Anonymous Americas


Pacience is a poynt, þa33e,
& quo for þro may no3t þole, þe þikker he sufferes.
&Thorn;en is better to abyde þe bur vmbestoundes
&Thorn;en ay þrow forth my þro, þa33e masse,
How Mathew melede þat his Mayster His meyny con teche.
A3t happes He hem hy3t & vcheon a mede,
Sunderlupes, for hit dissert, vpon a ser wyse:
Thay arn happen þat han in hert pouerte,
For hores is þe heuen-ryche to holde for euer;
&Thorn;ay ar happen also þat haunte mekenesse,
For þay schal welde þis worlde & alle her wylle haue;
Thay ar happen also þat for her harme wepes,
For þay schal comfort encroche in kythes ful mony;
&Thorn;ay ar happen also þat hungeres after ry3t,
For þay schal frely be refete ful of alle gode;
Thay ar happen also þat han in hert rauþe,
For mercy in alle maneres her mede schal worþe;
&Thorn;ay ar happen also þat arn of hert clene,
For þay her Sauyour in sete schal se with her y3en;
Thay ar happen also þat halden her pese,
For þay þe gracious Godes sunes schal godly be called;
&Thorn;ay ar happen also þat con her hert stere,
For hores is þe heuen-ryche, as I er sayde.
These arn þe happes alle a3t þat vus bihy3t weren,
If we þyse ladyes wolde lof in lyknyng of þewes:
Dame Pouert, Dame Pitee, Dame Penaunce þe þrydde,
Dame Mekenesse, Dame Mercy, & miry Clannesse,
& þenne Dame Pes, & Pacyence put in þerafter.
He were happen þat hade one; alle were þe better.
Bot [s]yn I am put to a poynt þat pouerte hatte,
I schal me poruay pacyence & play me with boþe,
For in þe tyxte þere þyse two arn in teme layde,
Hit arn fettled in on forme, þe forme & þe laste,
& by quest of her quoyntyse enquylen on mede.
& als, in myn vpynyoun, hit arn of on kynde:
For þeras pouert hir proferes ho nyl be put vtter,
Bot lenge wheresoeuer hir lyst, lyke oþer greme;
& þereas pouert enpresses, þa33tloker hit lyke & her lotes prayse,
&Thorn;enne wyþer wyth & be wroth & þe wers haue.
3if me be dy3t a destyne due to haue,
What dowes me þe dedayn, oþer dispit make?
Oþer 3if my lege lorde lyst on lyue me to bidde
Oþer to ryde oþer to renne to Rome in his ernde,
What grayþed me þe grychchyng bot grame more seche?
Much 3if he me ne made, maugref my chekes,
& þenne þrat moste I þole & vnþonk to mede,
&Thorn;e had bowed to his bode bongre my hyure.
Did not Jonas in Jude suche jape sumwhyle?
To sette hym to sewrte, vnsounde he hym feches.
Wyl 3e tary a lyttel tyne & tent me a whyle,
I schal wysse yow þerwyth as holy wryt telles.
Hit bitydde sumtyme in þe termes of Jude,
Jonas joyned watz þerinne Jentyle prophete;
Goddes glam to hym glod þat hym vnglad made,
With a roghlych rurd rowned in his ere:
'Rys radly,' He says, '& rayke forth euen;
Nym þe way to Nynyue wythouten oþer speche,
& in þat cete My sa3es soghe alle aboute,
&Thorn;at in þat place, at þe poynt, I put in þi hert.
For iwysse hit arn so wykke þat in þat won dowellez
& her malys is so much, I may not abide,
Bot venge Me on her vilanye & venym bilyue;
Now swe3e Me þider swyftly & say Me þis arende.'
When þat steuen watz stynt þat stown[e]d his mynde,
Al he wrathed in his wyt, & wyþerly he þo3t:
'If I bowe to His bode & bryng hem þis tale,
& I be nummen in Nuniue, my nyes begynes:
He telles me þose traytoures arn typped schrewes;
I com wyth þose tyþynges, þay ta me bylyue,
Pynez me in a prysoun, put me in stokkes,
Wryþe me in a warlok, wrast out myn y3en.
