Chapter III: Part 3

<We redyn ofte and fynde ywryte,
As clerkes don us to wyte,
The layes that ben of harpyng
Ben yfounde of frely thing.
Sum ben of wele, and sum of wo, 5
And sum of ioy and merthe also;
Sum of trechery, and sum of gyle,
And sum of happes þat fallen by whyle;
Sum of bourdys, and sum of rybaudry,
And sum þer ben of the feyré. 10
Of alle þing þat men may se,
Moost _o_ lo_u_e forsoþe þey be.
In Brytayn þis layes arne ywryte,
Furst yfounde and forþe ygete,
Of aventures þat fillen by dayes, 15
Wherof Brytouns made her layes.
When þey myght owher heryn
Of aventures þat þer weryn,
Þey toke her harpys wiþ game,
Maden layes and ȝaf it name. 20
Of aventures þat han befalle
Y can sum telle, but nouȝt all.
Herken, lordyngys þat ben trewe,
And y wol ȝou telle of Sir Orphewe.>
Orfeo was a king, 25
In Inglond an heiȝe lording,
A stalworþ man and hardi bo,
Large and curteys he was also.
His fader was comen of King Pluto,
And his moder of King Iuno, 30
Þat sum time were as godes yhold,
For auentours þat þai dede and told.
<Orpheo most of ony þing
Louede þe gle of harpyng;
Syker was euery gode harpoure 35
Of hym to haue moche honoure.
Hymself loued for to harpe,
And layde þeron his wittes scharpe.
He lernyd so, þer noþing was
A better harper in no plas; 40
In þe world was neuer man born
Þat euer Orpheo sat byforn,
And he myȝt of his harpyng here,
He schulde þinke þat he were
In one of þe ioys of Paradys, 45
Suche ioy and melody in his harpyng is.>
Þis king soiournd in Traciens,
Þat was a cité of noble defens;
For Winchester was cleped þo
Traciens wiþouten no. 50
Þe king hadde a quen of priis,
Þat was ycleped Dame Herodis,
Þe fairest leuedi, for þe nones,
Þat miȝt gon on bodi and bones,
Ful of loue and of godenisse; 55
Ac no man may telle hir fairnise.
Bifel so in þe comessing of May,
When miri and hot is þe day,
And oway beþ winter-schours,
And eueri feld is ful of flours, 60
And blosme breme on eueri bouȝ
Oueral wexeþ miri anouȝ,
Þis ich quen, Dame Heurodis,
Tok to maidens of priis,
And went in an vndrentide 65
To play bi an orchard side,
To se þe floures sprede and spring,
And to here þe foules sing.
Þai sett hem doun al þre
Vnder a fair ympe-tre, 70
And wel sone þis fair quene
Fel on slepe opon þe grene.
Þe maidens durst hir nouȝt awake,
Bot lete hir ligge and rest take.
So sche slepe til afternone, 75
Þat vndertide was al ydone.
Ac as sone as sche gan awake,
Sche crid and loþli bere gan make,
Sche froted hir honden and hir fet,
And crached hir visage, it bled wete; 80
Hir riche robe hye al torett,
And was reuey<se>d out of hir witt.
Þe tvo maidens hir biside
No durst wiþ hir no leng abide,
Bot ourn to þe palays ful riȝt, 85
And told boþe squier and kniȝt
Þat her quen awede wold,
And bad hem go and hir athold.
Kniȝtes vrn, and leuedis also,
Damisels sexti and mo, 90
In þe orchard to þe quen hye come,
And her vp in her armes nome,
And brouȝt hir to bed atte last,
And held hir þere fine fast;
Ac euer sche held in o cri, 95
And wold vp and owy.
When Orfeo herd þat tiding,
Neuer him nas wers for no þing.
He come wiþ kniȝtes tene
To chaumber riȝt bifor þe quene, 100
And biheld, and seyd wiþ grete pité:
'O lef liif, what is te,
Þat euer ȝete hast ben so stille,
And now gredest wonder schille?
Þi bodi, þat was so white ycore, 105
Wiþ þine nailes is al totore.
Allas! þi rode, þat was so red,
Is al wan as þou were ded;
And also þine fingres smale
Beþ al blodi and al pale. 110
Allas! þi louesom eyȝen to
Lokeþ so man doþ on his fo.
A! dame, ich biseche merci.
Lete ben al þis reweful cri,
And tel me what þe is, and hou, 115
And what þing may þe help now.'
Þo lay sche stille atte last,
And gan to wepe swiþe fast,
And seyd þus þe king to:
'Allas! mi lord, Sir Orfeo, 120
Seþþen we first togider were,
Ones wroþ neuer we nere,
Bot euer ich haue yloued þe
As mi liif, and so þou me.
Ac now we mot delen ato; 125
Do þi best, for y mot go.'
'Allas!' quaþ he, 'forlorn icham.
Whider wiltow go, and to wham?
Whider þou gost, ichil wiþ þe,
And whider y go, þou schalt wiþ me.' 130
'Nay, nay, sir, þat nouȝt nis;
Ichil þe telle al hou it is:
As ich lay þis vndertide,
And slepe vnder our orchard-side,
Þer come to me to fair kniȝtes 135
Wele y-armed al to riȝtes,
And bad me comen an heiȝing,
And speke wiþ her lord þe king.
And ich answerd at wordes bold,
Y durst nouȝt, no y nold. 140
Þai priked oȝain as þai miȝt driue;
Þo com her king also bliue,
Wiþ an hundred kniȝtes and mo,
And damisels an hundred also,
Al on snowe-white stedes; 145
As white as milke were her wedes:
Y no seiȝe neuer ȝete bifore
So fair creatours ycore.
Þe king hadde a croun on hed,
It nas of siluer, no of gold red, 150
Ac it was of a precious ston,
As briȝt as þe sonne it schon.
And as son as he to me cam,
