The Pride of Life :: :: University of Virginia Library

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[Prolocutor.]

Pees, and herkynt hal ifer,
«Ric» and por, yong and hold,
Men and wemen þat bet her,
Bot lerit and leut, stout and bold.

Lordinge[s] and ladiis þat beth hende,
Herkenith al with mylde mode
«How ou»re gam schal gyn and ende.
Lorde us wel spede þat sched his blode!

Now stondith stil and beth hende,
«And ter»yith al for þe weder,
«And» ȝe schal or ȝe hennis wende
Be glad þat ȝe come hidir.

Here ȝe schullin here spelle
Of mirth and eke of kare;
Herkenith and I wol ȝou telle
«How þis oure gam» schal fare.

«Of þe Kyng of» Lif I wol ȝou telle;
«He stondith» first biffore
«All men þat beth» of flessch and fel
«And of woman i» bore.

«He is, forsoth, ful» stronge to stond,
«And is» bycomin of kinge,
«Ȝiveth» lawis in eche a londe,
«And nis» dradd of no thinge.

«In» pride and likinge his lif he ledith,
Lordlich he lokith with eye;

«Prin»ce and dukis, he seith, him dredith,
«He» dredith no deth for to deye.

«He» hath a lady louelich al at likinge,
Ne may he of no mirth mene ne misse;
He seith in swetnisse he wol set his likinge
And bringe his bale boun into blisse.

Knytis he hat cumlic
In bred and in leint;
Not I neuir non suc
Of stotey ne off strynt.

Wat helpit to yilp mucil of his mit
Or bost to mucil of his blys?
«For» sorou may sit on is sit
«And» myrt«h m»ay he not miss.

«Her ek is þe» ladi of lond,
«Þe fa»inist a lord for to led;
«Glad» may he be fort to stond
«And b»ehold þat blisful bled.

«Þa»t ladi is lettrit in lor
As cumli becomit for a quen,
And munit hir mac euirmor,
As a dar for dred him to ten.

Ho bid him bewar or he smert,
«F»or in his lond Det wol alend;
«As» ho louit him gostlic in hert
«Ho b»it him bewar of his hend.

«Ho» begynit to charp of char
Þes wordis wytout lesing:
‘Det dot not spar
Knytis, cayser, ne kyng.

Nou lord, leu þi likynd
Wyc bringit þe soul gret bal.’
Þis answer ho had of þe kyng;
‘Ȝe, þis a womanis tal.’

Þe kyng hit ne toke not to hert
For hit was a womanis spec,
«And y»et hit mad him to smert
«W»an him mit help no lec.

«Þe» quen yit can hir undirstond
Wat help þar mit be,
And sent aftir þe bicop of þe lond
For he chout mor þan he.

He cham and precit al þat he couþe,
And warnit him hal of his hind;
«H»it saurit not in þe kyngis mout,
Bot hom he bad him wynd.

Wan þe bicop is þan wend
Fram þat k[e]ne stryf
«To Det a me»ssenger þan send
«Hat» þe King of Lif.

«For he» him wold do undirston[d]
«Þat al» he may del and dit:
«He» wold cum into his ouin lond
On him to kyt his mit.

Deth comith, he dremith a dredfful dreme—
Welle aȝte al carye;
And slow fader and moder and þen heme:
He ne wold none sparye.

Sone affter hit befel þat Deth and Life
Beth togeder itaken;
And ginnith and striuith a sterne strife
[Þe] King of Life to wrake.

With him driuith adoun to grounde,
He dredith nothing his kniȝtis;
And delith him depe deþis wounde
And kith on him his miȝtis.

Qwhen þe body is doun ibroȝt
Þe soule sorow awakith;
Þe bodyis pride is dere aboȝt,
Þe soule þe fendis takith.

And throgh priere of Oure Lady mylde
Þe soule and body schul dispyte;
Scho wol prey her son so mylde,
Al godenisse scho wol qwyte.

Þe cors þat nere knewe of care,
No more þen stone in weye,
Schal wit of sorow and sore care
And þrawe betwene ham tweye.

Þe soule þeron schal be weye
Þat þe fendis haue ikaȝte;
And Oure Lady schal þerfor preye
So þat with her he schal be lafte.

Nou beith in pes and beith hende,
And distourbith noȝt oure place,
For þis oure game schal gin and ende
Throgh Jhesu Cristis swete grace.