&Thorn;is is a meruayl message a man for to preche
Amonge enmyes so mony & mansed fendes,
Bot if my gaynlych God such gref to me wolde,
Fo[r] desert of sum sake þat I slayn were.
At alle peryles,' quoþ þe prophete, 'I aproche hit no nerre.
I wyl me sum oþer waye þat He ne wayte after;
I schal tee into Tarce & tary þere a whyle,
& ly3tly when I am lest He letes me alone.'
&Thorn;enne he ryses radly & raykes bilyue,
Jonas toward port Japh, ay janglande for tene
&Thorn;at he nolde þole for noþyng non of þose pynes,
In His g[lo]wande glorye, & gloumbes ful lyttel
Then he tron on þo tres, & þay her tramme ruchen,
Cachen vp þe crossayl, cables þay fasten,
Wi3t at þe wyndas we3en her ankres,
Spende spak to þe sprete þe spare bawelyne,
Gederen to þe gyde-ropes, þe grete cloþ falles,
&Thorn;ay layden in on laddeborde, & þe lofe wynnes,
&Thorn;e blyþe breþe at her bak þe bosum he fyndes;
He swenges me þys swete schip swefte fro þe hauen.
Watz neuer so joyful a Jue as Jonas watz þenne,
&Thorn;at þe daunger of Dry3tyn so derfly ascaped;
He wende wel þat þat Wy33t in þat mere no man for to greue.
Lo, þe wytles wrechche! For he wolde no3t suffer,
Now hatz he put hym in plyt of peril wel more.
Hit watz a wenyng vnwar þat welt in his mynde,
&Thorn;a33t fro Samarye, þat God se33ise, He blusched ful brode: þat burde hym by sure;
&Thorn;at ofte kyd hym þe carpe þat kyng sayde,
Dyngne Dauid on des þat demed þis speche
In a psalme þat he set þe sauter withinne:
'O folez in folk, felez oþerwhyle
& vnderstondes vmbestounde, þa33e þat He heres not þat eres alle made?
Hit may not be þat He is blynde þat bigged vche y3e.'
Bot he dredes no dynt þat dotes for elde.
For he watz fer in þe flod foundande to Tarce,
Bot I trow ful tyd ouertan þat he were,
So þat schomely to schort he schote of his ame.
For þe Welder of wyt þat wot alle þynges,

&Thorn;at ay wakes & waytes, at wylle hatz He sly3tes.
He calde on þat ilk crafte He carf with His hondes;
&Thorn;ay wakened wel þe wroþeloker for wroþely He cleped:
'Ewrus & Aquiloun þat on est sittes
Blowes boþe at My bode vpon blo watteres.'
&Thorn;enne watz no tom þer bytwene His tale & her dede,
So bayn wer þay boþe two His bone for to wyrk.
Anon out of þe norþ-est þe noys bigynes,
When boþe breþes con blowe vpon blo watteres.
Ro33ed ful sore, gret selly to here;
&Thorn;e wyndes on þe wonne water so wrastel togeder
&Thorn;at þe wawes ful wode waltered so hi3e
& efte busched to þe abyme, þat breed fysches
Durst nowhere for ro33e yþes.
&Thorn;e bur ber to hit baft, þat braste alle her gere,
&Thorn;en hurled on a hepe þe helme & þe sterne;
Furst tomurte mony rop & þe mast after;
&Thorn;e sayl sweyed on þe see, þenne suppe bihoued
&Thorn;e coge of þe [co]lde water, & þenne þe cry ryses.
3et coruen þay þe cordes & kest al þeroute;
Mony ladde þer forth lep to laue & to kest,
Scopen out þe scaþel water þat fayn scape wolde,
For be monnes lode neuer so luþer, þe lyf is ay swete.