Wold ich, nold ich, he me nam,
And made me wiþ him ride 155
Opon a palfray, bi his side,
And brouȝt me to his palays,
Wele atird in ich ways,
And schewed me castels and tours,
Riuers, forestes, friþ wiþ flours, 160
And his riche stedes ichon;
And seþþen me brouȝt oȝain hom
Into our owhen orchard,
And said to me þus afterward:
"Loke, dame, to-morwe þatow be 165
Riȝt here vnder þis ympe-tre,
And þan þou schalt wiþ ous go,
And liue wiþ ous euermo;
And ȝif þou makest ous ylet,
Whar þou be, þou worst yfet, 170
And totore þine limes al,
Þat noþing help þe no schal;
And þei þou best so totorn,
Ȝete þou worst wiþ ous yborn."'
When King Orfeo herd þis cas, 175
'O we!' quaþ he, 'allas, allas!
Leuer me were to lete mi liif,
Þan þus to lese þe quen mi wiif!'
He asked conseyl at ich man,
Ac no man him help no can. 180
Amorwe þe vndertide is come,
And Orfeo haþ his armes ynome,
And wele ten hundred kniȝtes wiþ him
Ich y-armed stout and grim;
And wiþ þe quen wenten he 185
Riȝt vnto þat ympe-tre.
Þai made scheltrom in ich a side,
And sayd þai wold þere abide,
And dye þer euerichon,
Er þe quen schuld fram hem gon. 190
Ac ȝete amiddes hem ful riȝt
Þe quen was oway ytuiȝt,
Wiþ fairi forþ ynome;
Men wist neuer wher sche was bicome.
Þo was þer criing, wepe and wo. 195
Þe king into his chaumber is go,
And oft swoned opon þe ston,
And made swiche diol and swiche mon
Þat neiȝe his liif was yspent:
Þer was non amendement. 200
He cleped togider his barouns,
Erls, lordes of renouns;
And when þai al ycomen were,
'Lordinges,' he said, 'bifor ȝou here
Ich ordainy min heiȝe steward 205
To wite mi kingdom afterward;
In mi stede ben he schal,
To kepe mi londes ouer al.
For, now ichaue mi quen ylore,
Þe fairest leuedi þat euer was bore, 210
Neuer eft y nil no woman se.
Into wildernes ichil te,
And liue þer euermore
Wiþ wilde bestes in holtes hore.
And when ȝe vnderstond þat y be spent, 215
Make ȝou þan a parlement,
And chese ȝou a newe king.
Now doþ ȝour best wiþ al mi þing.'
Þo was þer wepeing in þe halle,
And grete cri among hem alle; 220
Vnneþe miȝt old or ȝong
For wepeing speke a word wiþ tong.
Þai kneled adoun al yfere,
And praid him, ȝif his wille were,
Þat he no schuld nouȝt fram hem go. 225
'Do way!' quaþ he, 'it schal be so.'
Al his kingdom he forsoke;
Bot a sclauin on him he toke;
He no hadde kirtel no hode,
Schert, <no> no noþer gode. 230
Bot his harp he tok algate,
And dede him barfot out atte ȝate;
No man most wiþ him go.
O way! what þer was wepe and wo,
When he, þat hadde ben king wiþ croun, 235
Went so pouerlich out of toun!
Þurch wode and ouer heþ
Into þe wildernes he geþ.
Noþing he fint þat him is ays,
Bot euer he liueþ in gret malais. 240
He þat hadde ywerd þe fowe and griis,
And on bed þe purper biis,
Now on hard heþe he liþ,
Wiþ leues and gresse he him wriþ.
He þat hadde had castels and tours, 245
Riuer, forest, friþ wiþ flours,
Now, þei it comenci to snewe and frese,
Þis king mot make his bed in mese.
He þat had yhad kniȝtes of priis
Bifor him kneland, and leuedis, 250
Now seþ he noþing þat him likeþ,
Bot wilde wormes bi him strikeþ.
He þat had yhad plenté
Of mete and drink, of ich deynté,
Now may he al day digge and wrote 255
Er he finde his fille of rote.
In somer he liueþ bi wild frut
And berien bot gode lite;
In winter may he noþing finde
Bot rote, grases, and þe rinde. 260
Al his bodi was oway duine
For missays, and al tochine.
Lord! who may telle þe sore
Þis king sufferd ten ȝere and more?
His here of his berd, blac and rowe, 265
To his girdelstede was growe.
His harp, whereon was al his gle,
He hidde in an holwe tre;
And, when þe weder was clere and briȝt,
He toke his harp to him wel riȝt, 270
And harped at his owhen wille.
Into alle þe wode þe soun gan schille,
Þat alle þe wilde bestes þat þer beþ
For ioie abouten him þai teþ;
And alle þe foules þat þer were 275
Come and sete on ich a brere,
To here his harping afine,
So miche melody was þerin;
And when he his harping lete wold,
No best bi him abide nold. 280
He miȝt se him bisides
Oft in hot vndertides
Þe king o fairy wiþ his rout
Com to hunt him al about,
Wiþ dim cri and bloweing; 285
And houndes also wiþ him berking;
Ac no best þai no nome,
No neuer he nist whider þai bicome.
And oþer while he miȝt him se
As a gret ost bi him te 290
Wele atourned ten hundred kniȝtes,
Ich y-armed to his riȝtes,
Of cuntenaunce stout and fers,
Wiþ mani desplaid baners,
And ich his swerd ydrawe hold, 295
Ac neuer he nist whider þai wold.
And oþer while he seiȝe oþer þing:
Kniȝtes and leuedis com daunceing
In queynt atire, gisely,
Queynt pas and softly; 300
Tabours and trunpes ȝede hem bi,
And al maner menstraci.
And on a day he seiȝe him biside
Sexti leuedis on hors ride,
Gentil and iolif as brid on ris,— 305
