunged in to me«.

WHon he Cristes weyes lyked wel,
Ȝit þe streitnesse schomed him sumdel.
God putte in to his þouht þan
Þat he schulde go to Simplician—
In whuche mon þat tyme was
Muche good liuynge and Godus gras,—
Forte telle him his herte brennyng
To leorne þe maner of good liuyng,
Hou he miht best day bi day
Rihtfulliche gon in Godus way.
For þe loue of God, vr lord,
Al þat he dude in þis world
Hit him displesed outerly
For þe swetnesse of him an heiȝ
And for þe swetnesse of his hous,
Þat he louede, so glorious.

SImplician, þat noble man,
Bigon to amonesten him þan,
And so he dude him self also,
Seint Austyn, and seide þo:
»A, hou moni children ben þer now
And maydens þat han imad a vou,
Þat seruen God in holy churche
And mony a good dede don worche!
And þou maiȝt not beo he
Þat may do as he and heo?
Or elles þeos men and þeos wymmen
So mihti of hem self ben
Þat þei mowen so do þis,
And nouht in God, þat almihti is?
Wherto stondest þou in þi self as ouȝt,
And ȝit ne stondest þou riht nouht?
Caste þi self in him anon,
And he schal þe take to him al on
And, for þat þou art not i wele,
He him self wol þe hele«.

AMong þis speche boþe more and min
Þei hedden muynde of on Victoryn,
Þat Simplician wiþ glad cher
Tolde Austyn on þis maner
How þat he wuste wel þan
Þat Victorin was an heþen man
And, for of wit he was so sage,
Þer was imad an ymage
Of him and set vp at Rome
For worschip of his wisdome,
And he wolde seye ofte among men
Þat he was ful cristen,
Simplician wolde seie: »parde!
I leeue hit not, til I þe se
In holy churche wiþ charite
And beo, as cristene men be«,
Bourdyng he wolde aske þan
Wheþer þe walles maden a cristen man;
Atte last to churche he went,
And him was a bok brouht, verreiment,
Vppon þe whuche was writen þe crede:
Þen al aloud he gan hit rede,
Þat alle men miht him here,
Til he hedde pronounced al ifeere.

ANoþur frend of Austines eke
Com to him out of Aufreke,
Þat was icalled Poncian,
And he him tolde þe lyf of an holi man
And þe miracles also,
Þat seint Antonyn men called þo,
Þat ded was tofore in good hour
In Constantines tyme, þe emperour.
Þoruh þeose ensaumples loue hed him take
And brenneþ him wiþinne for Godus sake,
And his tornynge was so cler
Boþe in þouȝt and in cheer
Þat on his felawe wiþ open lippe,
Þat men called þo Alippe,
Þen he cried an heih to his ere:
»What suffre we, what do we here?

Lewed men rauisschen heuen ful welle,
And we, þat ben lettred, ben dreint in helle.
Wheþer we schul schone nou for scham,
For þei ben tofore, to suwen ham?«
In to a gardyn þenne he ran
And vndur a fyge tre he leide him þan
And þer wiþ bitter wepyng
He made gret deol and serewyng.
His bok witnesset of confession
Þat þer he cried wiþ deuocion:
»Hou longe, hou longe schal i sorewe
For to morwe and to morewe?
Now soffre a luitel þat hit mot be«.
þeose wordes risen al of charite,
Him þouhte he hedde to longe iben
From him þat made alle þing and men.
Of his slouþe in þat doyng
He made þus his pleynyng:
»Allas to me! hou heih þou art in þin heihnesse
And hou deop in þi deopnesse!
From vs þou wolt neuermore be,
And vnneþe we wole come to þe.
Do þou now, lord, and also make
To stire vs, and calle aȝeyn, þat þou ne slake!
Tac þou hede and rauische vs,
Hete vs wiþinne and be swete & glorious!
I dredde my self þorwh lettyng
To beo sped of my disiring,
Riht as I schulde haue had lettyng
Þorwh myn oune dredyng.
Þou art feirnes old and newe,
Ful sore, forsoþe, i may me rewe
Þat I þe loued haue so late—
For i knowe nou my self al mate.
Þou weore wiþinne and I wiþoute:
Þer þe to seche i was aboute;
Þou were, forsoþe, ay wiþ me,
But i ne was nout wiþ þe;
Þow calledest and criȝedest of þi godnes,
Þow hast ibroken my defnes,
Þou hast ischyned wiþ brihtnes
And driuen awey my blyndnes,
Þow hast isauered swetliche
And lad my spirit goodliche:
And nowþe þat makeþ me
Forte breþe aftur þe,
I haue þe tasted wiþ good lust:
Þerfore i hungre þe and þrust,
And i haue had a brennynge res
Forte come in to þi pees«.

AMong þis grete mournyng
And þis bitter wepyng
He herde a vois, and tok gret hede,
Þat seide to him: »tac þou and rede!
Tac and red!« hit seide eftsones.
Þen tok he hit to him for þe nones,
Þe book of þe apostles pistles,
And opened hit—þer weore þistles!—
He fond iwriten hol and sum:
Induimini dominum Jhesum Cristum,

Þat is to sei, whose wite list:
»Beo ȝe icloþud wiþ Jhesu Crist«.
And anon riht wiþ þat lokyng
Alle maner of misdoutyng
Of derknesse fleyh from his herte.
And in þe mene while him sore smerte,
For he hedde so gret an ache
Of seknesse of þe toþ-ache—
For he was fallen in þat dolour,—
Þat he was in point to ha bileeued an errour
Þat Cornelius þe philosofre
Heold sum tyme wiþ open profre:
Þat of þe soule þe grettest godnes
In wisdom stod awes
And of þe bodi þe most good
In feling of non ache stood.
Þe ache for þe tyme was so stronge
Þat he lafte þe speche of his tonge.
þerfore in a waxed table
He wrot þat alle men, wiþouten fable,
For him schulde preiȝe God witerly
Þat ache to hele of his merci.
Þenne alle men wiþ deuocioun,
And he also, kneoleden adoun:
And sodeynliche he feled wel,
Þe ache was passed eueridel.

TO seint Ambrose lettres he sent
Þat he schulde sende him his entent
As him þhouȝte best in his wit,
What bokes þenne of holy writ
Best him were forte rede,
To leorne þe rihte wey to lede,
Þat he mihte beo þe more apt
To cristene feiþ, as he hedde schapt.
Seint Ambrose him bad: deuoutelye
Þe book of þe prophete Ysaye
Tofore al oþure he schulde rede—
Þer he schulde lerne to gete him mede,
For þat bok techeþ wel
Þe callyng to God bi þe gospel
Of þe folk rediliche,—
And bad him studie bisiliche.
Austin bigon þat redyng,
But he vndurstod not þe biginning,
And for þat hit was to him so hard,
He caste to abyde til afturward,
Til he couþe more of holy writ,
Þat þerwiþ he mihte acorde his wit.

AT ester whon þat feste schulde bi holde,
Austin, þat was þritti winter olde,
And his sone, þat men called þo
»Godusȝift«, and Alippe also,
Þorwh his modur preiȝing
And seint Ambrosus preching
Weoren icristenet alle þre
In þe nome of þe trinite.
Þenne, as þe bok telleþ vs,
Ambros bigon Te Deum laudamus,
And Austin onswered wiþouten wondur
Te dominum confitemur,
And so þei tweyne wiþ herte glade

An ende of þat ympne þei made.
His sone, þat cald was »Godusȝift«,
He gat whon he þouȝte on no þrift,
Whil þat he was an heþen man
And tauhte philosofye þan;
And Alippe was a frend ful dere
To Austin al wei, wiþouten were.

AUstin aftur his cristendom, as þe bok seiþ,
He was so wondurlich confermed in þe feiþ
Þat þe hope þat he in þe world had
He fleyh awey and waxed al sad,
And his scolus he forsok
Þat he rad inne vppon þe bok.
Hou muche swetnesse of heuenlich loue
He hedde wiþinne for God aboue,
In his bok he telleþ opunliche
And seiþ þus deuoutliche:
»Min hert þou hast ischoten and me,
Deore lord, wiþ þi charite,
And i bar þi wordus stiked
In my guttus, faste ipriked,
And ensaumplus of þi seruauns dere,
Of þe whuche þou madest here
From blaknesse to turne to liht,
From deþ also to lyue ful riht,
I hem bar longe in my þouht
And in to slouþe þei me brouht(!).
To him þat com doun fro þe valeye
Of wepyng, and song bi þe weye
Þe louely song of degres,
Þou ȝaf, forsoþe wiþouten les,
Scharpe arwes and coles wastyng,
To amende wiþ my liuing;
Nouþur i nas fulled at þat tyme,
At vndurne, noon, euesong ne prime,
Of þat wondurful swetnes
Þat i hedde in my dissches:
To consydre þe heihnes
Of diuyne counseil and godnes
Vppon þe hele of monkynde,
Þat þoruh sunne was put bihynde.
Muche haue i wept in ympnes and þi song,
Stered wiþ swetnes of holichirches vois among,
Þulke voices flowen in to myn eres
And from myn eȝen ronnen doun þe teres—
And wel was me þat þei were smerte,
For þi soþnes melted in myn herte.—
Þat tyme furst in godus louyng
In þe chirche of Melan was ordeynd syngyng.—
Þerfore I cried a loud cry
Wiþ myn herte, al on heih:
O in pace, O in idipsum,
O qui dixit dormiam & capiam sompnum.
Tu es enim in idipsum
Wiþouten chaungyng boþe hol and sum—
Þat is to sei: a in pees and in þi self one,

A, þou seist i schal slep and take napping sone(!);
Þou art in þi self onliche,
Þat neuermore chaungest sikerliche,
And in þe my restyng is,
Forȝetynge al trauayles iwis.
Þat psalme i radde al wiþ lykyng,
Wiþ loue of herte wiþinne brennyng,
Þat sum tyme was a bitter berkere
And also a blynd herknere
Aȝeynes lettres goode and mete,
Wiþ hony of heuene ihonied swete
And liht inouh weren of þi liht
Þat schineþ euere so feir and briht;
And i tapissed vndur such lettring,
Swete Jhesu Crist, myn helpyng!.
Hit is waxen swete to me sodeynlye
To leue þe swetnesses of japerye—
Such tyme i dredde such japes to lete,
Nou is my joye wiþ hem not meete—
Þou þreuh hem out, wiþouten les,
Þou art icalled verrey swetnes,
In stude of hem þou come in to me
Swetter þen lust of vanite—
But nouþur to flesch nouþur to blod,
But to my spirit wiþ mylde mod,—
Brihtor to me þen eny liht,
Priuiest of alle þing wiþinne wiþ riht,
Hyȝest in worschipe and nobelte
To hem þat heiȝ of hem self nouȝt be«.

AFtur þat he tok wiþ him to go
Nebridie, Euodie, and his modur also,
And torned aȝeyn stillelike
To þe cuntreye of Affrike.
Whon þei weore comen wel afyn
To þe ȝates of Tiberyn(!),
Þer bifulle þorwh Godus gras
Þat his modur ded þer was.
Þen Austin þouhte on his lynage
And wente hom to his heritage.
Þen in wakyng and good preyere
He serued God, þat bouht him dere,
And oþure also þat dwelled wiþ him
At þat ilke same tym,
He wrot bokes of holy writ
And tauhte hem þat weoren lewed of wit.
His fame þen sprong wondur wyde,
And wondurful he was holden on vche syde
Boþe in his bokes and in his dede,
And euermore God was his spede.
He wolde raþur holde him self at home
Þen at eni such cite come
Þer as þe bisschop ded was,
Leste he hedde beo chosun in þat cas.

AT þe cite of Yppon
Dwelled þat tyme a riche mon,
Þat to seint Austyn sent to seye:
Ȝif þat he wolde take þe weye
Touward him, þat was so couþ,
And þat he miht here of his mouþ
Goddus word preched holliche,

He wolde forsake verreyliche
Al þe world and to God turne
And for his sunnes make deol and morne.
Whon seint Austin herde of þis,
Þider he wente anon iwis.
Whon þe bisschop Valerius
Of þat cite herde hit was þus,
And of Austines goode fame
And also of his grete name,
He made him in his oune chirche
Chef prest, þerinne to worche.
Seint Austin wepyng hit longe forsok,
But atte laste he hit to him tok.
Anon riht þer a munstre he mad
Of clerkes, lyf to lede ful sad,
And bigon to lyue on þat same manere
As þe apostles duden in eorþe here—
Out of þat munster aftur weren chose
Ten bisschopus, þat men weren of good lose.
And for þe bisschop of þat citéé
Was a Greke, in verite,
And luytel couþe of latyn,
Þerfore he ȝaf to seint Austin
Pouwer to preche for him þe fey,
Aȝein þe custum of þat cuntrey;
Men þerfore þe bisschop duden blame,
But he of þat tok no schame
Þouh anoþur for him preched wiþ mouþe
On latin, þat better þen he couþe.

