Blisful lord on heigh, what schall I do, or in what place may I my selfë hide?Refute ne wot i non to drawë to.no doute I must my Iugëment a-byde;my foo is alwei redy be my side, me schapyng to appelë and accuse;I can no worde myn selffë to excuse.
I am aryved to a perilous port, ne knowe I nought to whom I may retourne;I am arrest; now kan I non confort;mawgre my selfe, right here mot I soiourne;For my mysshappe, A cause haue I to mourne; And in my skrippe now fynde I no vetayle, ne my burdonë doth me nought avayle.
Burdone ne skrippe may I no lengere bere, Myne enemy so sore assaileth me;I holde it best to cast awey this gere,And shape my selfe preuély for to flee.O blisful lord, I wis it wele nought be, And weel þou woot, how þat me hath bywiledMyne enemy that hath now me defiled.
Wherfore now I am brought to iugëment, Sithe I am falle in myschieff and porcert,Ne I ne may, to myn accusëment,Ne can nought say but aftir my desert,And my trespace, that knowë is apert, If þat I shall myne réwarde vnderfonge:Allas! whi have I be synfull so longe.
But best it is, if reason say me trowthe, That of some helpe I make me purveaunce;Parde, some wight on me wil havë rewthe;Asay I shal; but, for my sustenaunce,My burdone must I bere for suffisaunce, For, myght withowt[en] it [ne] haue I none;I bere it nought; it berith my persone.
Allas, but I haue now experience Off wis[ë]dam, my selffë to demeane,To éxcuse me have I none audience,And alle my witte availeth not a beane;Thus is myne hope alle discounfórted clene,
I kan nought do but cryë & compleyne,That charite nought rekkith of my peyne.
Whi saith Powle, that othere yiftes alle Schul failë here, but only chariteA-bydyng is, for he kowdë nought falle.Whethir this be soth? but nay, as it semith me,He wold[ë] than myne [good] aduócat be, And somwhat say to helpë in myne cause,For I kan nother spekë word ne clause.
I am adred that charite is deed, And slayne in erthe, of wikked[ë] men there,Withowt[en] eyre or issue of hire seed,Left here on highë:lo, this is my fere;And if I wiste that sche on lyvë were, I wold not spare to callë and [to] crie,If I hire, in oný place myght a-spie.
O charite, so good & so gracious! Thu hast be euere to tho þat have nede!I that am in this brikë perilous,That, in myne schippe, my self[ë] for to fedeHaue I no bred now of thin almësdede, Somwhat thu helpe, myn hunger to abate,Havyng reward vnto my pouer astate.
I meanë thus: if ony part of grace Reserued be, in tresoure or ellës where,That thu, for me purveyë and purchaseWolde vouchësaff, gret wondere but there wereI-nowgh for me: nought ellës I require; Do somwhat, than, aftir thi propirte,And schewe whi thu art cleped charite.
But now, allas, ful weel I may recorde, Whil I had myght and space of tyme I-nowgh,Of this mattere, towchid I no word,Ne, to seint, I tho my self[ë] drowgh,
That in myne nede for me may spekë now, As for no service that I have to him do:Wot I not, whom to make my monë to.
If I, to ony seint in specïal Had ony thing [i]forsed myne ententWith ony service, othir gret or small,I wold me have avaylèd in present; But thus have I be slowe and necligent, That I no freend have made, ne no seint pleased;Wherfore, as now, am I [right ill] disseased.
To hem am I a straunger and vnknowe; I knowe nought, to whom I shal my selffe dresseTo askë helpe, as I suppose and trowe,Ther is none that wold done that besynesse;And nought for this, I be-hotë expresse, Vnto hem I will [both] compleyne and crye,To make my causë knowen openly.
To the, Ihesu, the sone of god above, That were of mary, verray maidë, borneIn very flesch and blood, for mannës love,To the, will I now áppelë beforne,Syn thu art man, and forthermore Oure brothir, and a part of ourë kynde:Good is to us that we thi fauoure fynde.