Nouȝt o man amonges hem þer nis.
And ich a faucoun on hond bere,
And riden on haukin bi o riuere.
Of game þai founde wel gode haunt,
Maulardes, hayroun, and cormeraunt; 310
Þe foules of þe water ariseþ,
Þe faucouns hem wele deuiseþ;
Ich faucoun his pray slouȝ.
Þat seiȝe Orfeo, and louȝ:
'Parfay!' quaþ he, 'þer is fair game, 315
Þider ichil, bi Godes name!
Ich was ywon swiche werk to se.'
He aros, and þider gan te.
To a leuedi he was ycome,
Biheld, and haþ wele vndernome, 320
And seþ bi al þing þat it is
His owhen quen, Dam Heurodis.
Ȝern he biheld hir, and sche him eke,
Ac noiþer to oþer a word no speke.
For messais þat sche on him seiȝe, 325
Þat had ben so riche and so heiȝe,
Þe teres fel out of her eiȝe.
Þe oþer leuedis þis yseiȝe,
And maked hir oway to ride,
Sche most wiþ him no lenger abide. 330
'Allas!' quaþ he, 'now me is wo.
Whi nil deþ now me slo?
Allas! wr_e_che, þat y no miȝt
Dye now after þis siȝt!
Allas! to long last mi liif, 335
When y no dar nouȝt wiþ mi wiif,
No hye to me, o word speke.
Allas! whi nil min hert breke?
Parfay!' quaþ he, 'tide wat bitide,
Whider so þis leuedis ride, 340
Þe selue way ichil streche;
Of liif no deþ me no reche.'
His sclauain he dede on also spac,
And henge his harp opon his bac,
And had wel gode wil to gon,— 345
He no spard noiþer stub no ston.
In at a roche þe leuedis rideþ,
And he after, and nouȝt abideþ.
When he was in þe roche ygo
Wele þre mile oþer mo, 350
He com into a fair cuntray,
As briȝt so sonne on somers day,
Smoþe and plain and al grene,
Hille no dale nas þer non ysene.
Amidde þe lond a castel he siȝe, 355
Riche and real, and wonder heiȝe.
Al þe vtmast wal
Was clere and schine as cristal;
An hundred tours þer were about,
Degiselich, and bataild stout; 360
Þe butras com out of þe diche,
Of rede gold y-arched riche;
Þe vousour was anow<rn>ed al
Of ich maner diuers animal.
Wiþin þer wer wide wones 365
Al of precious stones.
Þe werst piler on to biholde
Was al of burnist gold.
Al þat lond was euer liȝt,
For when it schuld be þerk and niȝt, 370
Þe riche stones liȝt gonne,
As briȝt as doþ at none þe sonne.
No man may telle, no þenche in þouȝt,
Þe riche werk þat þer was wrouȝt;
Bi al þing him þink þat it is 375
Þe proude court of Paradis.
In þis castel þe leuedis aliȝt;
He wold in after, ȝif he miȝt.
Orfeo knokkeþ atte gate,
Þe porter was redi þerate, 380
And asked what he wold haue ydo.
'Parfay!' quaþ he, 'icham a minstrel, lo!
To solas þi lord wiþ mi gle,
Ȝif his swete wille be.'
Þe porter vndede þe ȝate anon, 385
And lete him into þe castel gon.
Þan he gan bihold about al,
And seiȝe †ful† liggeand wiþin þe wal
Of folk þat were þider ybrouȝt,
And þouȝt dede, and nare nouȝt. 390
Sum stode wiþouten hade,
And sum non armes nade,
And sum þurch þe bodi hadde wounde,
And sum lay wode, ybounde,
And sum armed on hors sete, 395
And sum astrangled as þai ete,
And sum were in water adreynt,
And sum wiþ fire al forschreynt
Wiues þer lay on childbedde,
Sum ded, and sum awedde; 400
And wonder fele þer lay bisides,
Riȝt as þai slepe her vndertides.
Eche was þus in þis warld ynome,
Wiþ fairi þider ycome.
Þer he seiȝe his owhen wiif, 405
Dame Heurodis, his l_e_f liif,
Slepe vnder an ympe-tre:
Bi her cloþes he knewe þat it was he.
And when he hadde bihold þis meruails alle,
He went into þe kinges halle. 410
Þan seiȝe he þer a semly siȝt,
A tabernacle blisseful and briȝt,
Þerin her maister king sete,
And her quen fair and swete.
Her crounes, her cloþes, schine so briȝt, 415
Þat vnneþe bihold he hem miȝt.
When he hadde biholden al þat þing,
He kneled adoun bifor þe king.
'O lord,' he seyd, 'ȝif it þi wille were,
Mi menstraci þou schust yhere.' 420
Þe king answerd: 'What man artow,
Þat art hider ycomen now?
Ich, no non þat is wiþ me,
No sent neuer after þe;
Seþþen þat ich here regni gan, 425
Y no fond neuer so folehardi man
Þat hider to ous durst wende,
Bot þat ichim wald ofsende.'
'Lord,' quaþ he, 'trowe ful wel,
Y nam bot a pouer menstrel; 430
And, sir, it is þe maner of ous
To seche mani a lordes hous;
Þei we nouȝt welcom no be,
Ȝete we mot proferi forþ our gle.'
Bifor þe king he sat adoun, 435
And tok his harp so miri of soun,
And tempreþ his harp, as he wele can,
And blisseful notes he þer gan,
Þat al þat in þe palays were
Com to him for to here, 440
And liggeþ adoun to his fete,
Hem þenkeþ his melody so swete.
Þe king herkneþ and sitt ful stille,
To here his gle he haþ gode wille;
Gode bourde he hadde of his gle, 445
Þe riche quen also hadde he.
When he hadde stint his harping,
Þan seyd to him þe king:
'Menstrel, me likeþ wele þi gle.
Now aske of me what it be, 450
Largelich ichil þe pay.
Now speke, and tow miȝt asay.'
'Sir,' he seyd, 'ich biseche þe
Þatow woldest ȝiue me
Þat ich leuedi, briȝt on ble, 455
Þat slepeþ vnder þe ympe-tre.'