&Thorn;er watz busy ouer borde bale to kest,
Her bagges & her feþer-beddes & her bry3t wedes,
Her kysttes & her coferes, her caraldes alle,
& al to ly3ten þat lome, 3if leþe wolde schape.
Bot euer watz ilyche loud þe lot of þe wyndes,
& euer wroþer þe water & wodder þe stremes.
&Thorn;en þo wery forwro3t wyst no bote,
Bot vchon glewed on his god þat gayned hym beste:
Summe to Vernagu þer vouched avowes solemne,
Summe to Diana deuout & derf Nepturne,
To Mahoun & to Mergot, þe mone & þe sunne,
& vche lede as he loued & layde had his hert.
&Thorn;enne bispeke þe spakest, dispayred wel nere:
'I leue here be sum losynger, sum lawles wrech,
&Thorn;at hatz greued his god & gotz here amonge vus.
Lo, al synkes in his synne & for his sake marres.
I lovue þat we lay lotes on ledes vchone,
& whoso lympes þe losse, lay hym þeroute;
& quen þe gulty is gon, what may gome trawe
Bot He þat rules þe rak may rwe on þose oþer?'
&Thorn;is watz sette in asent, & sembled þay were,
Her3ed out of vche hyrne to hent þat falles.
A lodesmon ly3tly lep vnder hachches,
For to layte mo ledes & hem to lote bryng.
Bot hym fayled no freke þat he fynde my3t,
Saf Jonas þe Jwe, þat jowked in derne.
He watz flowen for ferde of þe flode lotes
Into þe boþem of þe bot, & on a brede lyggede,
Onhelde by þe hurrok, for þe heuen wrache,
Slypped vpon a sloumbe-selepe, & sloberande he routes.
&Thorn;e freke hym frunt with his fot & bede hym ferk vp:
&Thorn;er Ragnel in his rakentes hym rere of his dremes!
Bi þe haspede he hentes hym þenne,
& bro3t hym vp by þe brest & vpon borde sette,
Arayned hym ful runyschly what raysoun he hade
In such sla3tes of sor3e to slepe so faste.
Sone haf þay her sortes sette & serelych deled,
& ay þe lote vpon laste lymped on Jonas.
&Thorn;enne ascryed þay hym sckete & asked ful loude:
'What þe deuel hatz þou don, doted wrech?
What seches þou on see, synful schrewe,
With þy lastes so luþer to lose vus vchone?
Hatz þou, gome, no gouernour ne god on to calle,
&Thorn;at þou þus slydes on slepe when þou slayn worþes?
Of what londe art þou lent, what laytes þou here,
Whyder in worlde þat þou wylt, & what is þyn arnde?
Lo, þy dom is þe dy3t, for þy dedes ille.
Do gyf glory to þy godde, er þou glyde hens.'
'I am an Ebru,' quoþ he, 'of Israyl borne;
&Thorn;at Wy3e I worchyp, iwysse, þat wro3t alle þynges,
Alle þe worlde with þe welkyn, þe wynde & þe sternes,
& alle þat wonez þer withinne, at a worde one.
Alle þis meschef for me is made at þys tyme,
For I haf greued my God & gulty am founden;
Forþy berez me to þe borde & baþeþes me þeroute,
Er gete 3e no happe, I hope forsoþe.'
He ossed hym by vnnynges þat þay vndernomen
&Thorn;at he watz flawen fro þe face of frelych Dry3tyn:
&Thorn;enne such a ferde on hem fel & flayed hem withinne
&Thorn;at þay ruyt hym to rowwe, & letten þe rynk one.
Haþeles hy3ed in haste with ores ful longe,
Syn her sayl watz hem aslypped, on sydez to rowe,
Hef & hale vpon hy3t to helpen hymseluen,
Bot al watz nedles note: þat nolde not bityde.
In bluber of þe blo flod bursten her ores.