This dare I say, sithe that thu wilfully Where done to deth, only for mannës sake,And of thi selfe whas none encheasoun whi,This knowe I weel, þou wilt it nought forsake,To alle that will vnto thi grace him take, And askë it: as oftë I haue lerned,Was neuere yitte none, to whom it was warned.
This woot I weel, I haue ful sore offendid Thi maiestes; wherof I me repente.Ful late it was, or I my selfe amended,
But yitte ne come it neuere in myne ententeTo disallowë thi gouérnëmente; That 'lord and kyng' I have callëd the euere;Thi lawës also ne forsoke I neuere.
My scrippe of feithë, haue I nought for-lete, but hool, right as it was [i]takë me,I have it kepte; but that no thinges gret[e] (This knowe I weel) susteigned I for the,Nor do that I was bound of duëte.Yitte wote I weel, so gret is nought my synne,as grace & mercy is, Ihesu withinne.
Away, yit nought, eueri deel that grace Dispendid is, that tho in thi personewas plentevous whan, with so pale a face,For me thu hengë on the crosse alone;But, for we beggyng wrecchis euerychone Be procuryng alway for our purveaunce,Thi grace thu woldest hiden now purchaunce.
Yitte may we, by the persèd holës well, And be tho also that large be, & wide,Behalde and see, that certeyn eueridellNow spended is, though that thu woldest it hide;For thowe there ran a Rever from thi side, That alle the world hath fully ouerflowen,Thi grace is hool, as euery man may knowen.
Sithe yitte thi grace is nought dispendid all, With that thu hast me schewid to the tyme present,And come, and with the thus argue I schall,"Sithe it alway hath ben [so] affluent,Discreasyng nought, ne none appeyrëment Be-fallith it, thoughe neuere so largëlyThou yeve it where thu list habundauntly,
Thu owist to defendë me this day, kepyng my cause, that stondith al in dowte
A-geyn my foo, with all that euere he may.Thi grace, me to be-revyn is a-bowte,And, me for to passen al with-out; Ful ofte he hath grevèd me here-be-fore,And hopith now that all I haue forlore.
Though þat my speche be sownyng to foly, Yitte, blissed Lord, displease it nought to the,That to haue spokë of aduócacie,So that thu schuldest myn aduócat be:Thu Art the souereigne iuge of equite, And nought for-thi, to hem that to the truste,Here aduocat thu art, whan that the liste.
For, sothe it is, where synne and wrechidnesse A-boundeth most, there nedeth most[ë] grace,To tho that askë thë for-gevënesse,It sittith the nought to wrye awey thin face;Thi charite will cleyme there is a place: But this were southe, gret peril must redounde.Al mortal men with mischief to confounde."
Now maide & modier, of this worlde Princesse, So ful of gracë fulfilled thu wereWhan gaubriel his massage gan expresse,And 'Aue' was resownyng in thin ere,By wich oure lord, blissed saueoure thu bere, And of thi blood he took his humanite,My cause also I áppele vnto the,
As aduocate for man, & procuresse Approovid oftë be experience,So be myne helpe to ávoide and represseMyne enemy, wich that be violenceWold schend[ë] me, but if thi résistence, Now be myne helpe, o blisful qwene!So lat somwhat of thi grace on me be sene!
Sith that thi sone and thu of one accorde Be vearili, (as reason is that ye be),I, that for dreed vnnethe kan speke a worde,But tremble as doth a leef vpon a tree,Thu, ladi ful of merci and piete, Now must thu be myne helpe and myne socoureOf refute, in this áuentóurës howre!
For, but thu wilt my causë [now] defende A-geyn[ës] him wich is thyne enemy,that redi is, to greve and to offendeBothe the, and allë that wolde hertelyThe servë, and thi blisful sone also, he will hem castë in-to hellë dike,And berith me an hande þat I am him like.