'Nay,' quaþ þe king, 'þat nouȝt nere!
A sori couple of ȝou it were,
For þou art lene, rowe, and blac,
And sche is louesum, wiþouten lac; 460
A loþlich þing it were forþi
To sen hir in þi compayni.'
'O sir,' he seyd, 'gentil king,
Ȝete were it a wele fouler þing
To here a lesing of þi mouþe, 465
So, sir, as ȝe seyd nouþe,
What ich wold aski, haue y schold,
And nedes þou most þi word hold.'
Þe king seyd: 'Seþþen it is so,
Take hir bi þe hond, and go; 470
Of hir ichil þatow be bliþe.'
He kneled adoun, and þonked him swiþe;
His wiif he tok bi þe hond,
And dede him swiþe out of þat lond,
And went him out of þat þede,— 475
Riȝt as he come þe way he ȝede.
So long he haþ þe way ynome,
To Winchester he is ycome,
Þat was his owhen cité;
Ac no man knewe þat it was he. 480
No forþer þan þe tounes ende
For knoweleche <he> no durst wende,
Bot wiþ a begger y<n> bilt ful narwe,
Þer he tok his herbarwe,
To him and to his owhen wiif, 485
As a minstrel of pouer liif,
And asked tidinges of þat lond,
And who þe kingdom held in hond.
Þe pouer begger in his cote
Told him euerich a grot: 490
Hou her quen was stole owy
Ten ȝer gon wiþ fairy;
And hou her king en exile ȝede,
Bot no man nist in wiche þede;
And hou þe steward þe lond gan hold; 495
And oþer mani þinges him told.
Amorwe, oȝain nonetide,
He maked his wiif þer abide;
Þe beggers cloþes he borwed anon,
And heng his harp his rigge opon, 500
And went him into þat cité,
Þat men miȝt him bihold and se.
Erls and barouns bold,
Buriays and leuedis him gun bihold.
'Lo,' þai seyd, 'swiche a man! 505
Hou long þe here hongeþ him opan!
Lo, hou his berd hongeþ to his kne!
He is yclongen also a tre!'
And as he ȝede in þe strete,
Wiþ his steward he gan mete, 510
And loude he sett on him a crie:
'Sir steward,' he seyd, 'merci!
Icham an harpour of heþenisse;
Help me now in þis destresse!'
Þe steward seyd: 'Com wiþ me, come; 515
Of þat ichaue þou schalt haue some.
Euerich gode harpour is welcom me to,
For mi lordes loue Sir Orfeo.'
In þe castel þe steward sat atte mete,
And mani lording was bi him sete. 520
Þer were trompour<s> and tabourers,
Harpours fele, and crouders.
Miche melody þai maked alle,
And Orfeo sat stille in þe halle,
And herkneþ. When þai ben al stille, 525
He toke his harp and tempred schille,
Þe bli<sse>fulest notes he harped þere
Þat euer ani man yherd wiþ ere;
Ich man liked wele his gle.
Þe steward biheld and gan yse, 530
And knewe þe harp als bliue.
'Menstrel,' he seyd, 'so mot þou þriue,
Where hadestow þis harp, and hou?
Y pray þat þou me telle now.'
'Lord,' quaþ he, 'in vncouþe þede, 535
Þurch a wildernes as y ȝede,
Þer y founde in a dale
Wiþ lyouns a man totorn smale,
And wolues him frete wiþ teþ so scharp.
Bi him y fond þis ich harp; 540
Wele ten ȝere it is ygo.'
'O,' quaþ þe steward, 'now me is wo!
Þat was mi lord Sir Orfeo.
Allas! wreche, what schal y do,
Þat haue swiche a lord ylore? 545
A way! þat ich was ybore!
Þat him was so hard grace yȝarked,
And so vile deþ ymarked!'
Adoun he fel aswon to grounde.
His barouns him tok vp in þat stounde, 550
And telleþ him hou it geþ—
It nis no bot of manes deþ.
King Orfeo knewe wele bi þan
His steward was a trewe man
And loued him as he auȝt to do, 555
And stont vp and seyt þus: 'Lo,
Steward, herkne now þis þing:
Ȝif ich were Orfeo þe king,
And hadde ysuffred ful ȝore
In wildernisse miche sore, 560
And hadde ywon mi quen owy
Out of þe lond of fairy,
And hadde ybrouȝt þe leuedi hende
Riȝt here to þe tounes ende,
And wiþ a begger her in ynome, 565
And were miself hider ycome
Pouerlich to þe, þus stille,
For to asay þi gode wille,
And ich founde þe þus trewe,
Þou no schust it neuer rewe: 570
Sikerlich, for loue or ay,
Þou schust be king after mi day.
And ȝif þou of mi deþ hadest ben bliþe,
Þou schust haue voided also swiþe.'
Þo al þo þat þerin sete 575
Þat it was King Orfeo vnderȝete,
And þe steward him wele knewe;
Ouer and ouer þe bord he þrewe,
And fel adoun to his fet;
So dede euerich lord þat þer sete, 580
And al þai seyd at o criing:
'Ȝe beþ our lord, sir, and our king!'
Glad þai were of his liue.
To chaumber þai ladde him als biliue,
And baþed him, and schaued his berd, 585
And tired him as a king apert.
And seþþen wiþ gret processioun
Þai brouȝt þe quen into þe toun,
Wiþ al maner menstraci.
Lord! þer was grete melody! 590
For ioie þai wepe wiþ her eiȝe
Þat hem so sounde ycomen seiȝe.
Now King Orfeo newe coround is,
And his quen Dame Heurodis,
And liued long afterward; 595
And seþþen was king þe steward.
Harpours in Bretaine after þan
Herd hou þis meruaile bigan,
And made herof a lay of gode likeing,
And nempned it after þe king; 600
Þat lay 'Orfeo' is yhote,
Gode is þe lay, swete is þe note.
Þus com Sir Orfeo out of his care.
God graunt ous alle wele to fare.