&Thorn;enne hade þay no3t in her honde þat hem help my3t;
&Thorn;enne nas no coumfort to keuer, ne counsel non oþer,
Bot Jonas into his juis jugge bylyue.
Fryst þay prayen to þe Prynce þat prophetes seruen
&Thorn;at He gef hem þe grace to greuen Hym neuer,
&Thorn;at þay in balelez blod þer blenden her handez,
&Thorn;a33e þay luche hym sone.
He watz no tytter outtulde þat tempest ne sessed:
&Thorn;e se sa3tled þerwith as sone as ho mo3t.
&Thorn;enne þa33t hem strayned a whyle,
&Thorn;at drof hem dry3lych adoun þe depe to serue,
Tyl a swetter ful swyþe hem swe3ed to bonk.
&Thorn;er watz louyng on lofte, when þay þe londe wonnen,
To oure mercyable God, on Moyses wyse,
With sacrafyse vpset, & solempne vowes,
& graunted Hym vn to be God & graythly non oþer.
&Thorn;a33et dredes;
&Thorn;a33e fro he in water dipped,
Hit were a wonder to wene, 3if holy wryt nere.
Now is Jonas þe Jwe jugged to drowne;
Of þat schended schyp men schowued hym sone.
A wylde walterande whal, as Wyrde þen schaped,
&Thorn;at watz beten fro þe abyme, bi þat bot flotte,
& watz war of þat wy3e þat þe water so3te,
& swyftely swenged hym to swepe, & his swol33et haldande his fete, þe fysch hym tyd hentes;
Withouten towche of any tothe he tult in his þrote.
Thenne he swengez & swayues to þe se boþem,
Bi mony rokkez ful ro3e & rydelande strondes,
Wyth þe mon in his mawe malskred in drede,
As lyttel wonder hit watz, 3if he wo dre3ed,
For nade þe hy3e Heuen-Kyng, þur33t,
Warded þis wrech man in warlowes guttez,
What lede mo3t lyue bi lawe of any kynde,
&Thorn;at any lyf my3t be lent so longe hym withinne?
Bot he watz sokored by þat Syre þat syttes so hi3e,
Ay hele ouer hed hourlande aboute,
Til he blunt in a blok as brod as a halle;
& þer he festnes þe fete & fathmez aboute,
& stod vp in his stomak þat stank as þe deuel.
&Thorn;er in saym & in sor3e þat sauoured as helle,
&Thorn;er watz bylded his bour þat wyl no bale suffer.
& þenne he lurkkes & laytes where watz le best,
In vche a nok of his nauel, bot nowhere he fyndez
No rest ne recouerer, bot ramel ande myre,
In wych gut so euer he gotz, bot euer is God swete;
& þer he lenged at þe last, & to þe Lede called:
'Now, Prynce, of &Thorn;y prophete pite &Thorn;ou haue.
&Thorn;a3333tly a Lorde in londe & in water.'
With þat he hitte to a hyrne & helde hym þerinne,
&Thorn;er no defoule of no fylþe watz fest hym abute;
&Thorn;er he sete also sounde, saf for merk one,
As in þe bulk of þe bote þer he byfore sleped.
So in a bouel of þat best he bidez on lyue,
&Thorn;re dayes & þ[r]e ny3t, ay þenkande on Dry3tyn,
His my3t & His merci, His mesure þenne.
Now he knawez Hym in care þat couþe not in sele.
Ande euer walteres þis whal bi wyldren depe,
&Thorn;ur33e, þur333et I say as I seet in þe se boþem:
"Careful am I, kest out fro &Thorn;y cler y3en
& deseuered fro &Thorn;y sy3t; 3et surely I hope
Efte to trede on &Thorn;y temple & teme to &Thorn;yseluen."
I am wrapped in water to my wo stoundez;
&Thorn;e abyme byndes þe body þat I byde inne;
&Thorn;e pure poplande hourle playes on my heued;
To laste mere of vche a mount, Man, am I fallen;
&Thorn;e barrez of vche a bonk ful bigly me haldes,
&Thorn;at I may lachche no lont, & &Thorn;ou my lyf weldes.