Rex viuus incipiet sic dicendum:

Pes, now, ȝe princis of powere so prowde,
Ȝe kingis, ȝe kempis, ȝe kniȝtis ikorne,
Ȝe barons bolde, þat beith me obowte;
«Sem» schal ȝu my sawe, swaynis i[s]worne.

Sqwieris stoute, stondit now stille,
And lestenith to my hestis, I hote ȝu now her,
Or [I] schal wirch ȝu wo with werkis of wil
And doun schal ȝe drive, be ȝe neuer so dere.

King ic am, kinde of kingis ikorre,
Al þe worlde wide to welde at my wil;
Nas þer neuer no man of woman iborre
Oȝein me withstonde þat I nold him spille.

Lordis of lond beith at my ledinge,
Al men schal abow in hal and in bowr;
[OMITTED]

[Regina.]
Baldli þou art mi bot,
Tristili and ful treu;
Of al mi rast þou art rot,
I nil chong fer no new.

Rex.

Al in wel ic am biwent,
May no grisful þing me grou;
Likyng is wyt me bilent,
Alyng is it mi behou.

Strent and Hel, knytis kete,
[Douti], derrist in ded,
Lok þat for no þing ȝe let
Smartli to me sped.

Bringit wyt ȝou brit brondis,
Helmis brit and schen;
For ic am lord ofir al londis
And þat is uel isen.

Primus miles, Fortitudo.

Lord, in truþe þou mit trist
Feþfuli to stond,
Þou mit liu as þe list,
For wonschildis þu fond.

Ic am Strent, stif and strong,
Neuar is suc non,
In al þis world brod and long,
Imad of blod and bon.

Hau no dout of no þing
Þat euir may befal;
Ic am Streynt þi derling
Flour of knitis al.

Secundus miles, Sanitas.

King of Lif, þat berist þe croun,
As hit is skil and riȝte,
I am Hele icom to toun,
Þi kinde curteyse kniȝte.

Þou art lord of lim and life,
And king withouten ende;
Stif and strong and sterne in strif,
In londe qwher þou wende.

Þou nast no nede to sike sore
For no thing on lyue;
Þou schal lyue euermore:
Qwho dar with þe striue?

Rex.

Striue? Nay, to me qwho is so gode?
Hit were bot folye;
Þer is no man þat me dur bode
Any vileynye.

Qwherof schuld I drede
Qwhen I am King of Life?
Ful evil schuld he spede
To me þat wroȝt striue.

I schal lyue evermo
And croun ber as kinge;
I ne may neuer wit of wo,
I lyue at my likinge.

Regina.

Sire, þou saist as þe liste,
Þou liuist at þi wille;
Bot somthing þou miste,
And þerfor hold þe stille.

Thinke, þou haddist beginninge
Qwhen þou were ibore;

And bot þou mak god endinge
Þi sowle is forlore.

Loue God and Holy Chirche,
And haue of him som eye;
Fonde his werkis for to wirch
And thinke þat þou schal deye.

Rex.

Douce dam, qwhi seistou so?
Þou spekis noȝt as þe sleye.
I schal lyue euermo
For boþe two þin eye.

Woldistou þat I were dede
Þat þou miȝt haue a new?
Hore, þe deuil gird of þi hede
Bot þat worde schal þe rewe!

Regina.

Dede, sire? Nay, God wote my wil,
Þat ne kepte I noȝte;
Hit wolde like me full ille
Were hit þareto broȝte.

«Ȝet» þogh þou be kinge
Nede schalt haue ende;
Deth ouercomith al thinge
Hou-so-euer we wende.

Rex.

Ȝe, dam, þou hast wordis fale,
Hit comith þe of kinde;
Þis nis bot women tale,
And þat I wol þe finde.

I ne schal neuer deye
For I am King of Life;
Deth is vndir myne eye
And þerfor leue þi strife.

Þou dost bot mak myn hert sore,
For hit nel noȝt helpe;
I prey þe spek of him no more.
Qwhat wolte of him ȝelpe?

Regina.

Ȝilpe, sire? Ney, so mot I the;
I sigge hit noȝt therfore,
Bot kinde techith boþe þe and me,
First qwhen we were bore,

For dowte of Dethis maistri,
To wepe and make sorowe;
Holy writ and prophecye
Þerof I take to borowe.

Þerfor, qwhile ȝe have miȝte
And þe worlde at wille,
I rede ȝe serue God Almiȝte
Boþe loude and stille.

Þis world is bot fantasye
And ful of trechurye;
Gode sire, for ȝoure curteysye
Take þis for no folye.