[Foot-note: ll. 1-24 _from Harl. 3810: om. MS._]

[Foot-note: ll. 7-8 _follow_ ll. 9-10 _in Harl._]

[Foot-note: 12 o loue] to lowe _Harl._]

[Foot-note: 26 In Inglond] And in his tyme _Harl._]

[Foot-note: 33-46 _from Harl. 3810: om. MS._]

[Foot-note: 49-50 _om. Harl., Ashm._]

[Foot-note: 51 Þe king] He _Harl._: And _Ashm._]

[Foot-note: 82 reueysed] rauysed _Ashm._: reueyd _MS._: wode out _Harl._]

[Foot-note: 230 no] ne _Ashm.: om. MS._]

[Foot-note: 333 wreche] wroche _MS._]

[Foot-note: 406 lef] liif _MS._]

[Foot-note: 478 Winchester] Traciens _Ashm._: Crassens _Harl._]

III

MICHAEL OF NORTHGATE'S AYENBYTE OF INWYT

A.D. 1340.

Michael of Northgate was a monk of St. Augustine's, Canterbury. From a library catalogue of the monastery it appears that he was a lover of books, for he is named as the donor of twenty-five MSS., a considerable collection for those days. Their titles show a taste not merely for religious works, but for science—mathematics, chemistry, medicine, as they were known at the time. Four of these MSS. have been traced, and one of them, British Museum MS. Arundel 57, is Michael's autograph copy of the _Ayenbyte_. On folio 2 of the MS. are the words: _Þis boc is Dan Michelis of Northgate, ywrite an Englis of his oȝene hand, þet hatte 'Ayenbyte of Inwyt'; and is of the boc-house of Saynt Austines of Canterberi, mid þe lettres. CC._ 'CC.' is the press-mark given in the catalogue. A note at the end of the text shows that it was finished on October 27, 1340:

_Ymende þet þis boc is uolueld ine þe eue of þe holy apostles Symon an Iudas_ [i.e. Oct. 27] _of ane broþer of the cloystre of Sauynt Austin of Canterberi, in the yeare of oure Lhordes beringe 1340._

The _Ayenbyte_ has been edited for the Early English Text Society by R. Morris. The title means literally 'Remorse of Conscience', but from the contents of the work it would appear that the writer meant rather 'Stimulus to the Conscience', or 'Prick of Conscience'. It is in fact a translation from the French _Somme des Vices et des Vertues_, compiled by Friar Lorens in 1279 for King Philip le Hardi, and long held to be the main source of Chaucer's _Parson's Tale_. Caxton rendered the _Somme_ into English prose as _The Royal Book_. It treats of the Commandments, the Creed, the Seven Deadly Sins, the Seven Petitions of the Paternoster, and the Seven Gifts of the Holy Spirit.

Dan Michael's purpose is stated in some doggerel lines at the end:

Nou ich wille þet ye ywyte
Hou hit is ywent
Þet þis boc is ywrite
Mid Engliss of Kent.
Þis boc is ymad uor lewede men,
Vor uader, and uor moder, and uor oþer ken,
Ham uor to berȝe uram alle manyere zen,
Þet ine hare inwytte ne bleue no uoul wen.

His translation is inaccurate, and sometimes unintelligible, and the treatment is so barren of interest that the work seems to have fallen flat even in its own day, when the popular appetite for edification was keen and unspoiled. But if its literary merit is slight, linguistically it is one of the most important works in Middle English. It provides a long prose text, exactly dated and exactly localized; we have the author's autograph copy to work from; and the dialect is well distinguished. These circumstances, unique in Middle English, make it possible to study the Kentish dialect of the mid-fourteenth century under ideal conditions.

HOW MERCY INCREASES TEMPORAL GOODS.

Hou Merci multiplieþ þe timliche guodes, hyerof we habbeþ uele uayre uorbisnen, huerof ich wille hier zome telle. Me ret of Saint Germain of Aucer_r_e þet, þo he com uram Rome, ate outguoinge of Melane, he acsede at onen of his diaknen yef he hedde eny zeluer, and he ansuerede þet {5} he ne hedde bote þri pans, uor Say<n>t Germayn hit hedde al yeue to pouren. Þanne he him het þet he his ssolde yeue to þe poure, uor God hedde ynoȝ of guode, huerof he hise uedde uor þane day. Þe dyacne mid greate pine and mid greate grochinge yeaf þe tuaye pans, and ofhild þane þridde. Þe {10} sergont of ane riche kniȝte him broȝte ane his lhordes haf tuo hondred pans. Þo clepede he his dyacne, and him zede þet he hedde benome þe poure ane peny, and yef he hedde yeue þane þridde peny to þe poure, þe kniȝt him hedde yzent þri hondred pans. {15}

Efterward me ret ine þe lyue of Ion þe Amoner, þet wes zuo ycleped uor þe greate elmesses þet he dede: A riche ientilman wes yrobbed of þieues, zuo þet him naȝt ne blefte. He him com to playni to þe uorzede manne, and he him zede his cas. He hedde greate reuþe þerof, and het his {20} desspendoure þet he him yeaue uyftene pond of gold. Þe spendere, be his couaytise, ne yeaf bote vyf. An haste a gentil wymman wodewe zente to þe uore-yzede Ion uif hondred pond of gold. Þo he clepede his spendere, and him acsede hou moche he hedde yyeue to þe kniȝte. He ansuerede {25} 'vyftene pond.' Þe holy man ansuerede þet 'nay, he ne hedde bote vyf'; and huanne he hit wiste þe ilke zelue þet his hedde onderuonge, zuo zayde to his spendere þet yef he hedde yyeue þe viftene pond þet he hedde yhote, oure Lhord him hede yzent be þe guode wyfman a þouzond and vyf {30} hondred pond. And huanne he acsede ate guode wyfman, þo he hedde hise ycleped, hou moche hi hedde him ylete, hi andzuerede þet uerst hi hedde ywrite ine hare testament þet hi him let a þousend and vyf hondred pond. Ac hi lokede efterward ine hare testament, and hi yzeȝ þe þousend pond {35} defaced of hire write, and zuo ylefde þe guode wyfman þet God wolde þet hi ne zente bote vif hondred.

Efterward Saint Gregori telþ þet Saint Boniface uram þet he wes child he wes zuo piteuous þet he yaf ofte his kertel and his sserte to þe poure uor God, þaȝ his moder him byete {40} ofte þeruore. Þanne bevil þet þet child yzeȝ manie poure þet hedden mezeyse. He aspide þet his moder nes naȝt þer. An haste he yarn to þe gerniere, and al þet his moder hedde ygadered uor to pasi þet yer he hit yaf þe poure. And þo his moder com, and wyste þe ilke dede, hy wes al out of hare {45} wytte. Þet child bed oure Lhorde, and þet gernier wes an haste al uol.

Efterward þer wes a poure man, ase me zayþ, þet hedde ane cou; and yhyerde zigge of his preste ine his prechinge þet God zede ine his spelle þet God wolde yelde an hondreduald {50} al þet me yeaue uor him. Þe guode man, mid þe rede of his wyue, yeaf his cou to his preste, þet wes riche. Þe prest his nom bleþeliche, and hise zente to þe oþren þet he hedde. Þo hit com to euen, þe guode mannes cou com hom to his house ase hi wes ywoned, and ledde mid hare alle þe {55} prestes ken, al to an hondred. Þo þe guode man yzeȝ þet, he þoȝte þet þet wes þet word of þe Godspelle þet he hedde yyolde; and him hi weren yloked beuore his bissoppe aye þane prest. Þise uorbisne sseweþ wel þet merci is guod chapuare, uor hi deþ wexe þe timliche guodes. {60}

IV

RICHARD ROLLE OF HAMPOLE

D. 1349.

Richard Rolle was born at Thornton-le-Dale, near Pickering, in Yorkshire. He was sent to Oxford, already a formidable rival to the University of Paris; but the severer studies were evidently uncongenial to his impulsive temperament. He returned home without taking orders, improvised for himself a hermit's dress, and fled into solitude. His piety attracted the favour of Sir John and Lady Dalton, who gave him a cell on their estate. Here, in meditation, he developed his mystical religion. He did not immure himself, or cut himself off from human companionship. For a time he lived near Anderby, where was the cell of the recluse Margaret Kirkby, to whom he addressed his _Form of Perfect Living_. Another important work, _Ego Dormio et Cor Meum Vigilat_, was written for a nun of Yedingham (Yorks.). Towards the end of his life he lived in close friendship with the nuns of Hampole, and for one of them he wrote his _Commandment of Love to God_. At Hampole he died in 1349, the year of the Black Death. By the devout he was regarded as a saint, and had his commemoration day, his office, and his miracles; but he was never canonized.