&Thorn;ou schal releue me, Renk, whil &Thorn;y ry3t slepez,
&Thorn;ur33t of &Thorn;y mercy þat mukel is to tryste.
For when þ'acces of anguych watz hid in my sawle,
&Thorn;enne I remembred me ry3t of my rych Lorde,
Prayande Him for pete His prophete to here,
&Thorn;at into His holy hous myn orisoun mo3t entre.
I haf meled with &Thorn;y maystres mony longe day,
Bot now I wot wyterly þat þose vnwyse ledes
&Thorn;at affyen hym in vanyte & in vayne þynges
For þink þat mountes to no3t her mercy forsaken;
Bot I dewoutly awowe, þat verray betz halden,
Soberly to do &Thorn;e sacrafyse when I schal saue worþe,
& offer &Thorn;e for my hele a ful hol gyfte,
& halde goud þat &Thorn;ou me hetes: haf here my trauthe.'
Thenne oure Fader to þe fysch ferslych biddez
&Thorn;at he hym sput spakly vpon spare drye.
&Thorn;er whal wendez at His wylle & a warþe fyndez,
& þer he brakez vp þe buyrne as bede hym oure Lorde.
&Thorn;enne he swepe to þe sonde in sluchched cloþes:
Hit may wel be þat mester were his mantyle to wasche.
&Thorn;e bonk þat he blosched to & bode hym bisyde
Wern of þe regiounes ry3t þat he renayed hade.
&Thorn;enne a wynde of Goddez worde efte þe wy3e bruxlez:
'Nylt þou neuer to Nuniue bi no kynnez wayez?'
'3isse, Lorde,' quoþ þe lede, 'lene me &Thorn;y grace
For to go at &Thorn;i gre: me gaynez [n]on oþer.'
'Ris, aproche þen to prech, lo, þe place here.
Lo, My lore is in þe loke, lauce hit þerinne.'
&Thorn;enne þe renk radly ros as he my3t,
& to Niniue þat na3t he ne3ed ful euen;
Hit watz a cete ful syde & selly of brede;
On to þrenge þerþur3e watz þre dayes dede.
&Thorn;at on journay ful joynt Jonas hym 3ede,
Er euer he warpped any worde to wy3e þat he mette,
& þenne he cryed so cler þat kenne my3t alle
&Thorn;e trwe tenor of his teme; he tolde on þis wyse:
'3et schal forty dayez fully fare to an ende,
& þenne schal Niniue be nomen & to no3t worþe;
Truly þis ilk toun schal tylte to grounde;
Vp-so-doun schal 3e dumpe depe to þe abyme,
To be swol3ed swyftly wyth þe swart erþe,
& alle þat lyuyes hereinne lose þe swete.'
&Thorn;is speche sprang in þat space & spradde alle aboute,
To borges & to bacheleres þat in þat bur33et, bot sayde euer ilyche:
'&Thorn;e verray vengaunce of God schal voyde þis place!'
&Thorn;enne þe peple pitosly pleyned ful stylle,
& for þe drede of Dry3tyn doured in hert;
Heter hayrez þay hent þat asperly bited,
& þose þay bounden to her bak & to her bare sydez,
Dropped dust on her hede, & dymly biso3ten
&Thorn;at þat penaunce plesed Him þat playnez on her wronge.
& ay he cryes in þat kyth tyl þe kyng herde,
& he radly vpros & ran fro his chayer,
His ryche robe he torof of his rigge naked,
& of a hep of askes he hitte in þe myddez.
He askez heterly a hayre & hasped hym vmbe,
Sewed a sekke þerabof, & syked ful colde;
&Thorn;er he dased in þat duste, with droppande teres,
Wepande ful wonderly alle his wrange dedes.