For, God wot þe soþe,
I ne sey hit for no fabil;
Deth wol smyte to þe,
In feith loke þou be stabil.

Rex.

Qwhat prechistou of Dethis miȝt
And of his maistrye?
He ne durst onis with me fiȝt
For his boþe eye.

Streinth and Hele, qwhat say ȝe,
My kinde korin kniȝtis?
Schal Deth be lord ouer me
And reue me of miȝtis?

I miles.

Mi lord, so brouke I my bronde,
God þat me forbede
Þat Deth schold do þe wronge
Qwhile I am in þi þede.

I wol withstonde him with strife
And make his sidis blede,
And tel him þat þou art King of Life
And lorde of londe and lede.

II miles.
May I him onis mete
With þis longe launce,
In felde oþer in strete,
I wol him ȝiue mischaunce.

Rex.

Ȝe, þes be kniȝtis of curteisye
And doghti men of dede;
Of Deth ne of his maistrie
Ne have I no drede.

Qwher is Mirth my messager,
Swifte so lefe on lynde?
He is a nobil bachelere
Þat rennis bi þe wynde.

Mirth and solas he can make
And ren so þe ro;
Liȝtly lepe oure þe lake
Qwher-so-euer he go.

Com and her my talente
Anone and hy þe blyue:
Qwher any man, as þou hast wente,
Dorst with me to striue?

Nuncius.

King of Lif and lord of londe,
As þou sittis on þi se
And florresschist with þi briȝt bronde,
To þe I sit on kne.

I am Mirth, wel þou wost,
Þi mery messagere;
Þat wostou wel, withoute bost
Þer nas neuer my pere

Doȝtely to done a dede
Þat ȝe haue for to done,
Hen to Berewik opon Twede
And com oȝein ful sone;

Þer is nothing þe iliche
In al þis worlde wide;
Of gold and siluer and robis riche
And hei hors on to ryde.

I haue ben boþe fer and nere
In bataile and in strife;
Ocke þer was neuer þy pere,
For þou art King of Life.

Rex.

Aha! Solas, now þou seist so,
Þou miriest me in my mode;
Þou schal, boy, ar þou hennis go
Be auaunsyd, bi þe rode.

Þou schal haue for þi gode wil
To þin auauncemente,
Þe castel of Gailispire on þe Hil,
And þe erldom of Kente.

Draw þe cord, Sire Streynth,
Rest I wol now take;
On erth in brede ne leynth
Ne was nere ȝet my make.

Et tunc clauso tentorio dicet Regina secrete nuncio:
Regina.

Messager, I pray þe nowe
For þi curteysye,
Go to þe bisschop, for þi prowe,
And byd him hydir to hye.

Bid him be ware before,
Sey him þat he most preche;
My lord þe King is ney lore
Bot he wol be his leche.

Sey him þat he wol leue noȝt
Þat euer he schal deye;
He is in siche errour broȝte
Of God stont him non eye.

100

Nuncius.

Madam, I make no tariyng
With softe wordis mo;
For I am Solas, I most singe
Oueral qwher I go.

Et cantat.

Sire Bisschop, þou sittist on þi se
With þi mitir on þi heuede;
My lady þe Qwen preyith þe
Hit schold noȝt be bileuyd.

[OMITTED]

[Episcopus.]

Þe world is nou, so wo-lo-wo,
In suc bal ibound
Þat dred of God is al ago
And treut is go to ground.

Med is mad a demisma[n],
Streyint betit þe lau;
Geyl is mad a cepman
And truyt is don of dau.

Wyt is nou al trecri,
Oþis fals and gret;
Lou is nou al lecuri
And corteysi is let.

Play is nou uileni,
Cildrin bet onlerit,
Halliday is glotuni—
Þis lauis bet irerit.

Slet men bet bleynd
And lokit al amis;
He bicomit onkynd
And þat is reut, iuis.

Frend may no man find
Of fremit ne of sib;
Þe ded bet out of mind,
Gret soru it is to lib.

101

Þes ricmen bet reuþyles,
Þe por got to ground,
And fals men bet schamles,
Þe sot ic hau ifound.

It is wrong þe ric knyt
Al þat þe por dot;
Far þat is sen day and nit
Wosa wol sig sot.

Paraventur men halt me a fol
To sig þat sot tal;
Þai farit as ficis in a pol—
Þe gret eteit þe smal.

Ricmen spart for no þing
To do þe por wrong;
Þai þingit not on hir ending
Ne on Det þat is so strong.