He wrote both in Latin and in English, and it is not always easy to distinguish his work from that of his many followers and imitators. The writings attributed to him are edited by C. Horstmann, _Yorkshire Writers_, 2 vols., London 1895-6. Besides the prose works noted above, he wrote, at the request of Margaret Kirkby, a _Commentary on the Psalms_ (ed. Bramley, Oxford 1884), based on the Latin of Peter Lombard. A long didactic poem in Northern English, the _Prick of Conscience_, has been attributed to him from Lydgate's time onwards; but his authorship has recently been questioned, chiefly on the ground that the poem is without a spark of inspiration. It is not certain that he wrote _Love is Life_, which is included here because it expresses in characteristic language his central belief in the personal bond, the burning love, between God and man. The first prose selection shows that he did not disdain the examples from natural history that were so popular in the sermons of the time. The second is chapter xi of the _Form of Perfect Living_, which is found as a separate extract from an early date.

With Rolle began a movement of devotional piety, which, as might be expected from its strong appeal to the emotions, was taken up first among religious women; and signs of a striving for effect in his style suggest that the hermit was not indifferent to the admiration of his followers. He brings to his teaching more heart than mind. He escapes the problems of the world, which seemed so insistent to his contemporaries, by denying the world's claims. His ideas and temperament are diametrically opposed to those of the other great figure in the religious life of fourteenth-century England—Wiclif, the schoolman, politician, reformer, controversialist. Yet they have in common a sincerity and directness of belief that brushes aside conventions, and an enthusiasm that made them leaders in an age when the Church as a whole suffered from apathy.

A. LOVE IS LIFE.

Cambridge University Library MS. DD. 5. 64, III (about 1400) f. 38 a.

<L>uf es lyf þat lastes ay, þar it in Criste es feste,
For wele ne wa it chaunge may, als wryten has men wyseste.
Þe nyght it tournes intil þe day, þi trauel intyll reste;
If þou wil luf þus as I say, þou may be wyth þe beste.

Lufe es thoght wyth grete desyre of a fayre louyng; 5
Lufe I lyken til a fyre þat sloken may na thyng;
Lufe vs clenses of oure syn; luf vs bote sall bryng;
Lufe þe Keynges hert may wyn; lufe of ioy may syng.

Þe settel of lufe es lyft hee, for intil heuen it ranne;
Me thynk in erth it es sle, þat makes men pale and wanne; 10
Þe bede of blysse it gase ful nee, I tel þe as I kanne:
Þof vs thynk þe way be dregh, luf copuls God and manne.

Lufe es hatter þen þe cole; lufe may nane beswyke.
Þe flawme of lufe wha myght it thole, if it war ay ilyke?
Luf vs comfortes, and mase in qwart, and lyftes tyl heuenryke; 15
Luf rauysches Cryste intyl owr hert; I wate na lust it lyke.

Lere to luf, if þou wyl lyfe when þou sall hethen fare;
All þi thoght til Hym þou gyf þat may þe kepe fra kare:
Loke þi hert fra Hym noght twyn, if þou in wandreth ware;
Sa þou may Hym welde and wyn, and luf Hym euermare. 20

Iesu, þat me lyfe hase lent, intil Þi lufe me bryng!
Take til Þe al myne entent, þat Þow be my ȝhernyng.
Wa fra me away war went, and comne war my couaytyng,
If þat my sawle had herd and hent þe sang of Þi louyng.

Þi lufe es ay lastand, fra þat we may it fele; 25
Þarein make me byrnand, þat na thyng gar it kele.
My thoght take into Þi hand, and stabyl it ylk a dele,
Þat I be noght heldand to luf þis worldes wele.

If I lufe any erthly thyng þat payes to my wyll,
And settes my ioy and my lykyng when it may comm me tyll, 30
I mai drede of partyng, þat wyll be hate and yll:
For al my welth es bot wepyng when pyne mi saule sal spyll.

Þe ioy þat men hase sene es lyckend tyl þe haye,
Þat now es fayre and grene, and now wytes awaye.
Swylk es þis worlde, I wene, and bees till Domesdaye, 35
All in trauel and tene, fle þat na man it maye.

If þou luf in all þi thoght, and hate þe fylth of syn,
And gyf Hym þi sawle þat it boght, þat He þe dwell within,
Als Crist þi sawle hase soght, and þerof walde noght blyn,
Sa þou sal to blys be broght, and heuen won within. 40

Þe kynd of luf es þis, þar it es trayst and trew,
To stand styll in stabylnes, and chaunge it for na new.
Þe lyfe þat lufe myght fynd, or euer in hert it knew,
Fra kare it tornes þat kyend, and lendes in myrth and glew.

For now, lufe þow, I rede, Cryste, as I þe tell, 45
And with aungels take þi stede: þat ioy loke þou noght sell!
In erth þow hate, I rede, all þat þi lufe may fell,
For luf es stalworth as þe dede, luf es hard as hell.

Luf es a lyght byrthen; lufe gladdes ȝong and alde;
Lufe es withowten pyne, as lofers hase me talde; 50
Lufe es a gastly wyne, þat makes men bygge and balde;
Of lufe sal he na thyng tyne þat hit in hert will halde.

Lufe es þe swettest thyng þat man in erth hase tane;
Lufe es Goddes derlyng; lufe byndes blode and bane.
In lufe be owre lykyng, I ne wate na better wane, 55
For me and my lufyng lufe makes bath be ane.

