University of Virginia Library

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.

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!