Noþer þai louit God ne dredit
Noþer him no his lauis;
Touart hel fast him spedit
Ayeins har ending-daus.

Bot God of his godnis
Yif ham gras to amend,
Into þe delful derknys
Þe got wytout hend.

Þer is dred and sorow
And wo wytoutin wel;
No man may oþir borou
Be þer neuir so fel.

Þer ne fallit no maynpris,
Ne supersidias;
Þay he be kyng or iustis,
He passit not þe pas.

102

Lord, þat for his manhed
And also for his god,
Þat for lou and not for dred
Deit oppon þe rod,

Yif ou gras or lif to led
Þat be ȝour soulis to bot;
God of Heuin for his godhed
Leu þat hit so mot. Amen.

Tunc dicet regi:

Schir Kyng, þing oppon þin end
And hou þat þou schalt dey,
Wat uey þat þou schalt wend
Bot þou be bisey.

And eke þat þou art lenust man,
And haddist begyning,
And euirmor hau þout opon
Þi dredful ending.

Þou schalt þing þanne—
And mac þe euir yar—
Þat Det is not þe man
For noþing þe uil spar.

Þou schalt do dedis of rit
And lernen Cristis lor,
And lib in heuin-lit
To sauy þi soul fro sor.

Rex.

Wat! bissop, byssop babler,
Schold y of Det hau dred?
Þou art bot a chagler—
Go hom þi wey, I red.

Wat! com þou þerfor hidir
Wit Deþ me to afer?

103

Þat þou and he bot togidir
Into þe se scot uer.

Go hom, God yif þe sorow,
Þou ureist me in my mod.
War woltou prec tomorou?
Þou nost ner, bi þe rod!

Troust þou I uold be ded
In mi ȝyng lif?
Þou lisst, screu, bolhed;
Euil mot þou t[h]riwe.

Wat schold I do at churg, wat?
Schir bisop, wostou er?
Nay, churc nis no wyl cat,
Hit wol abid þer.

I wool let car away,
And go on mi pleying.
To hontyng and to o[þ]ir play
For al þi long prechyng.

I am ȝyng, as þou mit se,
And hau no ned to char
Þe wyle þe Quen and «mi me»iné
About me bet yar.

Episcopus.

Thynk, Schir Kyng, one oþir trist—
Þat tyng misst son.
Þot þou leu nou as þe list,
Det wol cum rit son,

And ȝiue þe dethis wounde
For þin outrage;
Within a litil stounde
Þen artou but a page.

104

Qwhen þou art grauen on grene,
Þer metis fleys and molde,
Þen helpith litil, I wene,
Þi gay croun of golde.

Sire Kyng, haue goday,
Crist I ȝou beteche.

Rex.

Fare wel, bisschop, þi way,
And lerne bet to preche.

Hic adde

Nou, mafay, hit schal be sene,
I trow, ȝit to-daye,
Qwher Deth me durst tene
And mete in þe waye.

Qwher artou, my messagere,
Solas bi þi name?
Loke þat þou go fer and nere,
As þou wolt haue no blame,

My banis for to crye
By dayis and bi niȝte;
And loke þat þou aspye,
Ȝe, bi al þi miȝte,

Of Deth and of his maistrye
Qwher he durst com in siȝte,
Oȝeynis me and my meyné
With force and armis to fiȝte.

Loke þat þou go both est and west
And com oȝeyne anone;

Nuncius.

Lorde, to wende I am prest,
Lo, now I am gone.

Et eat pla«team.»

Pes and listenith to my sawe,
Boþe ȝonge and olde;
As ȝe wol noȝt ben aslawe
Be ȝe neuer so bolde.

105

I am a messager isente
From þe King of Life;
Þat ȝe schal fulfil his talente
On peyne of lym and lif.

His hestis to hold and his lawe
Vche a man on honde;
Lest ȝe be henge and todraw,
Or kast in hard bonde.

Ȝe wittin wel þat he is king
And lord of al londis,
Kepere and maister of al thing
Within se and sondis.

I am sente for to enquer
Oboute ferre and nere,
Ȝif any man dar werre arere
Aȝein suche a bachelere.

To wroþer hele he was ibore
Þat wold with him stryue;
Be him sikir he is ilore
As here in þis lyue,

Þegh hit wer þe King of Deth
And he so hardy were;
Bot he ne hath miȝt ne meth
Þe King of Lif to afere;

Be he so hardy or so wode
In his londe to aryue,
He wol se his herte-blode
And he with him stryue.