ÞAt tyme Austin wiþ disputyng
Ouercom þe Manaches erryng
And a prest, þat men called Fortunat,
Þat principal heretyk was of þat,
And þe Donatistes, þat weren fayn
To ben ibaptised aȝayn
Aȝeines holichurches feiþ,
As vr bocus techeþ and seiþ,
He drof awey wiþ his clergyse,
And stabled þe feiþ on þat wyse.
Þen bisschop Valerius wex aferd
Lest Austin from him schulde beo reued
And þat of men asked he schulde be
To bisschop of anoþur citéé,—
For, nedde he o[illeg.]s him ise[illeg.]
To a place, to bi hud priuement,
He hedde iben lad him fro
And sone aftur mad bisschop þo.
Þen gat he leue of þe erchebisschope
Of Cartus wiþ god hope
Of his bisschophed to sees,
Þat Austin mihte wiþouten les
Þerof ben his successour
And hit gouerne wiþ honour.
Long tyme Austin þat forsok,
But atte laste he hit tok,
Sumwhat compelled he was þerto—
Þer beoþ but fewe þat nou don so!—.
Aftur, whon he hedde lerned more,
Gretliche him forþhouȝte þerfore

Þat he tok such dignite þon,
Whil þe bisschop was lyues mon,
Aȝeyn þe bidding of holichurche;
And for oþur men schulde not so worche,
He made him bisy wiþ herte and wil
Þat bisschops schulde ordeyne in heore counsyl
Þat to him þat schulde bisschop ordeynd be
Alle þe constitucions in verite
Of vr eldre faderes his ordeynours
Schuld him furst schewe wiþ honours.
Þerfore he seid he felde for noþing God so wroþ
Wiþ him also, oþur hedde him loþ,
As whon he put him to þe heȝe dignite
Of holy churche gouernour to be,
Whon he nas worþi in no wyse
Vnneþe (beo) do to such on seruyse.
His cloþinge and his ornement
Nas nouþur to precious, ne torent
Ne abhominable to monnus siht,
But mesurable euen forþ riht.
Often tyme he wolde seyn:
»Of precious cloþus am I nouȝt fayn
But raþur aschomed, sikerly,
Þen to han lykyng þerby;
Þerfore, whom þei ben ȝiue to me,
I hem sulle, so mot i þe:
For þe cloþ may not comuyn be,
Þe prys þerof may wel, parde«.

HIs mete, luytel þouh hit were,
He wolde hit ȝiue wiþ god chere;
Oþurwhile in his potage,
For gestes þat coomen to his hostage,
Flesch he let seoþe for heor mete,
And he also wiþ hem wolde ete.
He loued raþer at such sittyng
To here a lessun oþur disputyng,
Þen his wombe to fol to fille—
And þat was euermore his wille.
Þer was writen on his mete bord
Aȝeynes bacbyters þis same word:
»Who so loueþ wiþ his seying
In absence of men blame heor liuyng,
He may wite riht wel iwis:
Þis bord to him vnworþi is«.
Þerfore, whon he bad to his fest
Bisschops þat he loued aller best,
And þei bigonne to bacbyte,
Þerof he wolde hem þen edwyte
And hem blame for heor speche
And seye þat he wolde for wreche
Ouþur þenne hem aȝeynseye
Oþur elles aryse and gon his weye.

TO þe mete he hedde ibeden ones
Gode frendes of his for þe nones;
Whon þat þei weren aftur sent,
On into þe kuchen went,

Forte loke what þei schulde haue;
He fond þerinne nouþur cok ne knawe,
And þe herþes weren al cold—
He wondred þerfore monyfold;
To þe halle he wente him in
And asked of seint Austin
What he hedde arayed forte ete
To hem þat he hedde bede to mete.
Seint Austin nas not curious
Of metes and drinkes not costous,
On onswerd þen on þis manere:
»Lo i my self am wiþ ȝou here«.

HE seide he hedde lerned þreo þinges
Aftur seint Ambrosus techinges:
Þe furste was, wiþouten rage
Þat he schulde make no mariage,
Leste þat mon and þe wyf,
Whon þei weoren weri of þat lyf,
Him wolde curse in certeyn
For þat ilke bargeyn.
Þe secunde was, wiþouten fayle,
Þat he schulde not cumforte to batayle
A kniht þat wolde him ȝiue to fiht
And oþur men to putte at fliht,
For hit miht falle of þat doyng:
He mihte men greue in heore þing
And do also muche wronge
To hem þat he werred amonge;
For þat þen him þei wolden blame
For his counseil, and þat were schame.
Þouh he weore beden to feste to cum,
Þe þridde was, he schulde him hold at hom,
Leste þat him ful þer such a chaunce
Þat he loste his temperaunce
In etyng and drynkyng,
In spekyng and al oþur þing.

IN him self he was so pure
And of meknes hedde so gret cure,
And of þe leste maner sinne
Þat eny mon falleþ inne
To God vr lord he wolde him schriue
And mekeliche acuse his lyue
In his bok of confessioun swiþe wel—
Witnesseþ hit so eueridel.
For þere he accuseþ him self at al
Hou he pleyed at þe bal,
Whyl he was child, and raged also,
Whil þat he scholde to scole han go;
And hou he nolde don his entent
Forte lerne, ne take talent,
Til his frendes him wolde peyne
Oþur elles his maister him constreyne;
And, whil he was child, þat he wolde rede
Poetes fables—þat nas no nede,
And for he made ones gret wepyng
For a wommones dying;
And for he stal out of his frendes celere
Mete, his felawes forte bere
Þat he was wont wiþ to pleye,
As children don ofte in þe weye;
And hou he wolde wiþ queyntyse

Casten his wit and diuise
Hou he mihte most propurly
Of his felawes haue þe victory;
And hou þat he was so bold,
Whon he was sixtene ȝer old,
Peres to stele from a tre
Of his neihȝebors, saunȝ cunge.

HE accused him also wiþ deuociun
Of þat luttel delectaciun
Þat he feled in his etyng;
Þerfore þis was his seying:
»Þou hast me tauȝt, lord, on þis maneer:
Riht so to take my mete heer
Riht as i schulde a medecyn
Proporciont, boþe good and fyn.
But whon nede me takeþ mi bodi to fille,
Concupiscence is aboute mi soule to spille:
Þat is þe pas þat i mot go,
Whon neode dryueþ me þerto,
But þat paas is voluptuosite,
Þer nis non oþur wey, whon neode driueþ me;
Þe cause of vche monnes mele
Schulde ben onliche monnes hele,
But voluptuosite eueneþ him to as a fot page
Þat preseþ tofore wiþ gret outrage,
Þe cause of hele to putte away,
And he for cause him self doþ forþ lay,
To ete or drinke whon I am pliht—
Þe cause schal be hele ful riht.

DRonkenesse is fer fro my þouht—
Ha merci on me, lord, þat he neihȝe me nouȝt!—
Glad of chere drinke wol me make,
But þi merci, lord, hit may slake.
And who is he, lord, more oþur lasse
Þat oþurwhile ne schal passe
Þe boundes of neode in etynge
And also in his drinkynge?
Whateuer he beo, wiþouten let,
He may beo called wondur gret
And þi name worschipe may he
Boþe niht and day, whereuer he be;
I am not he, lord, sikerly!
For a sunfol mon am I.«

HE hedde him self in his purpose
Suspecte in sauour of his nose,
Þerfore he seiþ wiþ dolour:
»In vnlofsum sauour
I haue coueyted not muche,
Whon hit is from me, verreyliche,
Ne i ne seche hit nouȝt, parde,
Nouþur aske, whon hit is aȝeines me;
And whon such sauours ben me by,
To hem am I al redi,
Þauh i wolde say þei lakken to me(!),
Bigyled par auenture miht I be.

Þer may no mon, so mot i þryue,
Beon siker, whil he is here alyue,
For þis lyf here of renoun
Nis noþing but temptacioun;
Wheþer a mon þat feble is
Bettre mihte beo mad to blis,
So þat of a good mon he neor not mad
Worse, oþur elles al to bad«.

ALso of his herynge
He confessed him, seyinge
Þat þe lustes of his ere
Hedde him brouht in gret fere
And ifolden him strongliche
And vndurgon him vyleynliche:
»But, lord, of þi godnesse
Þou hast me vnbounde what more and lesse.
Whon þe song to my ere
Is more likyng, whon I hit here,
Þen is þe þing þat men don synge,
I knoweleche: I sunge in herynge,
And þen were me leuere here no synginge
Þen þerinne haue such lykinge«.

HE accused him self eke: in seoinge
Þat he hedde had to muche likynge,
To seo houndes rennynge
In eny maner of huntynge—
Þat vsed he nouȝt wilfuliche,
But ȝif hit ful so sodeynliche
As he passed on feld bi
On his romyng, sikerli.
Herof he wolde him confes
Tofore vr lord of his mekenes;
He seiþ þat his skile was whi,
For such maner of veneri
Torned awey from God his þouht
And breeken preyeres al to nouht.

HE accused him self ek of delyt
Þat he hedde in appetyt
In veinglorie of preisyng,
Whon he hit herde of his cunnyng
Oþur of oþur vertuwes
Þat God him sende, or goode þewes,
And he wolde seye þen:
»He þat wole beo heried of men,
Ȝif þat þou, lord, wolt him blame,
Þer may nomon defende þat schame;
And ȝif þou, lord, dampne him,
Nomon him saue may at þat tym.
A mon is preised onliche
For þi ȝifte specialiche,
And ȝit mon haþ more lykyng
In his owne preisyng
Þen to preise þi special ȝift:
Þat is vuel don, beo my þrift.

WE ben tempted day bi day
Of mony maner of assay,
But vr fourneis brennynge
Is monnes tonge in spekynge.
Neuerþeles i wolde nouȝt
Þat hit schulde falle in my þouht
Þat i schulde beo þe more glad

For anoþur mon me preised had
Of eny maner of goodnesse,
Wheþer þat hit beo more or lesse;
And, þouh a luytel hit eche my blis,
Blame hit amenuseþ sone, iwis.
In herte I am ay sori,
Whon men me pre(i)sen hertely
In suche þinges as me displese,
In my self a ben non ese,
Or whonne luytel or luyte god
Is mad more, beo þe rod,
Þen þei ben al togeder worþ—
Aftur men trouwe not euen forþ!«

HEretykes so he schent
Þat þei him hated in heor entent
And þei preched openliche
Þat hit nas no sunne dedliche
Seint Austin for to sle,
For to a wolf lyk was he,
And þat he schulde haue remissioun
Of his sunnes euerichon
Þat him wolde don of dawe
And noþing spare for Godus awe.
Þei setten a wayte ofte, him to slo,
But þorwh Godus grace he skaped euermo.

EUere he hedde mynde on þe pore
And wiþ hem he parted euermore
Such as he hedde, gladliche,
In sum tyme þat so muche
Þat þe vessel of seluer and golde
Of holichirche, taken him to holde,
He wolde breke and melte hit smal,
Þe mescheuous to parte wiþ al.
He nolde neuere buye hous ne toun,
Were þei neuere of so gret renoun;
In so muche þat mennes heritage,
Þat him was laft, as mon of age,
He lafte to heore kinnes men
Oþur to heore children þat liueden þen.
In þe possessiouns of his churche
Hedde he no þouȝt ne wil to worche,
Nouȝt to loue hem ouerwel,
But ȝaf his wit eueridel
Niht and day to holy writ—
Þerwiþ he occupyed his wit.
For to buylde eny newe plas,
Luytel þeron his þouȝt was,
For he wolde nouȝt his wit defoule
Wiþ worldly þinges, bote beo soule
And freo in good þenkynge
And in lessounes redynge.
But forbeode wolde he nouht
Hem þat buylden hedden þouht—
To curious þei schulde not be,
Þat onliche forbede wolde he.

HEm he wolde preise outerlye
Þat hedden desyr forte dye.