Bot fleschly lufe sal fare as dose þe flowre in May,
And lastand be na mare þan ane houre of a day,
And sythen syghe ful sare þar lust, þar pryde, þar play,
When þai er casten in kare til pyne þat lastes ay. 60

When þair bodys lyse in syn, þair sawls mai qwake and drede,
For vp sal ryse al men, and answer for þair dede.
If þai be fonden in syn, als now þair lyfe þai lede,
Þai sal sytt hel within, and myrknes hafe to mede.

Riche men þair hend sal wryng, and wicked werkes sal by 65
In flawme of fyre, bath knyght and keyng, with sorow schamfully.
If þou wil lufe, þan may þou syng til Cryst in melody;
Þe lufe of Hym ouercoms al thyng, þarto þou traiste trewly.

<I> sygh and sob, bath day and nyght, for ane sa fayre of hew!
Þar es na thyng my hert mai light, bot lufe þat es ay new. 70
Wha sa had Hym in his syght, or in his hert Hym knew,
His mournyng turned til ioy ful bryght, his sang intil glew.

In myrth he lyfes, nyght and day, þat lufes þat swete chylde;
It es Iesu, forsoth I say, of al mekest and mylde.
Wreth fra hym walde al away, þof he wer neuer sa wylde, 75
He þat in hert lufed Hym þat day, fra euel He wil hym schylde.

Of Iesu mast lyst me speke, þat al my bale may bete;
Me thynk my hert may al tobreke when I thynk on þat swete;
In lufe lacyd He hase my thoght, þat I sal neuer forgete.
Ful dere me thynk He hase me boght with blodi hende and fete. 80

For luf my hert es bowne to brest, when I þat faire behalde;
Lufe es fair þare it es fest, þat neuer will be calde;
Lufe vs reues þe nyght-rest, in grace it makes vs balde;
Of al warkes luf es þe best, als haly men me talde.

Na wonder gyf I syghand be, and sithen in sorow be sette: 85
Iesu was nayled apon þe tre, and al blody forbette.
To thynk on Hym es grete pyté—how tenderly He grette—
Þis hase He sufferde, man, for þe, if þat þou syn wyll lette.

Þare es na tonge in erth may tell of lufe þe swetnesse.
Þat stedfastly in lufe kan dwell, his ioy es endlesse. 90
God schylde þat he sulde til hell, þat lufes and langand es,
Or euer his enmys sulde hym qwell, or make his luf be lesse.

Iesu es lufe þat lastes ay, til Hym es owre langyng;
Iesu þe nyght turnes to þe day, þe dawyng intil spryng.
Iesu, thynk on vs now and ay, for Þe we halde oure keyng; 95
Iesu, gyf vs grace, as Þou wel may, to luf Þe withowten endyng.

[Foot-note: 45 For now] Forþi _MS. Lambeth 583_.]

[Foot-note: 51 wyne] = wynne _MS._]

[Foot-note: 65 hend] handes _MS., apparently altered from_ hend.]

[Foot-note: 69 I] _so MS. Lambeth 583_.]

B. THE NATURE OF THE BEE.

(The Thornton MS. (before 1450); ed. Horstmann, vol. i, p. 193.)

_Moralia Ricardi Heremite de Natura Apis._

The bee has thre kyndis. Ane es þat scho es neuer ydill, and scho es noghte with thaym þat will noghte wyrke, bot castys thaym owte, and puttes thaym awaye. Anothire es þat when scho flyes scho takes erthe in hyr fette, þat scho be noghte lyghtly ouerheghede in the ayere of wynde. The {5} thyrde es þat scho kepes clene and bryghte hire wyngeȝ.

Thus ryghtwyse men þat lufes God are neuer in ydyllnes. For owthyre þay ere in trauayle, prayand, or thynkande, or redande, or othere gude doande; or withtakand ydill mene, and schewand thaym worthy to be put fra þe ryste of heuene, {10} for þay will noghte trauayle here.

Þay take erthe, þat es, þay halde þamselfe vile and erthely, that thay be noghte blawene with þe wynde of vanyté and of pryde. Thay kepe thaire wynges clene, that es, þe twa commandementes of charyté þay fulfill in gud concyens, and {15} thay hafe othyre vertus, vnblendyde with þe fylthe of syne and vnclene luste.

Arestotill sais þat þe bees are feghtande agaynes hym þat will drawe þaire hony fra thayme. Swa sulde we do agayne deuells, þat afforces thame to reue fra vs þe hony of poure {20} lyfe and of grace. For many are, þat neuer kane halde þe ordyre of lufe yne_n_ce þaire frendys, sybbe or fremmede. Bot outhire þay lufe þaym ouer mekill, settand thaire thoghte vnryghtwysely on thaym, or þay luf thayme ouer lyttill, yf þay doo noghte all as þey wolde till þame. Swylke kane {25} noghte fyghte for thaire hony, forthy þe deuelle turnes it to wormes, and makes þeire saules oftesythes full bitter in angwys, and tene, and besynes of vayne thoghtes, and oþer wrechidnes. For thay are so heuy in erthely frenchype þat þay may noghte flee intill þe lufe of Iesu Criste, in þe wylke {30} þay moghte wele forgaa þe lufe of all creaturs lyfande in erthe.

Wharefore, accordandly, Arystotill sais þat some fowheles are of gude flyghyng, þat passes fra a lande to anothire. Some are of ill flyghynge, for heuynes of body, and for<þi> {35} þaire neste es noghte ferre fra þe erthe. Thus es it of thayme þat turnes þame to Godes seruys. Some are of gude flyeghynge, for thay flye fra erthe to heuene, and rystes thayme thare in thoghte, and are fedde in delite of Goddes lufe, and has thoghte of na lufe of þe worlde. Some are þat {40} kan noghte flyghe fra þis lande, bot in þe waye late theyre herte ryste, and delyttes þaym in sere lufes of mene and womene, als þay come and gaa, nowe ane and nowe anothire. And in Iesu Criste þay kan fynde na swettnes; or if þay any tyme fele oghte, it es swa lyttill and swa schorte, for othire thoghtes {45} þat are in thayme, þat it brynges thaym till na stabylnes.