&Thorn;enne sayde he to his serjauntes: 'Samnes yow bilyue;
Do dryue out a decre, demed of myseluen,
&Thorn;at alle þe bodyes þat ben withinne þis bor33if þe Wy3e lykes,
&Thorn;at is hende in þe hy3t of His gentryse?
I wot His my3t is so much, þa33e He sty3tlez Hymseluen,
He wyl wende of His wodschip & His wrath leue,
& forgif vus þis gult, 3if we Hym God leuen.'
&Thorn;enne al leued on His lawe & laften her synnes,
Parformed alle þe penaunce þat þe prynce radde;
& God þur333t, withhelde His vengaunce.
Muche sor3e þenne satteled vpon segge Jonas;
He wex as wroth as þe wynde towarde oure Lorde.
So hatz anger onhit his hert, [h]e callez
A prayer to þe hy3e Prynce, for pyne, on þys wyse:
'I biseche &Thorn;e, Syre, now &Thorn;ou self jugge;
Watz not þis ilk my worde þat worþen is nouþe,
&Thorn;at I kest in my cuntre, when &Thorn;ou &Thorn;y carp sendez
&Thorn;at I schulde tee to þys toun &Thorn;i talent to preche?
Wel knew I &Thorn;i cortaysye, &Thorn;y quoynt soffraunce,
&Thorn;y bounte of debonerte & &Thorn;y bene grace,
&Thorn;y longe abydyng wyth lur, &Thorn;y late vengaunce;
& ay &Thorn;y mercy is mete, be mysse neuer so huge.
I wyst wel, when I hade worded quatsoeuer I cowþe
To manace alle þise mody men þat in þis mote dowellez,
Wyth a prayer & a pyne þay my3t her pese gete,
& þerfore I wolde haf flowen fer into Tarce.
Now, Lorde, lach out my lyf, hit lastes to longe.
Bed me bilyue my bale-stour & bryng me on ende,
For me were swetter to swelt as swyþe, as me þynk,
&Thorn;en lede lenger &Thorn;i lore þat þus me les makez.'
&Thorn;e soun of oure Souerayn þen swey in his ere,
&Thorn;at vpbraydes þis burne vpon a breme wyse:
'Herk, renk, is þis ry3t so ronkly to wrath
For any dede þat I haf don oþer demed þe 3et?'
Jonas al joyles & janglande vpryses,
& haldez out on est half of þe hy3e place,
& farandely on a felde he fettelez hym to bide,
For to wayte on þat won what schulde worþe after.
&Thorn;er he busked hym a bour, þe best þat he my3t,
Of hay & of euer-ferne & erbez a fewe,
For hit watz playn in þat place for plyande greuez,
For to schylde fro þe schene oþer any schade keste.
He bowed vnder his lyttel boþe, his bak to þe sunne,
& þer he swowed & slept sadly al ny3t,
&Thorn;e whyle God of His grace ded growe of þat soyle
&Thorn;e fayrest bynde hym abof þat euer burne wyste.
When þe dawande day Dry3tyn con sende,
&Thorn;enne wakened þe wy33ted on lofte,
Happed vpon ayþer half, a hous as hit were,
A nos on þe norþ syde & nowhere non ellez,
Bot al schet in a scha3e þat schaded ful cole.
&Thorn;e gome gly3t on þe grene graciouse leues,
&Thorn;at euer wayued a wynde so wyþe & so cole;
&Thorn;e schyre sunne hit vmbeschon, þa33t
&Thorn;e mountaunce of a lyttel mote vpon þat man schyne.
&Thorn;enne watz þe gome so glad of his gay logge,
Lys loltrande þerinne lokande to toune;
So blyþe of his wodbynde he balteres þervnde[r],
&Thorn;at of no diete þat day þe deuel haf he ro3t.
& euer he la3ed as he loked þe loge alle aboute,
& wysched hit were in his kyth þer he wony schulde,
On he3e vpon Effraym oþer Ermonnes hillez:
'Iwysse, a worþloker won to welde I neuer keped.'