Þenne ensaumples he wolde hem tel
Of þreo bisschops, þat he louede wel:
Of seint Ambrose whon he schulde dye,
Hou þe peple him preyed deuoutelye
Þat he schulde wiþ his preyere
Sumwhat lengþen his lyf here,
And he onswerde wiþ vois ful cleer:
»I haue not liued on þat maner
Þat I am aschomed nou
Forte liue amonges ȝou,
Nouþur to dye I haue no drede:
We han a lord wol quyte vr mede«.
Seint Austin preised muche þis onswere,
Whil þat he was on eorþe here.

ÞE secunde ensaumple was of a bisschope,
A mon þat was of studefast hope,
To whom þe peple gan to seye,
Whon þe gost schulde taken his weye:
»To holichirche þou hast ben good
Boþe in word, dede and mood,
God þerfore, as nouþe leeue we,
Wole þat þou delyuered be«.
Þen he onswerde and seide þus:
»Ȝif þat beo neuer, wel is vs;
And eny tyme ȝif hit schal beo,
Whi not nou? hit wolde lyke me«.

OF þe þridde bisschop he tolde eke:
Whon þat he was wondur seke,
He preyed to God ful hertily
To sende him hele for his merci;
To him apeered a wel feir childe,
Ac spac to him wiþ maners wylde
And seide: »ȝe mouwe suffre no wo,
Ne ȝe wol nouȝt hennes go,
Þerfore wot i neuer nou
What me is best to do wiþ ȝou«.

OF wymmen, i telle ȝou in certayn,
Nouȝt his sustur Germayn,
His breþeres douhtres neuer þe mo,
Þat God almihti seruede þo,
He nolde soffre wiþ him to dwelle,
For temptyng of þe deuel of helle;
He seide: þouȝ men hadde no suspecioun
Of his suster or neuew, in feld ne toun,
Ȝit, for þei miht not ben wiþoute
Seruauns, to ben hem aboute,
And beo cause of heore dwellyng
Oþur wymmen schulde beo to hem comyng,
And of hem þenne ful lihtlyche
Men mihte beo stured foliliche
Oþur elles wikked-tonged men
Wolde speke vuel of hem þen.
He wolde neuer him self alon
Speken wiþ no wommon,
But ȝif þer weore gret priuete,
Bi þe wey of charite.

HE was such a benfesour

To his kunrede wiþ honour
Þat þei nedde no gret richesse
Ne to gret neode to more ne lesse.
Ful selde, forsoþe, was his maner
For eny mon to make preyer
Or lettres sende for benefyce—
Such maner doyng he huld a vice;
Of a philosofre he hedde a þouht
Þat to his frendes luytel ȝaf or nouht,
Forte geten him eny name,
Mon to bi holden of gret fame.
Þerfore ofte tyme was his seying:
»Pouste þat comeþ þorwh askyng
Holdeþ a mon oþur while doun,
Þouh he beo of gret renoun«.
Ful selden whon þat he wrot
For eny mon, God hit wot,
His askyng schuld not beo so large
Þat hit schulde bere eny gret charge,
But þorwh his corteis endityng
Men schulde take hede of his preying.

HE hedde leuere þe causes here
Bitwene twei enemys on his manere
Þen bitwene frendes tweyn.
Þis was his skile, as he wolde seyn:
For bitwene enemys he miht
Freoliche knowe bi word and siht
Þe wikkednes of þat on or boþe,
And wheþer to oþur weore more loþe,
And such grace God miht him sende:
Þe ton he mihte make his frende:
Him þat he schulde ȝiue fore þe sentence
Bi rihtwysnes, wiþoute reuerence;
Ȝif þei were his frendes boþe two,
Þat ones frendschipe schulde pas him fro:
Þe sentence aȝeynes whom
He schulde ȝiue and eke þe dom.

HE was preyȝed forte preche
To moni a churche, Godus word to teche,
And so he dude to Godus honour
And torned moni on from heore errour.
Oþurwhyle in his prechinge
He wolde turne from his furst biginnynge
And take þenne oþur mateere
Þat profyted to summe þat weren þere.
As hit bifel bi a chapman
Þat of þe Manachees secte was þan:
Vppon a day he herde Austin
Preche wondur wel and fyn.
Seint Austin turned his mater fro
And aȝeines þe Manachees preched þo
And eke aȝeynes heore errour,
As a clerk of alle þe flour.
Þe chapmon þorwh his preching
Torned al to his teching
And forsok þat ilke lore
Þat he heold wiþ þerbifore.

ÞUlke tyme weren heþen men icome
And hedden taken þe cite of Rome:
Þen alle þe heþene men
Maden asaut vppon þe cristen.
For þat cause Austyn in good fey
Made þe bok »de Ciuitate dei«,

In þe whuche is his seying
Þat rihtwys men in þis liuyng
Schul not beo of reputacioun
But raþur euer beo put adoun,
And wikked men wiþ honoure
Schul her beo maistres and bere þe floure.
And þer he spekeþ of citees tweyn:
Jerusalem and Babileyn,
And also of heore twey kynges,
And seþþhe among oþur þinges:
Þat of Jerusalem kyng is Crist,
Of Babiloyne þe deuel vntrist;
Þeose twei citees on heor maners
Geeten hem twey louyers:
Þe deueles citéé loueþ nouht
But him self in dede and þouht
And waxeþ forþ wiþ wylde blood
Til þat he haue forsaken God,
Godus citéé is aboue
And onliche is in Godus loue
And makeþ mon wiþouten wrake
Him self dispise for Godus sake.

IN þe ȝer of vr lord of heuene
Four hundred and eke elleuene
Wandaly þe prouince tok
Of Aufrike—so seiþ þe bok—,
Þei wasted al, as men ful wylde,
And spared nouþur mon, wommon ne childe
Ne men of ordre of holichurche:
Such grisly werkes þei gonne worche.
And so þei wenten wiþouten reuerence
To þe citéé of Iponence.
Þer dwelled Austyn a mon ful old,
Þat tribulacion hedde monyfold,
His teres to him weren his bred
Niht and day for þat qued,
Þat he sayȝ so men slayn
And summe to fleo weoren ful fayn
And churches prestes hedde non,
Men fro citees weren awey gon.
Neuerþeles in þat offence
He was cumforted beo a sentence
Of a wys monnes seying
On þis maner in his writyng:
»He may not beo gret of sped
Þat takeþ to muchel hed
Þauh tren and stones falle
And eorþly men dyen, gret and smalle«.

ÞEn his breþeren euerichon
Tofore him he calde anon
And seide: »i haue ipreyed vr lord,
Boþe wiþ þouht and wiþ word,
Þat he schulde of his god wil
Delyuere vs of þis peril
Oþur elles wiþouten offence
Ȝif vs good pacience
Or elles take me þis lyf fro,
Þat i seo not so muche wo«.

GOd graunted him þe þridde askyng:
For þe þridde moneþ of þe beseching

Of þat citéé he fel seek
And of þe feuere to bedde went ek.
He vndurstod wel, certeynly,
Þat dissolued scholde be his bodi.
Þe seuen psalmus al on a rowe
He let writen vppon a wowe,
Þat, as he in his beodes lay,
Miht hem sigge eueriday;
He wolde hem seye deuoutliche,
Wepe þerto wel tenderliche,
And, for þat he nolde nouȝt be let
To don as he his herte hedde set,
Ten dayes bifore his dyȝing
Þer moste nomon come in his seoing,
But ȝif his leche were in ilet
Oþur elles a mon þat brouht him met.

A seek mon to him com
And preyed him for Godus dom
Þat he wolde on him holde his honde,
Þat his seknes mihte awey fonde,
And þat he wolde him sumwhat fele,
For, he seide, he schulde so cacche hele.
Austin onswerde on þis manere:
»Whi spekest þou so, my broþur dere?
Trouwest not þou, ȝif i miht do so,
I wolde my self hele and forþ go?«
Þe mon seide: he hedde comaundement
In a visioun, verreyment,
»Þat I schulde to ȝou go,
Ȝif i wolde haue hele of my wo«.
Whon Austin sauh his feiþfulnes,
He preyed to God of his godnes
Þat his wille were þat mon to hele.
And so he was sone eueridele.
He heled mony a sek man
And mony a miracle dude he þan.

IN his two and twentiþe bok
De ciuitate dei whose luste lok,
He may fynde miracles tweyn
Þat he telleþ, in certein,
As þei weore anoþur monnes doyng—
But God hem wrouht for his preying.
In his bok þus he sayde:
»At Iponence I wot a mayde
Þat wiþ oyle enoynted hire had:
Þerfore þe deuel made hire mad;
But a prest for hire wepte sore
To God, þat heo schulde not beo lore:
And anon heo dilyuered was
Of þe fend in þat cas«.
»Also«, he seide, »i knewh a bisschope
Þat preyed to God wiþ good hope
For a ȝong mon, þat he not sawe,
Whom þe deuel heold in awe:
And anon riht, verreyment,
He was saued from þat cumbrement«.
Þis tales he tolde þus of his mekenes,
For me schulde not knowe his holynes.

IN þe same bok also we fynde

A good miracle, to haue in mynde:
A seek mon þer was—þe bok telleþ hit—
Þat for his hele schulde ha be kit;
He was adred and hedde gret anyȝe:
Ȝif he were kut, þat he schulde dyȝe;
He wepte þerfore wiþ al his miht
And preyed to God boþe day and niht,
And seint Austin also wiþ him
Preyed to god þat ilke tym,
So longe he preyed to God and bad
Þat wiþouten eny cuttyng hele he had.

WHon þat seint Austines breþ
Bigon to schorten and drawe to deþ,
He tauhte vche mon to haue in mynde,
And for noþing leue hit behynde,
Þat, þauh a mon beo neuer so worþi
In his liuynge here deuoutli,
He schulde euer þenke on þis cas:
Wiþouten schrift and hosel þat he ne pas.
His limes weore hole and sounde,
Riht as he wente on þe grounde,
His siht was cler and his heryng
Euene to his dyȝing.
As his breþeren toforen him stod,
Preying to God wiþ dreri mood,
Tofore hem alle boþe best and most
To God þen he ȝeld þe gost,
Þe ȝeer of his age wiþouten wene
Þreo score and sixtene,
And of his bisschophed in feer
Euene þe fourtiþe ȝer.
He made no testament þan,
For he was Cristes pore man
And hedde noþyng wherof to make—
Al he forsok for Cristes sake.
He passed his wei on þis maner
Þe date of vr lord four hundred ȝer.

SEint Austin, of wisdom schining briht,
Defensour of soþfastnes and riht
And parfyt kepere of þe feiþ,
Ouer oþur doctours, as men seiþ,
In wit and connynge, he passeþ alle
Wiþ(oute) comparisun, gret oþur smalle,
He floureþ wiþ ensaumples of vertuwes in liuing
And wiþ affluence wonderliche in teching.
Þerfore seint Remigious
Of Jerom and oþur doctours glorious
Makeþ mynde, but he concludeþ hit
Þat Austin passeþ alle in cunnynge of wit:
For, þouh seint Jerom þe clerk
Parfourned so gret a werk
Þat six þousend volumes he dude rede
Of Origenes, wiþouten drede,
Seint Austin so moni wrot,
Þat nouȝt onliche—God hit wot!—
Nihtes no dayes no mon miht
Alle his bokes write out fulle riht,
Ne, þouh he mihte him gete gret mede,
His bokes alle ouerrede.

VOlusian, to whom Austin
Wrot mony a pistel good and fyn,
Seiþ of him, as he wel wist:
»What þing þat seint Austin nist,
Hit nas nouȝt in Godus lawe«.
Þis was þerfore Volusians sawe
In a pistel þat he sent
To seint Austyn, wiþ good entent:
»To þi tweyn luttel bokes,
In whuche may seo wel, whose lokes,
Schynynge wiþ feirnesse of eloquensye,
Mai I not onswere wiþ tonge ne eȝe;
For, certes, whateuer a mon mai take of wit
And drawe vp from þe welle of holi writ,
Of þe hit is declared and set
To clerkes wit wiþouten let.
Þerfore i preye þi reuerence,
Soffre me of þi pacience
A luytel to worschipe þi wit,
For alle oþur passeþ hit«.

ÞE same clerk of him writ in þe bok
Of þe twelue doctours, hose luste to lok,
And seiþ: »seint Austin was a bisschop fleoing
Ouur þe hexte of þe mountayns wiþ hiȝing,
As an egle, wiþouten drede,
Þat of þe feet of þe mountayns tok non hede,
But of heuene þe brode space
And þe cyte of þe eorþe in vche place
And þe viroun of þe wattres wondurliche
He schewed to alle men openliche«.