<F>or þay are lyke till a fowle þat es callede strucyo or storke, þat has wenges, and it may noghte flye for charge of body. Swa þay hafe vndirstandynge, and fastes, and wakes, and semes haly to mens syghte; bot thay may noghte flye to lufe {50} and contemplacyone of God, þay are so chargede wyth othyre affeccyons and othire vanytés.

[Foot-note: 22 ynence] ynesche _MS._]

[Foot-note: 23 mekill] _MS. follows with_: or thay lufe þame ouer lyttill, _caught up from below_.]

THE SEVEN GIFTS OF THE HOLY GHOST.

(Chap. xi of _The Form of Perfect Living_; ed. Horstmann, vol. i, p. 196.)

Þe seuene gyftes of þe Haly Gaste, þat ere gyfene to men and wymmene þat er ordaynede to þe ioye of heuene, and ledys theire lyfe in this worlde reghtwysely. Thire are thay:—Wysdome, {55} Undyrstandynge, Counsayle, Strenghe, Connynge, Peté, the Drede of God. Begynne we at Consaile, for þareof es myster at the begynnynge of oure werkes, þat vs myslyke noghte aftyrwarde. With thire seuene gyftes þe Haly Gaste teches sere mene serely. {60}

Consaile es doynge awaye of worldes reches, and of all delytes of all thyngeȝ þat mane may be tagyld with, in thoghte or dede, and þa_r_with drawynge intill contemplacyone of Gode.

Undyrstandynge es to knawe whate es to doo, and whate {65} es to lefe, and þat that sall be gyffene, to gyffe it to thaym þat has nede, noghte till oþer þat has na myster.

Wysedome es forgetynge of erthely thynges and thynkynge of heuen, with discrecyone of all men_s_ dedys. In þis gyfte schynes contemplacyone, þat es, Saynt Austyne says, a gastely {70} dede of fleschely affeccyones, thurghe þe ioye of a raysede thoghte.

Strenghe es lastynge to fullfill gude purpose, þat it be noghte lefte, for wele ne for waa.

Peté es þat a man be mylde, and gaynesay noghte Haly {75} Writte whene it smyttes his synnys, whethire he vndyrstand it or noghte; bot in all his myghte purge he þe vilté of syne in hyme and oþer.

Connynge es þat makes a man of gude <hope>, noghte ruysand hyme of his reghtewysnes, bot sorowand of his {80} synnys, and þat man gedyrs erthely gude anely to the honour of God, and prow to oþer mene þane hymselfe.

The Drede of God es þat we turne noghte agayne till oure syne thurghe any ill eggyng. And þa_n_ es drede perfite in vs and gastely, when we drede to wrethe God in þe leste syne {85} þat we kane knawe, and flese it als venyme.

[Foot-note: 60 teches] towches _Cambridge MS. DD. 5. 64_.]

[Foot-note: 63 þar] þat _MS. Thornton_.]

[Foot-note: 69 mens] _so Cambridge MS. DD. 5. 64_ = mene _MS. Thornton_.]

[Foot-note: 79 hope] _from Cambridge MS. DD. 5. 64: om. MS. Thornton_.]

[Foot-note: 84 þan] _Cambridge MS. DD. 5. 64_: þen _MS. Arundel 507_: þat _MS. Thornton_.]

V

SIR GAWAYNE AND THE GRENE KNIGHT

ABOUT 1350-75.

_Sir Gawayne_ has been admirably edited by Sir F. Madden for the Bannatyne Club, 1839, and later by R. Morris for the Early English Text Society. It is found in British Museum MS. Nero A X, together with three other alliterative poems, named from their first words _Pearl_, _Patience_, and _Cleanness_. _Pearl_ supplies the next specimen; _Patience_ exemplifies the virtue by the trials of Jonah; _Cleanness_ teaches purity of life from Scriptural stories. All these poems are in the same handwriting; all are in a West-Midland dialect; all appear to be of the same age; and none is without literary merit. For these reasons, which are good but not conclusive, they are assumed to be by the same author. Attempts to identify this author have been unsuccessful.

The story runs as follows:

King Arthur is making his Christmas feast with his court at Camelot. On New Year's Day he declares that he will not eat until he has seen or heard some marvel. The first course of the feast is barely served when a tall knight, clad all in green, with green hair, and a green horse to match, rides into the hall. He carries a holly bough and a huge axe, and tauntingly invites any knight to strike him a blow with the axe, on condition that he will stand a return blow on the same day a year hence. Gawayne accepts the challenge and strikes off the Green Knight's head. The Green Knight gathers up his head, gives Gawayne an appointment for next New Year's Day at the Green Chapel, and rides off.

The year passes, and Gawayne, despite the fears of the court, sets out in quest of the Green Chapel. On Christmas Eve he arrives at a splendid castle, and finding that the Green Chapel is close at hand, accepts an invitation to stay and rest until New Year's Day. On each of three days the knight of the castle goes hunting, and persuades Gawayne to rest at home. They make an agreement that each shall give the other whatever he gets. The lady of the castle makes love to Gawayne, and kisses him once on the first day, twice on the second day, thrice on the third day; and on the third day she gives him her girdle, which he accepts because it has the magic power of preserving the wearer from wounds. Each evening he duly gives the kisses to the knight, and receives in return the spoils of the hunting of deer and boar and fox. But he conceals the girdle.

The extract begins with Gawayne preparing on New Year's morning to stand the return blow at the Green Chapel.

The poem ends by the Green Knight revealing that he is himself the lord of the castle; that he went to Arthur's court at the suggestion of Morgan la Fay; that he had urged his wife to make love to Gawayne and try his virtue; and that he would not have harmed him at all, if he had not committed the slight fault of concealing the girdle. Gawayne returns to the court, bearing the girdle as a sign of his shame, and tells his story. The knights of the court agree in future to wear a bright green belt for Gawayne's sake.

_Sir Gawayne_ is admittedly the best of the alliterative romances. It must have come down to us practically as it was written by the poet, for it is free from the flatness and conventional phrasing which is characteristic of romances that have passed through many popular recensions. The descriptions of nature, of armour and dresses, the hunting scenes, and the love making, are all excellently done; and the poet shows the same richness of imagination and skill in producing pictorial effects that are so noticeable in _Pearl_. He has too a quiet humour that recalls Chaucer in some of his moods.

THE TESTING OF SIR GAWAYNE.

British Museum MS. Nero A X (about 1400); ed. R. Morris, ll. 2069 ff.