& quen hit ne3ed to na3t nappe hym bihoued;
He slydez on a sloumbe-slep sloghe vnder leues,
Whil God wayned a worme þat wrot vpe þe rote,
& wyddered watz þe wodbynde bi þat þe wy3e wakned;
& syþen He warnez þe west to waken ful softe,
& sayez vnte Zeferus þat he syfle warme,
&Thorn;at þer quikken no cloude bifore þe cler sunne,
& ho schal busch vp ful brode & brenne as a candel.
&Thorn;en wakened þe wy3e of his wyl dremes,
& blusched to his wodbynde þat broþely watz marred,
Al welwed & wasted þo worþelych leues;
&Thorn;e schyre sunne hade hem schent er euer þe schalk wyst.
& þen hef vp þe hete & heterly brenned;
&Thorn;e warm wynde of þe weste, wertes he swyþez.
&Thorn;e man marred on þe molde þat mo3t hym not hyde
His wodbynde watz away, he weped for sor3e;
With hatel anger & hot, heterly he callez:
'A, &Thorn;ou Maker of man, what maystery &Thorn;e þynkez
&Thorn;us &Thorn;y freke to forfare forbi alle oþer?
With alle meschef þat &Thorn;ou may, neuer &Thorn;ou me sparez;
I keuered me a cumfort þat now is ca3t fro me,
My wodbynde so wlonk þat wered my heued.
Bot now I se &Thorn;ou art sette my solace to reue;
Why ne dy3ttez &Thorn;ou me to di3e? I dure to longe.'
3et oure Lorde to þe lede laused a speche:
'Is þis ry3twys, þou renk, alle þy ronk noyse,
So wroth for a wodbynde to wax so sone?
Why art þou so waymot, wy3e, for so lyttel?'
'Hit is not lyttel,' quoþ þe lede, 'bot lykker to ry3t;
I wolde I were of þis worlde wrapped in moldez.'
'&Thorn;enne byþenk þe, mon, if þe forþynk sore,
If I wolde help My hondewerk, haf þou no wonder;
&Thorn;ou art waxen so wroth for þy wodbynde,
& trauayledez neuer to tent hit þe tyme of an howre,
Bot at a wap hit here wax & away at anoþer,
& 3et lykez þe so luþer, þi lyf woldez þou tyne.
&Thorn;enne wyte not Me for þe werk, þat I hit wolde help,
& rwe on þo redles þat remen for synne;
Fyrst I made hem Myself of materes Myn one,
& syþen I loked hem ful longe & hem on lode hade.
& if I My trauayl schulde tyne of termes so longe,
& type doun 3onder toun when hit turned were,
&Thorn;e sor of such a swete place burde synk to My hert,
So mony malicious mon as mournez þerinne.
& of þat soumme 3et arn summe, such sottez formadde,
As lyttel barnez on barme þat neuer bale wro3t,
& wymmen vnwytte þat wale ne couþe
&Thorn;at on hande fro þat oþer, fo[r] alle þis hy3e worlde.
Bitwene þe stele & þe stayre disserne no3t cunen,
What rule renes in roun bitwene þe ry3t hande
& his lyfte, þa333ez wyl torne,
& cum & cnawe Me for Kyng & My carpe leue?
Wer I as hastif a[s] þou heere, were harme lumpen;
Couþe I not þole bot as þou, þer þryued ful fewe.
I may not be so mal[i]cious & mylde be halden,
For malyse is no3[t] to mayntyne boute mercy withinne.'
Be no3t so gryndel, godman, bot go forth þy wayes,
Be preue & be pacient in payne & in joye;
For he þat is to rakel to renden his cloþez
Mot efte sitte with more vnsounde to sewe hem togeder.
Forþy when pouerte me enprecez & paynez inno3e
Ful softly with suffraunce sa3ttel me bihouez;
Forþy penaunce & payne topreue hit in sy3t
&Thorn;at pacience is a nobel poynt, þa3

Poem Submitted: Thursday, January 1, 2004

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