SEint Jerom hedde him in loue and reuerence:
Þat witnesseþ a pistle, of his sentence
Wherin he wrot on þis manere,
As ȝe schulle nouþe ihere:
»To an holy and blessedest pope Austin
Jerom recomaundeþ him.
Eueri tyme þi blessedhed
Wiþ such worschipe as bisemeþ, bi mi hed,
I honoured tide, tyme and our,
And i loued þat dwelleþ in þe, vr saueour;
But nouþe, ȝif hit mihte beo so,
To þe heep sumwhat we adden þerto,
And fulliche hit to folfulle
Wiþ al vr herte and vr wille,
Þat wiþouten mencioun
Of þi name of renoun
Wiþ wondur gret honour
We mowe not suffre passe an hour«.

IN anoþur pistle eke he seiþ:
»God forbeode hit and good feiþ
Þat I schulde beo so hardi
Of þin holinesse to touche bocus any;

Hit soffiseþ to me proue myn owne doyng
And of oþur mennes entremete noþing«.

SEint Gregori ek, þe grete clerk,
Comendeþ seint Austines werk
Wiþ al his wit verreylike
In a pistel þat he sent to Aufrike
To Innocent, þat prefecte was þere,
And seiþ forsoþe on þis manere:
»We beoþ riht glad of ȝor moode,
Þat ȝe to vs senden for goode
For þe exposicioun of Jobs lyf;
But, so mote we euer þryf!
Ȝif þat ȝe coueyte to beo fed
Wiþ dilicious foodus to ȝor hed,
Tac hede of þe werk þon
Of seint Austin, ȝor contre mon,
And to þe compar(i)soun of his whete flour
Secheþ not or bren—hit were errour«.

IN his registre he seiþ also
Of seint Austin þis word wel þro:
Þat wiþ his suster wolde he not dwelle,
»Þerfore he wolde sey ful welle:
Þulke wymmen þat wiþ my suster be
Sustres beo þei nouht to me.
Þe cautel of þis mon so wys
Schulde beo ensaumple to vre auys«.

SEint Ambrose in his preface
Of seint Austin seiþ in þat place:
»Þi mihtinesse we worschupeþ, lord,
Boþe in dede and in word
And of þe stablyng of seint Austin
Þorwh þin owne vertu diuin,
Þat was so wiþ þe holigost
Enspiret—riht wel þou wost—
Þat ouercome miht he not be
Wiþ no falles of vanite;
For wiþ al maner of pite,
Of mekenes and of charite
Þou him foundedest on good wyse,
Þat he was to þe auter and sacrifice
And also temple and eke prest—
His doynge to þe was honest«.

ÞE clerk seint Prosper
Seiþ in his þridde bok þer
Þat he made her in his lyf
Of þe lyf contemplatyf,
On þis maner, hose lokeþ hit:
»Seint Austin was a bisschop of scharp wit,
Softe mon in spekynge,
And in seculer lettrure cunnynge,
In holichirche werk and fulle werkere,
And in eueriday disputisouns clere,
And in alle his doynges
Manerliche of alle þinges,
To assoyle questions he was scharp,
To ouercome heretykes wise of carp,
And riht trewe«—as Prosper seiþ—
»In exposicion of þe feiþ,
And wondur war in expleyting

Of holy mennes writyng«.
Seint Bernard, God hit wot,
Of seint Austin þus he wrot:
»Austin is beetel strongest to felle,
Heretykes resouns forte quelle«.

HIt bifel longtyme after þare
Þat þe heþene folk of Barbare(!)
Occupyed þat ilke londe
And holi places destruyeden wiþ heor honde,
Þer seint Austin buried was;
Þerfore byful þis ilke cas
Þat cristene men token his bodi
And translated hit in to Sardini.

HIt bifel þenne atte last,
Whon two hondred þer and XXXti wer past,
In þe ȝer of vr lord bidene
Fyf hondred and eihte tene:
Þer com to þe heryng
Of Ludbrande, þe noble kyng
Of Longobardis, þat distruyed
Was Sardinie. þerfore anuyed
He was. he sende þider þo
Messagers, þat weren þro,
Seint Austins relikes as a drurye
For to bere to Papye.
Þis messagers gret ȝiftus ȝauen
Seint Austines bodi forte hauen,
And forþ wiþ hem þei gonne hit walwe,
Til þei come to þe toun of Janwe.
When þe goode kyng herde of þis,
Aȝeynes þe bodi he wente, iwis,
Wiþ joye, and wiþ reuerence
He hit receyued wiþoute offence.
Vppon þe morwe whon hit was day,
Þei wolde haue lad hit forþ on way.
Þer bifel a wondur cas:
Þei miht not meue hit from þe plas,
Til þe kyng a vow hedde mad
Þat, ȝif he suffrede him þennes be lad,
He wolde riht þere wiþouten blame
Buylde a chirche in his name.
When þe kyng hedde mad þe vou,
Lihtliche inou—i telle hit ȝou—
Þei toke wiþ hem forþ þe bere.
Þe kyng a churche let buylde riht þere.
Vppon þat oþurday wiþ god wil
Þe same miracle of his bodi bifil
In a toun of þe bisschopriche
Of Terdonence, sikerliche,
Þat men callen þere Cassel;
On þe same maner þe kyng riht wel
Let buylde a chirche of seint Austyn,
A wondur noble, feir and fyn;
And þat ilke same toun
Wiþ al þe possessioun
He graunted and ȝaf wiþouten ende,
For þei of him schulde haue sum muynde,
To hem þat in seruise diuyn

In þat chirche seruen seint Austin.
Þe kyng hedde gret þenkynge
Leste he to Papye him schulde not bringe;
Þerfore, to plese þat seint wiþ his miht,
Whereuer þe bodi lay al niht
Þer a churche he let buylde,
Wheþur hit were in toun or felde.
Þus wiþ joye ful goodlye
He brouhte þe bodi to Papye.
And in þe chirche of seint Petre
Worschipfuliche in a fertre
Þe bodi was leid wiþ mylde steuene—
Þat chirche is called »þe guyldene heuene«.—

A muleward þer was in þat cuntre,
Þat hedde a gret enfermete
Vppon his leg for þe none,
Hit was so sor: he miht not gone;
But euere he hedde in feld and toun
In seint Austin deuocioun,
Þerfore he preyed him deuouteliche
To ben his help certeynliche.
Seint Austin for his deuociun
Apered to him bi a uisioun
And hondled his leg softe and wel:
And hit was hol þen eueridel.
Whon he awok, he fond hit so—
A wondur glad mon was he þo,
Almihti God and seint Austin
He þonked þenne wiþ herte fyn.

A child þer was wiþ wo bigon:
Wiþ þe seeknesse of þe ston;
Leches putte his frendes in witte
Þat he moste nedes beo kitte.
But þe modur hedde gret drede
Leste þorwh þat cuttynge he schuld be dede;
Þerfore to seint Austin þan
Deuoutliche preyede þat womman,
Wiþ word and wiþ herte mylde,
Þat he schulde helpe and hele hir chylde.
Anon riht þenne þe chyld, iwis,
A gret stone al out dude pis
And was al hol of þat seknes,
And þonked God of his goodnes.

IN an hous of religious,
Þat men callen Almous,
In þe vigile of seint Austin
A monk was rauissched þerin
In spirit and sauh such a cas:
Þat a cloude from heuene sliden doun was,
And seint Austin þeron sittyng
In bisschops cloþing, him þhouȝte, wel semyng,
And his tweyn eȝen verreyliche
To twei sonne bemus weren liche,

Þat al þat churche lihted þo,
A wondur gret swetnesse com him fro.

SEint Bernard þorwh Godus miht
Was at matins on a niht,
Þer þe legende good and fyn
Was rad of a trete of seint Austin;
Þe while a luytel on slepe he fil,
Þouh hit were not wiþ his wil,
Him þhouȝte he say þat ilke tym
A feir child stondynge beo him,
Of whos mouþ out þer ran
So grete cours of watres þan
Þat hit semed to him wel
Þat hit fulde þe chirche eueridel.
Whon he awok, he wuste wel afyn
Þat þat was seint Austin,
Þat wiþ his goode teching
Fulled holichirche wiþ god lyuyng.

A mon þat louede him hertilike
Coueyted of him to haue a relyke:
Þerfore ful deuoutely
To a monk þat kepte þe bodi
He ȝaf for seint Austines sake,
On of his fingres him forto take,
A gret summe of good money.
Þe monk þenne tok al in god fey,
But he him þouȝt sumwhat on gyle:
And a ded monnes fynger he rayed þat while,
Wrapped hit in a selkene cloþ,
And tok hit þe mon wiþouten oþ,
He seide: hit was of seint Austyn
A fingre and a relyke fyn.
Þe mon hit tok reuerentliche
And worschiped hit deuoutliche,
Wiþ his eȝen and his mouþ,
He hit cussed, as þing selcouþ.
But God tok hede to his feiþ
Þorwh his miht, as þe bok seiþ,
And a verrei fingre of seynt Austin
Him sende of his merci diuin,
And þat oþur anon riht
Was don awey þorwh Godus miht.
Whon he to his cuntreye com, anon
Mony miracles þer weoren don.
Þe fame sprong so brod wiþ hyȝe,
Til hit com to Papye.
Þe monk þat him bygyled hadde
Seide þat men weren waxen al madde,
For he him bigyled on his maner
Wiþ a ded monnes fynger.
But whon þe toumbe was vndon,
Þei founden þat þer lakked on
Of þe fyngres of his honde.
And þenne þei þonked Godus sonde,
And þe abbot of his offyce
Remued þe monk, þat was so nyce,
And punissched him for þat doyng
Of such a fals begyling.

AT Burgoyne in a munster swet,
Þat is icalled Fountanet,
Þer was a monk, god mon and truwe,
Þat men called þo Daun Huwe,

To seint Austin he was deuout,
To rede his bokus he was about.
He preied seint Austin deuoutlye
Þat, what tyme þat he schulde dye,
Þat hit scholde falle on his festeday—
Þus hertiliche he dude him pray.
Fiftene dayes tofore þat solempnite
Wiþ brenynge feuere taken was he,
And riht vppon seint Austines eue
Wiþ al his rihtes and good bileue
Vppon þe grounde he was forþ leyde,
Forte dye, as alle men seide.
In þe chirche an old monk sat,
Seyinge his psauter vppon a mat,
And sauh a siht of gret delyt:
A cumpaygnye, cloþed in whit,
Entringe wiþ deuocioun
In to þe churche on a processioun,
Beohynde hem alle þer com a man
Al lyk a bisschop icloþed þan.
Þe monk sumdel aferd was,
But he asked on of hem þe cas,
What þei weren and whodur þei went,
Whi þei come so, to what entent.
And anon riht in þat tym
On of hem onswerde him
Þat seint Austin wiþ his chanouns
Was icomen for þe nones,
To fette þe monkes soule to blis
Þat him tofore hedde serued, iwis.
Þo al þat feire cumpaygnie
Wenten euene to fermerie.
Whon þei a while hedden beo þerin,
Þe soule from þe bodi dude twin
Of þat ilke monk holye
Þat forþ was leid forte dye,
And seint Austin and his cumpaygnye
Þat soule token to glorie
And diliuerde hit from þat enemye
Þat to monkynde haþ euer envye.

VPpon a tyme wiþouten drede
Seint Austin vppon a bok gon rede,
W(h)il þat he liuede, wiþ good entent:
He sauh wher a fend wend
And a gret bok in his nek
Trussed, in þe maner of a sek.
Anon him coniured seint Austyn
To schewe him what was writen þerin.
And he seide: »sunnes, wiþouten doute,
Þat I haue gedered of mennes aboute«.
»Ȝif þou hast eny þer of myn,
Schewe me anon!« quaþ seint Austyn.
And he him schewed wel a fyn
Þat he hedde forȝeten ones a cumplyn.
He bad þe fend him scholde abyde,
Til he coome to him þat tyde.
In to þe chirche he hyed sumwhat

And seide þe cumplin þat he forȝat,
And his orisouns euerichon,
As he was wont forte don.
Whon he com to þe fend aȝeyn,
»Scheuh me þe place« he gon seyn,
»Þer þat i was set in þi boke,
Let me seo, red and loke!«
Þe fend turnde faste, he couþe not fynde,
He wox al wroþ as þe wynde
And seide: »me forþinkeþ i schewed þe
Mi bok, for þou hast bigyled me
And don awey wiþ þi preyere
Þi synne þat was writen here«.
Þe fend vanissched þenne away,
Seynt Austin nomore of him saih.

A wommon dwelled sum men among
Sumtyme, þat dude hire muche wrong,
And þen heo went to seint Austin
To place þer he sat in,
Forte aske counseil of him
What hire weore best do for þat tym.
Heo fond him studying bisiliche,
And heo saluwed him reuerentliche,
But he biheold on hire noþing
Ne onswerd nouht to hire seying.
Þe wommon gan in hire hert caste
Þat þe holy mon was so studefaste
Þat he nolde not in no cas
Biholde a wommon in þe fas;
Þerfore heo neihhed him ner,
Tolde him þe cas of hire daunger.
But he tornd him nouȝt to hire
Ne ȝaf hire non onswere,
And heo þerfore wiþ sori cher
Wente hir hom in heuy maner.
Afturward what more and lesse
On a day seint Austyn wente to messe;
Þis wommon stod þere and herde hit,
And was rauissched in hire spirit
Aftur þe sacringe in verite
Tofore þe heȝe trinite:
Þer heo sauh wiþouten dred
Seint Austin, enclyning wiþ his hed,
As bisi as he mihte beo, iwis,
Disputyng of þe grete blis
Of þat blisful trinite—
God ȝif vs grace þat siht to se!—
A vois to hire seide cler and fyn:
»Whon þou were at seint Austyn,
He was so ifulled of charite,
To dispute of þe blis of þe trinite,
Þat of þe tok he non hede,
Nouþur to counseil no to rede.
Bote go nou to him safliche,
For þou schalt fynde þat mekeliche
He schal þe ȝiue good counsayle,
Þe beste to don, wiþouten fayle«.
As heo was beden, so dude heo,
And good counseil þen ȝaf hire he.

SUm tyme a mon þer was
Þat bifel such a cas:
Þat rauissched was in his spirit
In to blis wiþ gret dilyt:
Þer he sauh angeles monye
And oþur seintes in gret glorie,
But, for seint Austin he sauh nouht,
He wondrede gretliche in his þouht.
He asked þen on of hem
Wher seint Austin mihte ben.
And he seide: he was an heih,
As a wys clerk and a sleih
Disputyng in diuinite
Of þe heinesse of þe trinite.

ALso sum tyme men of Papye
Weren itake for envye
Of þe marchiun of Malaspyn
And in a prison put strong wiþin;
For couetyse of heore moneye
Þei forbed vppon al weye
Þat men schulde ȝiue hem no drinke,
Nouþour swet ne sour, in hem to sinke.
Þerfore summe diȝed þer in
And summe dronken heore oune vrin.
Amongus hem was a ȝong felawe
Þat of seint Austin stod gret awe
And worschiped him hedde ofte tym:
Þerfore he preyed he schulde helpe him.
Þe nexte niht at heiȝ midniht
Austin apeered to him ful riht
And lad him bi þe riht hond
Forþ wiþ him vppon druyȝe lond,
Til he com to þe flod of Grauel—
Þat mony a mon knoweþ riht wel;
Þer Austin dupped a leef of a vyn
In þat flod wel ofte þerin,
Þerwiþ his tonge he moysted þan:
Þerof was he a wel fayn man,
He þhouȝte him so at ese, verreyment,
Þat he tok non hede of pyement.

A prouost of a chirche collegial
Loued seint Austin wiþ his herte al.
But at a tyme him tok seknes,
Þat þreo ȝer wiþouten les
He kepte his bed as mon beddered,
Þat mihte not sture out of þe sted.
Tyme of ȝeer com þen, parde,
Of seint Austines day þe solempnete.
Vppon his euen to euensong
Men rongen þo þreo peles long.
Whon þat he herde þe swete soun,
Wiþ god herte and deuocioun
He dressed him to seye his preyere
To seint Austin wiþ gode chere.
Seint Austin apeered þo to him
Al in whit, þe same tym,
And called him þries bi his name
And seide to him: »her I ame
Þat þou hast cleped so ofte siþe.
Þat i nou seie, to me nou liþe:
Arys vp swiþe, and dwelle not long,
And go to churche and do euensong!«

And so he dude anon riht:
And was al hol þorwh Godus miht
And þe preyere of seint Austine,
þat grete clerk is of dyuyne.

A schepherde bitwenen his scholdres twein
A gret bocche hedde and a uylein,
þat him dude so muche wo
Þat his mihtes were neih ago.
But to seint Austin he preyed fast
To sende him hele, atte last.
Seint Austin in a uisioun
Apered to him in his deuocioun
And leide his hond vppon þe sore:
And hit was hol for euermore.

ÞAt same mon afturward þo
Lost þe siht of his eȝen two.
To seint Austin his herte he lende
And preyed, his siht him forte sende.
Vppon a day aftur þe meridien
Austin apeered to him þen
And wiped his eȝen wiþ his honde:
And he was hol þorwh Godus sonde.

ABoute niȝene hundred ȝer
And twelue of þe date of vr lord in fer
Þer bifel such a chaunce
Þat fourti sum of men of Germayn in Fraunce
Toward Rome wente wiþ gret dilyte,
Þe holy apostles to visyte:
Summe were crupeles in carres led,
And summe were blynde and harde bisted,
And summe wiþouten staues miȝt not stonde,
And summe hedden lost boþe fot and honde:
Þat passeden ouer hulles monye
Til þei come to þat place, called Carbonarie.
Whon þei weoren comen almost þan
To a place, men clepen Can,
Þat is fro Papye but þreo mile,
Þer þei rested a luytel while,
Out of a chirche—þat mani a man
Knoweþ:—of seint Cosme and Damian
Com seynt Austin in bisschopes wede
To þis cumpaigni and bad god spede
And asked hem whodur þei scholde.
Þei seiden to Rome þat þei fayn wolde.
Þen he hem bad þat in hiȝe
Þey schulden wende to Papye,
Þat »aftur seint Petres churche wiþ mylde steuene
Askeþ, þat men calleþ »þe guyldene heuene!«
Þer schul ȝe fynden þat merci«
He seide, »þat ȝe sechen, sikerli«.

Þen þei him asked what he hiht.
Þen onswerde he anon riht:
»Mi nome is Austin, wite ȝe wel, men,
Þat sum tyme was bisschop of Iponen«,
And þenne anon from heore eȝe-siht
He vanissched þorwh Godus miht.
Te Papye whon þei weren come,
To þe munstre þe wey þei nome,
Anon þei liften heore vois at ones
And cried riht þus for þe nones:
»Seint Austin confessour glorious,
Haue merci nou and help þou vs!«
At þis cri þer comen anon
Monkes and oþur men mony on:
Þer mihte men seo þe traces of bledyng
Of heore veynes streynyng,
From þe churche dore wel a fyn
Til þei come to þe tumbe of seynt Austin:
Þere þei weren heled alle, parde,
Þat no sore on hem men mihte se.
From þat tyme forþ þe grete fame
Encresed of seint Austines name,
Þat muche pepele afturward
Þat seke weoren wenten þiderward,
And of heore seknesse feir and wel
Weren iheled eueridel.
And þer weore laft so mani
Signes of wax, verreyli,
Þat seint Austines chapel
And þe porche þerof eueridel
Weoren so ful, þat no wiht
Nouþur in ne out passe miht.
Neode drof þe monkes to take away
Mony of þe signes, day bi day.

HIt is an old notabilite
Þat þreo þingus þer be
Þat worldliche men disiren here:
Riches, delices, and worschipes in feere.
Þis seint was of so gret parfecciun
Þat he of þeos þinges hedde abhominaciun.
Þat he dispised so riches,
Þe bok »Soliloquijs« he bereþ witnes;
Þer Resun askeþ him þus:
»Of richesse wheþur þou beo couetous?«
Seint Austin þer onswereþ him
And seiþ: »þis nis not þe furste tym,
For i am now of þritti ȝeer
And seþþhe fourtene ben passed her
Siþen i hedde no coueytyng
But onliche to mete, drinke and cloþing:
For vppon Ciceronis oune boke
I lernde wel whon I dude loke,
Þat i schulde on none wyse
Of richesse haue no coueytise«.

REsun him asked also
In þe same bok þerto:
Wheþer he tok ouht to gret kepe
To eny worldly worschepe.
Þer he onswereþ godliche
And seiþ: »I knowleche outurliche
I haue hem laft for euermo,
Whil niht and day mai come and go«.

LVst also and dilytinge
Of fleschlich likyng or tastinge
He forsok, as þe same bok telleþ vs,
And seiþ and telleþ riht þus:
Resun him askeþ of a wyf:
Wher he hedde lykynge in þat lyf,
Ȝif þat heo weore feir and clene,
Feir-manered, wiþouten wene,
And ȝif þat he wuste sikerliche
Þat heo weore wondur riche,
Nomeliche ȝif he wuste sikerliche his ese,
Þat he schulde soffre no disese.
Austin onswereþ anon riht:
»Þauh þou hire peynted neuer so briht
And rikene as muche goodnesse
As þou const, boþe more and lesse,
I haue icast ouer alle þing
To fleo flescliche doyng«.
Qwaþ Resun þenne: »I aske þe nouht
What to do þou hast cast in þi þouht,
But wheþer wiþ loue oþur wiþ awe
Þyn herte þerto weore ouht idrawe?«
Austin onswerde wiþouten ire:
»In such þing haue I non disyre;
And ȝif hit falle out to my mynde,
Hit is wiþ horrour a(n)d dispisynge«.

REsun him asked: of his dilyt
In mete and drinke hou stod hit.
And he onswerde wiþouten scaþe:
»Of mete, drinke ne of baþe
Nouþur of oþur bodiliche lustus
Aske me nouȝt, as þhouh þou nustes;
I ne aske no more, my lyf to lede,
But onliche on such þinges þat me doþ nede«.
God ȝiue ou grace wiþ herte glade
To preye for him þat þis lyf made.

AMEN.

7. Savinian & Savina.

SVm tyme þer was an heþen man
Þat men called Sauyn þan.
Of his furste wyf he gat a childe
And called him Sauyn, god and mylde,
Of his secunde wyf also
A feir douhtur he gat þo
And called hire rihte name
Sauyna, wommon of gode fame.
Sauyn þe ȝonge rad on a boke
On a tyme as he gon loke,
Þis vers, wiþouten mor:
Asperges me domine & mundabor.
What was þerof þe vndurstondyng,
Couþe he not wite for noþing.
In to his chaumbre he wente him þere,
Leide him in askes and in an here,
And seide he hedde leuer dye þen
But he mihte wite what þat was to men.
An angel seide to him þis red:
»Trouble not þi self riht to bi ded,
For riht here in þis place
Of God þou hast ifounden grace;
Whon þou art cristned, wite wel nou,
Þou schalt beo whittore þen is þe snouh,
And þen scha(l)t þou riht wel wite
What is to sei þat þou sauh write«.
Whon þe angel was gon him fro,
Idoles and maumetes he forsok þo
And worschiped hemnomore aftur þat tym.
Þerfore his fader was wroþ wiþ him
And seide: »beter is, wiþouten drede,
Þat þou al one beo dede
For þou vr godus nult not honoure,
Þen alle we dyen in on vre«.
Priueliche fleih he þan
To þe citéé of Tetrasinan.
Whon he com to þe watur of Secan,
Þer preyed he God, as a good man,
Þat cristendom he wolde him sende.
And so hit was, er he þeonne wende.
Þen seide vr lord: »þat þou hast souht,
Þou hast nou founden—leose hit nouht!«
He stiked þer his staf adoun
And seide þen his orisoun—
Toforen alle þat þer weren þat vre
Hit bar leues and eke floure.
So þat for þat miracle þo
A þousund an hundred and eiȝte þerto
Men bileeued in vr lord
And worschuped him wiþ herte and word.
Whon þe emperour Aurelean
Herde of such a maner man,
Þider he sente mony knihtes

Him to take and bringe forþ rihtes.
Whon þei comen to þe watur syde,
Þei founden him preyinge in þat tyde;
Þei weren aferd him to lette,
But, whon he ros, þei him grette
And seiden: »sire, wite þou parde,
Þe emperour desyreþ to seo þe.
Go we þerfore to Aurelian!«
And whon þat he was ibrouht þan,
For he nolde not do sacrifise
To heore maumetes on heore gyse,
Fot and hond he let him bynde
And al to-beten bifore and bihynde.
Sauiniam seide þenne anon riht:
»Puyt forþ mo tormens, ȝif þat þou miht!«
Þe emperour comaunded anon þat he
In þe middel of þat citéé
Schulde beo bounde to a piler,
Þat he mihte feor no ner,
And wode and oyle put to him þan
And fuir, to brenne Sauinian.
Whon þe emperour him sauh in his turment
Preye to God wiþ good entent,
And þat he was neuer þe wors
For þe fuir, at þat cours
For wonder in þat ilke stounde
He fel doun griuelyng to þe grounde,
And ros vp wod as eny hare
And seide þeose wordus þare:
»Þou wode best, wiþ þi doyng
Suffiseþ not þi deseyuyng
Of mennes soules, so mote þou þriue,
But wiþ wicchecraft vs deceyue«.
Sauiniam seide to him þo:
»Ȝit Þorwh me schullen soulus mo
And þou þi self beo tornd to God,
Þauh þou beo nou ful wilde of mod«.
Þe emperour comaundede in þat stounde:
Vppon þe morwe he schulde beo bounde
To a stok and þenne beo schote
Wiþ arwes from hed to fote.
Whon þei schoten, his bodi to peire,
Þe arwes hengen in þe eire
On his luft syde and his riht arm,
But he him self hedde non harm.
Þe emperour ful wroþ hym leete,
Anoþur day bad men him schete
And seide: »wher is þi God? þou
Let him saue þe from þeos arwes nou«.
On of þat same arwes wiþouten lyȝe
Hutte þe emperour in þe eȝe.
And for he hedde lost his eȝe-siht,
He comaundede him to prisun anon riht,
And he bad also wiþ sorwe
Þei schulde gurde of his hed amorwe.
Sauinian preied God in þat cas
Þat he moste come to þat plas
Þer he was cristned for Godus sake:
Anon his veteres al to-brake,
And among þe knihtes euerichon

To þat flod he wente anon.
Þe emperour herde of þis cast
And bad men schulde pursuwe him fast,
His hed þer of to smyte—
For þat was his most delyte.
Whon Sauinian sauh ful riht
Þat þer suwed him mony a kniht,
Vppon þe watur he wente anon,
As þeih he on eorþe hedde igon,
Til þat he com to þat same plas
Þer þat he icristened was.
þe knihtes waded in ful fast
And come to him atte last;
Þei weren aferd him forte smite,
He bad hem not spare for no despite,
»And whon þat ȝe haue so idon,
Takeþ my blod wiþ ou anon
And to þe emperour ful riht
Bereþ hit, þat he mowe haue his siht,
Þat he mowe knowe euer afturward
Godus vertue, þat is vr lord!«
Whon his hed was of ismite,
In his oune hondes he tok hite
And þorwh Godus grete graas
Bar hit nine and fourti paas.
Þe emperour afturward wiþ hiȝe
Wiþ þat blod enoynte(d) his eȝe:
And anon riht wiþouten more
He sauh as wel as dude bifore,
And þen he seide wiþ milde mood:
»Forsoþe, cristen mennes God is good!«
A wommon þat blynd hedde iben iwis
Fourti winter, herd of þis
And let men to þat place hire bere,
And þer heo made hire preyere:
And þorwh þe grace of God almiht
And of his seynt heo hedde hire siht.
Þis seint was sent þus to glorie
Þe niþe kalende of Februarie(!).
But his owne susteer
Diȝed anoþur tyme of þe ȝer.
Of hire now schal i tel,
And ȝe wollen lusten me wel.

SAuina was heþene ȝit
And in idoles hedde gret dilyt,
And preyȝede for hir broþur to hem fast,
Heo wepte also. but atte last,
In hire slep as heo was leyd,
An aungel com and to hire seid:
»Sauina, wep þou no more!
Saue þi self, beo not forlore,
And forsak al þyn hauyng:
And þou schalt fynde þi broþur, dwellyng
In þe moste worschupe iwis
Þat may beo, in joye and blis«.
Whon heo awok of hire slepyng,
Heo asked hire felawe: »sauȝ þou eny þing?«

»Ȝe, heo seide, my deore ladi,
I saih a mon speke wiþ þe, verreyli,
But what he seide, wot i nouht,
Þerfore þeron haue I no þouht«.
Sauyna seide: »loke þou hit not oute«.
»Nay, dame, quaþ heo, wiþoute doute,
Whateuer þou wolt, do þi wille,
So þou þi self nouþur sle ne spille«.
Vppon þe morwe whon hit was day,
Boþe two þei wenten heore way.
Hire fadur hir souhte in eueri plas—
No mon couþe wite wher þat heo was.
His hondus þen heold he vp to heuene
And seide þeos wordus wiþ mylde steuene:
»Ȝif þou beo God of heuene, as men letes,
Lord of al: brek my maumetes
Þat miht not saue my children twein—
Hem to truste is not but veyn«.
Vr lord sende a þondur anon
And brac his idoles euerichon.
Alle þulke þat seȝen and þere stood
Euer aftur leeued in God.
Sauina com þenne to Rome,
Eusebie þe pope ȝaf hire cristendome;
Twey blynde heo heled þoruȝ Godus sonde
And tweyne þat weren croked, fot and honde.
Vppon a niht in hire slepyng
An angel com to hire, seyȝing:
»Sauina, hou hast þow
Forsaken þi richesse, now
Þou art ifed her wiþ delice?—
Beo þou not þerof to nice.
Aris vp þerfore out of þis plas
And go to þe citéé of Thretas—
Loke þou beo not longe beohynde—
Þer þi broþur þou schalt fynde«.
Heo seyde to hire maiden þo:
»Hennes forsoþe we moste go«.
»A, ladi! heo seide, whodur wol ȝe?
Alle men here louen wel þe,
And þou wolt go on pilgrimage,
To dye, or þou come to ful age?«
Heo onswerd: »God al vr weye,
What þat vs nedeþ, wol purueye«.
Heo tok wiþ hire barli-bred þen,
Til þat heo com to þe cite of Rauen,
To a riche monnes hous in þat stede,
Whos douhtur was neih dede—
For hire hir frendes maden serwe.
Þer heo asked hire herborwe
Of a seruaunt of þat hous,
Þat hire onswerde sone þus:
»Hou mihte ȝe beo herborwed her,
Seþþhe my maistresse makeþ such cher
And al oþur beoþ wiþ del bistedde,
For hir douhtur is neih ded a bedde?
Sauina onswerde wiþouten more:
»Heo ne schal not dyȝe þerfore«.
In to þat hous þen heo wonde
And tok þe child vp bi þe honde

And made hire hol of hire seknesse—
þerof made joye boþe more and lesse.
Þe goode mon of þe hous and his wyf
Wolden han wiþholden hire as heore lyf,
But þerto wolde heo nouȝt assent,
But went hire wei wiþ good entent.
Whon heo com to a plas
Þat nas bote a myle from Tretas,
Heo seide to hire maiden þere:
A luytel þat heo wolde reste here.
Out of þat citéé a noble man
Com to hem tweyne þan,
Lycen icalled was he,
And he hem asked: »whennes beo ȝ?«
Sauina seide: »sire, parde,
I am riht of þis cuntre«.
Lycen seide: »whi gabbest þou?
Þi tonge scheweþ þe for a pilgrim nou«.
Sauina seide þenne to him:
»Forsoþe, sire, I am a pilgrim,
And seche my broþur Sauinian
Þat was ilost long tyme agan«.
Lycen seide þan: »in certayn,
He þat þou sechest was islayn.
Hit neodeþ not to þe forte scof:
For Cristes loue his hed is of,
His bodi, as i þe sey, iwis,
In Godus place iburied is«.
Prostrat heo fel þen to grounde
And preyed to God þus in þat stounde:
»Lord, on God in Trinite,
Suffre þou nou me no more
Beo fortrauayled wiþ weyes sore,
Ne my bodi awei to pas,
Ȝif þi wille beo, out of þis plas!
To þe also, lord, i comende
Mi damysele for to defende,
Þat wiþ me þus hiderto
Haþ isoffred pyne and wo.
And my broþur, þat wiþouten lye
I wende to haue seyȝen here wiþ eȝe,
In þi kyngdom mak me him seo,
Lord, þauh i vnworþi beo!«
Þis orisoun whon heo hedde ised,
Anon riht þo heo was ded.
Whon hir seruaunt þerof was war,
Heo wepte and hedde muche car,
For heo nedde nouȝt, sikerly,
To burie wiþ þenne þe bodi.
Þe forseid mon þenne parde
Sende a criour þorwh þe cite,
Þat alle men schulde come to him,
To burie a wommon, a pilgrim.
And so þei duden soþliche
And burieden þe bodi worschipefuliche.—
Þe dai, þat þe feste is of seint Sauin & Sauina,
Is þe festeday of seint Sabina,
Þat was a wyf of gret miht
To Valentinian þe kniht,
Þat, for heo nolde not do sacrifise
On þe heþen mennes wyse,
Was imartred and don to ded,
For þei smiten of hire hed.

174

5. Eufrosyne.

IN Alisaundre, þat grete citee,
Þer was a mon of muche pouste,
Pathnucius forsoþe he hiht;
He kepte wel þe heste of god almiht.
A wyf he tok of grete blode,
Þe wȝuche was euere meoke & gode.
But fruit com non bitwene hem two,
And þerfore hem was ful wo.
Þis mon was sori and in gret speir,
For he hedde of his bodi non heir
þat his goodes in toun and feelde
After his deþ scholde gouerne and welde.
Vppon a day he him biþouht
And preyed to god, þat vs haþ bouht,
To seende him a child, as he wel may,
His good to hauen aftur his day.
And his wyf boþe day and niht
Dude almesdeede al þat heo miht,
And preyed to god, heuene kyng,
To graunten hem heore askyng.
Þen wente þis goode mon feor & nere,
To witen ȝif he mihte ouȝwher here
Aftur sum good holy mon,
Þat god wolde heere his preyere anon:
Þorw hos preyere he hopede wel
Þat god wolde graunte him eueridel.
Þenne he wente in to an abbey,
Where was an holy mon, as I ow sey,
Þat was abbot of þat place—
In him god schewed boþe vertu & grace.
And whon he hedde dwelled þere a stounde,
He tolde þe abbot hol and sounde
What was his comyng, wherfore & whi.
Þe abbot of him hedde reuþe forþi
And hertly to god made his preyere
To sende him a child, ȝif his wille were.
And Jhesu Crist, maydenes sone,
Graunted þe abbot al his bone.

ÞE wyf conseiued & bar a childe,
A douhtur, þat was meke & mylde.
And whon he say þe abbotes liuinge,
He wolde neuer go fro þat wonynge,
But brouȝte his wyf in to þe abbey,
Þer to dwelle boþe niht & day.
Þe child þei toke, as I ow say,
And Eufrosyne þei cleped þat may.
And whon þat heo was twelf ȝer olde,
Heo was cristened in water colde.
Hire fader & moder weore glad & blyþe
And þonked god mony a siþe
Þat hedde graunted to hire such grace,
Þat was so goodlich & feir of face.
And whon hit was at twelf ȝer ende,
Hir moder diȝed & to god gan wende.
Hire fadur liued, & tauȝt hire lettrure,
Boþe wit & wisdam, beo ȝe sure.
Þen wox heo wys & lerned so faste
Þat hir fader merueiled þerof atte laste.

175

Hire loos sprong þorw al þe cite
Þat a wisor creature miȝte non be.
And for hir wisdam & hire feirnesse
Heo was desyret of more & lesse
To wedden hire to heore sones ȝinge,
And sum striuen wiþ hir fader for þat þinge.
Þen was þer a noble mon of þat cite
Þat passed alle oþure of riches & fee;
He asked Pathnucius douȝter feire
His sone to wedden þat was his heire.
And hire fader verrament
Þerof was fayn & to him asent.
He tok his douȝter, as ȝe may here,
Þat was of elde XVIII ȝere,
And brouȝt hire to þe abbeye
Þer he was wont to bidde & preye,
And tok wiþ him muche oþur goode
And ȝaf þe monkes, to buggen hem foode.

TO þe abbot þen he brouȝte þat maide.
»Þe fruit of þi praiȝers, lo her!« he saide,
»Preye for hire to god almiht:
Forte marien hire I haue Itiht«.
Þe abbot bad hire to þe hoste be brouȝt:
To speke wiþ hire þer haþ he þouȝt.
And whon þei þidere Icomen were,
He blessed hire wiþ goode chere,
And seyde: »douȝtur, I counseyle þe
To liue in pacience and humilite,
In chastite also, I rede,
And ouer alle þing þi god þou drede«.
Þen dwelled þei þere þreo dayes stille
And herden heore seruise wiþ gode wille.
Pathnucius of hire lyuinge was wel payed
And of hir holynesse; he meruayled & sayd:
»Þeose seruauns of god Iblesset þei beo
Þat liuen as angles in heore degre,
And aftur þis wiþouten drede
Euerlastynge lyf schal ben heore meede«.
Þen wax his herte in god studefaste
And to his seruise holliche him caste.
Þen aftur þreo dayes Pathnucius went
To þe abbot wiþ good entent
And seide: »fader, I preie þe,
Cum spek wiþ my douhter fre
And prey for hire, as I truste on þe,
For we wol walken in to þe cite«.
And whon þe abbot was comen þat stounde,
Heo felde at his feet vppon þe grounde
And seide: »fader, þou preye for me
To þe holy trinite
Þat he wolde of his godnes
Mi soule wynne to his blis«.

HE tok his hond & blessed hire þere
And seide þeos wordes, as ȝe schul here:
»God, þat knowest mon er he weore Ibore,
Let þis creature neuere ben forlore
And graunt hire felauschipe & part also
In heuene, whon heo schal heonnes go!«
Þenne tok þei heore leue of þat holy mon
And wente in to þe cite anon.
And whon hire fader bi wei or streete
Eny of þeose monkes couþe fynden or mete,
To his hous he wolde hem bringe
To preye for his douhter in alle þinge.
Þenne hit bifelde vppon a day
Þat a gret feste scholde ben in þe abbay.
Þe abbot a monk to Pathnucius sent
And bad him cum þider wiþ good entent.
And whon þe monk com to his hous,
He asket after Pathnucius.
His seruauns seiden wiþouten weere
He walked forþ riht nou heere.
And Eufrosyne, þat noble may,
Asked þe monk wiþoute delay:
»Sei me, broþer, for charite
How mony monkus atome beo ȝe?«
Þe monk hire tolde witterli:
»We ben þre hundret & two & fifti«.
Þen spac þat mayden to him anon:
»What, & þer coome to ȝou a mon
Þat wolde aske þe hous for charite,
Wolde not ȝor abbot graunten, ȝe?«
He onswerde & to hire sayde:
»Ȝus, þerof we ben riht wel apayde,

176

And for þeose wordes more and las:
Qui venit ad me, non eiciam foras«.

ÞEn Eufrosyne, þat mayden good,
To þe monk speek þer heo stood
And seide: »þou tel me holliche
Ȝif alle þe monkes preien & fasten Iliche«.
Þe monk onswerde wiþouten lesynge:
»In comuyn we preȝen boþe olde & ȝinge,
But fastynge is, as hit is skil,
To take or leue wheþer we wil«.
»To þis lyf«, heo seide anon riht,
»I þouȝt to come, ȝif þat I miht.
But þe wraþþe of mi fader sore I dredde,
For he haþ þouȝt me forte wedde.«.
Þe monk seide: »suster, for charite!
Let neuer mon defoulen þe,
Ne þi fairnesse, þat is so briht,
Soffrun schome bi day nor niht;
But wedde þe to Crist þat ȝiue þe may
Heuene after þin endyng day,
And in to sum abbeye þou do þe gon
And chaunge þin abyte sone anon!«
Þen of his counseil heo was apayd.
»But ho may schere me þenne?« heo said,
»For wiþ no lewed mon wolde I dele,
For he wolde not my counseil hele«.

ÞE monk seide þen to hire anon:
»Wiþ me to þe abbey þi fader schal gon,
Þreo dayes wiþ us þer schal he dwelle;
Þen sent þou aftur a monk ful snelle
Priueliche, wiþoute lettynge,
And he schal comen for eny þinge«.
And as he stod & speek wiþ þat mayde,
Hire fader com in & to þe monk sayde:
»What is þi wille? broþur, tel me!«
»Vr abbot« he seide, »sent to þe
And bad þe comen on his blessynge,
To eten wiþ him, wiþouen dwellynge«.
Pathnucius was glad & wiþ him ȝode
To þe feeste wiþ herte goode.
Þreo dayes wiþ þe abbot he dwelled þere.
Þen Eufrosyne sent hire messagere
To þe abbeye, as I ow telle,
And seide to him þe wordes felle:
»What monk þat þou mayst furst Ise,
Prei him þat he wolde come wiþ þe«.
Whon he com þider wiþouten lette,
Þorw grace of god a monk he mette;
Þen he him preyed wiþ herte fyne
To come & speke wiþ Eufrosyne.
Þe monk him wente wiþ herte meke.
And heo him mette & to him speeke:
»Blesse me«, heo seide, »fader, apliht!«
And he hire blesset, & sat doun riht.
Þen Eufrosyne seide to him anon:
»Mi fader is a ful good mon,
A riche mon, of muche miht,
And serueþ god boþe day & niht;
A wyf he hadde, & heo is dede,
Þat was my mooder, wiþoute drede;
And mi fader for his riches, I wot wele,
Wolde take me to þe world þat is so frele,
And I nolde for no richesse here
Beo defoulet wiþ þe world in non manere.
But euere I drede my fader so
Þat I not neuure what I schal do.
Al niht I lay, & sleep riht nouȝt,
And preyed to god, þat us haþ bouȝt,
To sende me merci & sum tokenyng;
And so I beoþouhte me in þe morwening
To sende to þe abbey aftur sum wiht,
To counseile me what best do miht
Sum word of soule-hele forte lere.
Þerfore I preye þe, fader deore,
Tech me godes lore wiþ good entent,
For þou art holliche fro god Isent«.

ÞE monk to hire speek wiþ gret wit:
»Þus hit is seid in holy writ:
Hose wol not for loue of me
Forsake his fader & al his fee,
His modur, his breþuren his sustren boþe,
Mi disciple he may not ben for soþe.
I con no more to þe say
But, ȝif þou seo þat þou wel may
Temptacion of flesch wiþstonden ariht,
Forsake alle þing for god almiht.
Þi fader richesses, beo þou bold,
Schul fynden eires monyfold:

177

Hous of almus þer beoþ Inouwe
In þis cuntreye, boþe heiȝe & lowe,
Pilgrimus, prisouns, as we knowe wele,
Faderles children monie & fele:
On heom his richesse he may sette
To godes worschupe wiþouten lette.
And þou wolt only don after me:
Leose not þi soule, I counseile þe«.
And heo onswerde wiþ milde chere:
»I truste holliche on þi preyere;
Now for soule I schal trauayle,
For I truste to god hit wol me auayle«.
Þat holy mon seide to hire þo:
»Let neuer þulke desyr fro þe go,
For nou is tyme of penaunce«.
And heo onswerde wiþouten distaunce:
»For al myn desir to folfille,
To trauayle þe hit was my wille.
Þou blesse me nou & for me pray,
And þe her of myn hed þou schere away!«

HE ros vp, as heo him beede,
And cut þe her of hire hede,
And cloþede hire in a cote good,
And preyed to him þat diȝed on rood
And seide: »lord god in trinite,
Þow saue þi seruaunt þat loueþ þe!«
And whon he hedde seid þeos wordes apliȝt,
He went his wei anon riȝt.

ÞEn Eufrosyne þouȝte: »sikerly,
Ȝif I go to a nonneri,
Mi fader wol seche me & fynde me þare,
To take me out wol he not spare
And make me iweddet also swiþe;
þen schuldi neuere beo glad ne bliþe.
Þerfore wol I to an abbey gon
Þer as beoþ men, and wymmen non«.
Hire owne aray þer heo forsook,
And monnes cloþing to hire heo took.
And anon as hit was niht,
Heo made hire redi and forþ hire diht,
Fiue hundret schilyng wiþ hire heo tok,
And priueliche al þat niht heo wok.
And erly on þe morn, as I telle þe,
Hire fader com in to þe citéé;
As god wolde, to chirche he went.
And Eufrosyne þe wei to þe abbey hent
Þer as hire fader was knowen wel.
And to þe porter heo spak also snel:
»Go prey þe abbot«, heo seide, »anon,
To speke heere wiþ a straunge mon
Þat fro þe paleys is come nou riht!«
Þe porter wente forþ wiþ al his miht
And tolde þe abbot word & ende.
Forþ wiþ him þen gon he weende.
And whon Eufrosyne saiȝ him þat stounde,
Heo fel doun flat vppon þe grounde.
He tok hire vp & blessed hire furst,
And aftur þei talket what so hem lust.
Þe abbot seide: »sone, what is þi wille?«
And heo onswerde wiþ wordes stille:
»I haue dwelled at þe palys
And liued in joye & muche delys;
And, for me þinkeþ þis world nis nouȝt,
To chaunge my liuynge I haue þouȝt:
Wherfore I prey ow, fader deere,
Graunte me to dwelle wiþ ou heere!
For I haue riches gret plente,
And al schal comen hider to þe,
Ȝif þat god wol ȝiue me grace
Him to seruen here in þis place«.
Þe abbot seide to him riht þus:
»Þou art welcome, dwelle here wiþ vs.
What is þi name?« þen seide he.
»Smaragdus« heo seide, »men callen me«.
Þe abbot seide: »þou art ful ȝyng,
Þe bihoueþ a maister for eny þing,
To teche þe rule & þi seruise
And þe lyuyng of monkes in alle wyse«.
To þe abbot heo speek riȝt þo:
»As þou biddest, so schal I do«.
And tok to him þer as he stode
Fyf hundred schilynges þat weore goode,
And seide: »tak þis in parti of pay,
Al þat oþur schal comen anoþur day,
Ȝif hit beo so in alle manere
Þat I may susteyn & dwellen heere«.

ÞE abbot let callen anon riht
A noble monk, Agapitus he hiht,

178

Smaragdus to him bitok he þere,
His rule to teche him and to lere,
And him to gouerne in such asyse
To passen his mayster in alle wyse.
Þen kneled he doun, as hit was skil,
And þei him receyued wiþ good wil;
Agapitus, his mayster mylde,
In to a celle brouȝte þat noble childe.
And for he was so feyr, wiþoute lye,
Þe fend to him hedde gret envye;
Whon þat he was in þe chirche,
Þe werk of god forte wirche,
He tempted þe breþeren þorw his queyntyse
In idel þouȝt in mony a wyse.
Þei wente to þe abbot & tolde him alle
What caas among hem was bifalle.
Þe abbot þis herde & Smaragdus let fette,
And seide þeos wordus wiþouten lette:
»Sone, þi grete feirenes
Makeþ vr breþuren to þenken amis;
Þerfore I comaunde þou sitte alone
In a celle, nowhoder to gone«
And bad his mayster also anon
To ordeyne him a place, þerinne beo don.
And so he dude, as I ou say,
Þerin to lyuen boþe niht & day.
And euur he lyued in so gret penaunce
Þat his maister merueiled wiþoute distaunce
And tolde his breþuren of his godnesse,
And þei þonked god boþe more & lesse.

NOu of þis matere I þenke to stinte;
Of Pathnucius to telle I haue Iminte
Hou he com hom to his oune place,
To seon his douhtur feir of face.
And whon he com in, he fond hire nouȝt:
Þerfore muche serwe was in his þouȝt,
And asked his seruauns al bideene
Wher was his douhtur, þat was so schene.
And þei onswerde anon riht:
»Forsoþe, we seȝen hire to niht,
But al þis day wiþouten doute
We couþe not seon hire walke aboute«.
Þen supposed hir fader þat he hedde hire fet
Þat scholde hire wedde wiþoute let;
He bad a seruaunt þider to gon;
But word of hire ne herde þei non.
And whon hir hosebonde hit herde, his fader also,
Þei woxen sori and weore ful wo,
To Pathnucius hous þei comen vchon.
Þei wepten & sorwed & made muche mon,
And seiden: »sum mon wiþ tresoun
Haþ lad hire awey out of þis toun«.
His men anon heore hors þei hent,
To sechen hire forþ beoþ þei went,
Boþe bi water and bi londe,
In caues & wildernes, I vndurstonde,
Hous of nonnes also þei souȝt,
But word of hire ne herde þei nouȝt.
»Alas«, seide Pathnucius, »my douȝter dere,
Mi solas, myn eȝen-siȝt, & al my chere,
Ho haþ my tresour Inome me fro?
Allas, my riches awey is go!
Allas, my vyne ho haþ Ischent?
Allas, my lanterne ho haþ Iqueynt?
Allas, myn hope ho haþ bigylet?
Allas, my douȝter ho haþ defuilet?
Allas, what wolf my lomb haþ spied?
Allas, what place þat hire haþ wriȝed?
Allas, for deol I droupe and dare,
I clynge as cleyȝ, Icauȝt in care,
I wayle, I wandre, I wake, I walke,
I stunte, I stonde, vnstabli I stalke,
For hire þat was so witti and wys,
Of alle gentrise heo bar þe prys.
Allas, eorþe, þou dost me pyne,
Þou hulest þe blod of Eufrosyne«.
Whon Pathnucius hed seid þis wordes alle,
Þe peple þat þer was in þe halle,
And þe citeseyns eueruchone,
For hire þei wepten & made muche mone.

179

ÞEn Patnucius þis serwe miȝt not drye;
To þe abbey faste þen gon he hyȝe,
At þe abbotes fet he fel doun þere
And seide: »fader«, wiþ mylde chere,
»Ne cece þou not to preye þis stounde
Þat Eufrosyne mouȝte ben Ifounde;
For I ne con witen in no manere
What is bifalle to my douhter dere«.
Whon þe abbot herde þis, he made gret mone,
And sent after his monkes euerichone
And seide: «breþeren, for charite,
Preye we to god for his pite
Þat he wold schewen us bi sum tokenyng
What caas bifallen is to þat mayden ȝyng«.
Þen al þat wike þei faste and prayden;
But þei herde noþing of þat mayden,
As þei weore wont bifore to heere
Whon þei to god made heore preyere;
For Eufrosyne preyde so day and niht
Þat god schulde not outen hire to nowiht:
Þerfore to þe abbot verrament
God wolde not hire schewe, ne to þe couent.

ÞE abbot to Patnucius þenne he sayd:
»Of godes sonde holt þe apayd,
And keep his lore in alle wyse,
For whom he loueþ, he wol chastise.
Forþi to þi douhter is nouȝt bifalle
Wiþouten his wil þat weldeþ alle;
But, for heo is sumwhere in godes seruise,
God wol not outen hire, as I deuyse.
In wikked werk ȝif heo weore tayn,
God wolde not leten vs trauaylen in vayn.
Such trust in god forsoþe Ichaue:
Er þen þou dye, þou schalt hire haue«.
Þen Pathnucius þonket god almiȝt,
And layȝ in his preyers boþe day & niȝt.

ÞEn hit bifel vppon a day
To þe abbey Pathnucius tok þe way;
Tofore þe abbot of gret renoun,
At his feet he fel adoun
And seide: »fader«, in þat stounde,
»I am so harde wiþ serwe Ibounde
For my douhter, þat was so fre,
Allas in world þat wo is me!«
Þe abbot þo wiþ dreri mood
Speek to him, þer he stood:
»We han a monk among us here,
An holy mon wiþouten peere,
Icomen he was fro þe palys;
Go spek wiþ him al þyn deuys!«
And he seide: »fayn I wol gon«.
After Agapitus þei sende anon:
»Tak Pathnucius & þe wey him teche
Wiþ þyn disciple to haue a speche!«
Þen tok he him anon riht
And brouht him þider wiþ al his miht.
And assone as heo hire fader bihulde,
Al wiþ teres heo was folfulde.
And whon Pathnucius seiȝ him so don,
He þouȝte hit was for deuocion;
He kneuȝ hire not, for soþe to sey,
For hire chere was clene Itornd awey:
For abstinence hit was not sene,
Wiþ wakynge & weping also, I wene.
Hire coule toforen hire face heo doþ—
To ben Iknowen hire was ful loþ.
Heo blessed hem, and seeten doun,
And bigon a tale of deuocioun,
Hou men scholde kepen hem out of sinne,
Þe blisse of heuene for to winne,
Wiþ good lyuinge and chastite,
Wiþ almesdede and charite;
And hou men scholde not heore children loue
More þen god, þat sit aboue;
And seide þat holy writ bereþ witnes
Hou pacience bi desese Ipreued is.
Heo sauh what sorwe hire fader made,
And of him compassion heo hade;
Of him to be knowen wolde heo nouht,
And to cumforten him was al hire þouht,
And seide: »sire, trustne to me,
God wol neuere deseyuen þe:
For, ȝif þi douȝter weore ouȝwher amis,
God wolde schewe þe of his godnes,
Þat nouþer þe deuel ne no wikked wiht
Scholde binymen hire soule, & þe þi siht;

180

But I truste in god so wonder wel
Þat heo haþ taken hire to good counseil.
For god almihti seiþ him self:
Hose loueþ his fader bi eny half
Oþur his moder in eny degre,
He nis not worþi to come to me;
And hose wol not his richesse forsake,
Him to me wol I not take.
God, he is of such pouwere,
Ȝif him lust, to schewen þe here.
Soffre nou, soffre, & hold þe stille,
And let not serwe þi seluen spille,
Ne waxe þou noþing in dispeyre,
But þonk þi god boþe wel and feire!
Agapitus, mi maister, ofte haþ me tolde
Of Pathnucius tales monyfolde,
And hou for his douȝtur he made muche mone,
For he hedde no mo but hire alone,
And sodeynliche awei heo was nome,
And couþe neuer here wher heo was bicome.
He tolde me þat þe abbot & al þe couent
Hedde preyed to god wiþ on assent;
To me he speek to don þe same,
And bad preie for hire a goddes name.
And þauȝ þat I vnworþi be,
A synful creature, as þinkeþ me,
To god I haue preid wiþ herte & þouȝt
To sende þe soffraunce, as he þe wrouȝt,
And to folfulle al þi desyre,
As may be best for þe and hire.
To seo þe, ofte desyret Ichaue,
Ȝif eny cumfort bi me mihtest haue«.
And leste he kneuh hire at þe ende
Bi hire speche, heo bad him wende.
And whon Patnucius went & outward stepte,
Hire eiȝen erende and for him wepte;
Hire face was pale as eny leed,
For fastynge & penaunce heo was neih ded.

ÞEn Patnucius was Icumfortet wel,
And wente to þe abbot also snel
And seide: he was as liht þat stounde
As þei he hedde his douhtur founde.
He speek to þe abbot & al þe couent
To preye for him, & hom he went.
And Smaragdus liued in þat maneere
Folliche VIII & þritti ȝere.
Þen a gret seknesse him toke,
And dyed þervppon, as seiþ þe boke.
Þen hit bifel vppon a day
Patnucius wente to þe abbay,
And saluwede þe monkes euerichon,
And siþen to þe abbot is he gon
And seide: »fader, ȝif ȝe wolde,
Speke wiþ Smaragdus fayn Icholde«.
Þe abbot let calle Agapitus
And bad him lede Pathnucius
To Smaragdus celle anon riht,
»For wiþ him to speke he haþ Itiht«.
And whon he com in, þer he lay seke,
He custe him wepinge & to him speeke:
»Allas«, he seide, »nou wo is me!
Wher beoþ þi bihestes þat þou bihihtest me?
Þou seidest I schulde my douhter seone;
But nou schal I liue in serwe and teone.
Allas, who wol cumforte me at myn ende?
Allas, whoderward nou schal I wende?
Allas, ho may me ouȝt avayle?
Allas, myn harmes I wepe and wayle,
For hit is gon VIII. and þritti ȝere
Siþen I lees my douhter dere.
For hire I haue preyed niht & day,
But noþing of hire witen I may.
Boþe wo and serwe me halt so swiþe
Þat I schal neuer beo glad ne blyþe,
For trust heraftur schal I haue non,
But in to helle wepen and gon«.

ÞEn Smaragdus saiȝ him sore wepinge,
Þat wolde not stinte for no þinge,
And seide to hym: »on goddes halue,
Mon, þenkestou forte culle þi selue?

181

Þenk þat god is of such pouwere
And knoweþ alle þing boþe fer & nere!
Now of þi serwe þou make an ende!
For god, þat is curteis and hende,
Schewed to Jacob þorw his graas
His sone Josep wher þat he was.
þerfore hertiliche I preye þe,
Þeos þreo dayes go not from me!«
Þen Pathnucius þouȝte in þat tyde:
For he bad him þreo dayes abyde,
Þat god wolde schewen him in sum manere
Wher þat his douhtur bicomen were.
And whon hit was comen þe þridde day,
He com to him and bigon to say:
»Broþer, Ichaue abiden here wiþ þe
Þreo dayes fulle, as þou beede me«.

ÞEn Eufrosyne wuste wel anon
Hire tyme was come þat heo schulde gon;
To hire heo called Pathnucius
And speek to him and seide þus:
»Almihti god of his goodnes
Haþ disposet for my wrecchednes,
Þat þorw his vertu and his miht
Mi desyr to an ende is fully diht,
And, for Ichaue bore me so monliche,
I schal haue a croune in heuene-riche.
Nou wol I no lengore helen hit wiþ þe:
For certes, I am þi douhter fre,
And þou mi fader, þat seost me in siht;
Nou haue I holden þat I haue hiht.
Gode fader, let nomon herof wite ne knowe
Bote þou þi self, heiȝe ne lowe,
Let no mon me wassche ne come me to
But þou þi self, fader! I preye þou do.
Also I hihte þe abbot of gret honour
Þat he schulde haue boþe riches & tresour,
Ȝif god almihti wolde leue me grace
To sosteynen and dwellen in þis place:
Þerfore, fader, for charite
Folful my wil—and prey for me!«
And whon heo hedde seid þis wordes ariȝt,
Heo ȝaf þe spirit to god almiht,
Aboute þat tyme of þe ȝere
At þe kalendes of Janiuere.
Whon Pathnucius hed herd þeos wordes alle,
He swouned anon & doun gon falle.
Þen com Agapitus faste rennynge
And fond hire ded, & him swounynge.
He cast vppon him watur colde
And rered him vp, as god wolde,
And seide: »sire, what is come þe to?«
And he onswerde wiþouten mo:
»Nou let me dye & go my way,
For I haue seye wondres to day«.
He ros vp and on hire face fulle
And wept & criȝed as he wolde spille,
And seide: »allas, my douhter fre,
Whi noldestou schewen þe er to me,
Þat we mihten boþe in same
Haue died togedere in godes name?
Allas, from me hou hastou hed?
Þis wrecched world hou hastou fled?
Hou artou þus priueliche gon away
In to heuene blisse þat lasteþ ay?«
Agapitus herde þeos wordes vchon;
He merueiled muche, & to þe abbot is gon
And told him fro biginnyng to þe ende.
And he wiþ him þider gon wende.
Þe abbot fel doun wiþouten were
And criȝed to hire wiþ wepynge cheere
And seide: »Eufrosyne, Cristes spouse,
Prey for vs and for vr house
To god, þat sit in trinite,
Þat we mowe come his face to se
And to haue part of his blis
Wiþ his seyntes, þer as he is!«
Þe abbot & couent wiþ mylde mood
Buried þat bodi þat was so good.
And whon alle þe monkes weore comen þider
And seȝen þat miracle al to gider,
Þei þonked god þat in so frele a kynde
Such vertu & miracle wolde to hem sende.

182

Þer was a monk & hadde but on eiȝe,
And he hire custe; wiþoute lye:
As sone as he hedde Idon þat dede,
His eiȝen weoren boþe in his hede.
And whon alle men seiȝe þis miracle done,
Þei þonked god, þat sit in trone.
Þen weore þei cumforted & gladed miche,
And buried hire in toumbe riche.
Þen tok hire fader al his riches
And brouȝt hit to chirche wiþouten lees,
And in þe worschip of god he hit bisette.
And dwelled þer wiþouten lette
In þe same selle þer his douȝter was,
He liued & dyed in þat plas.
And after hir deþ folliche ten ȝere
Holliche he lyuede in þis world heere;
Þen he tok his leue and to god he went.
Bi his douȝter þei leyde him, verrement—
Vche ȝeer þei don his mynde-day holde
Anon to þis day, as hit is tolde.
Þe abbot & þe couent wiþ good chere
Worschipeden god al Ifeere.
And so do we him, þat sit aboue,
Þat he wolde for þat maydenes loue
Graunten vs heuene wiþouten eende,
Wiþ him þerin for to leende.
God graunte vs grace þat hit so be!
AMEN, AMEN for charite.

University of Virginia Library

1. S. Paula.

(JERONIMVS dicit:)

2. S. Ambrosius.

3. De quadam virgine in Antiochia.

De duobus veris amicis.

4. De S. Theodora.

5. S. Bernard.

6. S. Augustin.

7. Savinian & Savina.

5. Eufrosyne.