I ám like, now that I haue done a-mys, Eternal deth deserued with my dede;But, gracïous queen[ë] of heuene blisse,Thu be myne helpe and counfort in this nede,But I record&#;and this is my dreed, That wonder sympillë I have the served,So that I haue no thing of the deserved.
And nought for-thi, thes burdon is my trest, In wich I have my solace & my disport;Of this pomel will I my self[ë] rest,That specially to me geuith gret counfort;My febill gost it helpith to support, That is, thi selfë, moder, maide and wiffe,The sustenaunce and solace of my liffe.
And I schal neuere trowë ne suppose, Sithe he, the wich of merci is the welle,Within thi sidës wold him selfë close,Right as thi childe, in veari flesch & falle,That he schuld lete the foulë feend of helle
To execute malice, or elles vengeaunce,On hem þat the besekë with instaunce.
There is no lyon, ne cruel lyonesse, So fiers ne so dispietous of corage,That hire malice attempren and oppresseNe will cessyn of hirë felle corageTo the, that lowëly hem selfe will wage With mekë hertë to the ground obeye: Such is the nature, as this clerkës say.
I am the same that heighli hath mys-wrought A-geyn thi childe Ihesu, and also the;Yit knowe I wel that "lyon" is he nought,Nor thu no "lyonessë" [fiers] may be.In you there is no malice ne cruelte; But mercie, pite, goodnessë & grace,In you thei have hire veray propir place.
Wherfore I schal the pray[ë] and be-seke, That thu, a-geyn me, nothing be amoeved,With lowely hertë sith I my-self meke.Though þat I have thi sone and the agreved,Be the is alle my trust to be releuyd, And that thu schalt my quarell take an hande,This foulë wightës malicë withstande.
For weel I wottë, thu wold[est] renome, As for myne causë, wilt thu nought refuse,Ne that thi grace thu wilt nought warnë me,But that thu wilt thin ownë maner vse,My quarell now to helpë and excuse, And be my socour in this perilows day,Chasyng this foulë gost from me a-way.
For alwey hath he be myn enemy Sith I was child, and [eke] tendre in yowthe.Me think thu schuldest let[të] him for-thiTo prócede in his accïon as nowthe,
Or suffre him accusë, thow he cowthe; Thu schuldest nought berë no fals witnesse,That is him-self conuicte of cursidnesse.
For sekirly this is the comon lawe, That he ne schulde non accion procede,That onës owt of courte hath be with-drawe Convicte as fals,now here-to takith hede!This knoweth wel euery wight (it is no dreed), Thi sone him banysshed from heuen blisse,as for enfamed; he and allë his.
Michael, prouost, on the I take recorde! Thi selffe dedist this execucïon.Thow I my selff wolde lyen ony worde,Yit am I nought of this oppinïon,To couere so be excusacïon Of this infame, the malise of my synne:This were a folës purpoce to be-gynne.
But this put I in thi discreacïon, That suche a fals deformèd one as he,I may refusë be excepcïon,That this quarel schal nought receyued beHere in this courte; ne to accusë me He schuld not be admitted, as be right,But I-put away, this foulë fals[ë] wight.
For whi, sere prouost Michael gracïows, And alle the Aungeles of thi companyThat him enfamed, hath foriuged thus,And fals convictë cleere and openly,And him [sente] into peyne eternally, In hellë to be [kepte] without[en] ende,With tho that so be déformed in kende.
Ful mek[ë]ly at onës I reclayme you alle to do your devere in this case:This cursed gost, whom malice doth enflame,
Here in this court, his malice haue no place:This aske I you of right, and also of grace, That ye, his cry & [eke] his bost abate,Þat he neuére more bere aftir estate.
Seint Michael, if þou rekkest nought at alle, Ne nought rewardest [on] myne heuynesse,Alle manere of hope awey from me is falle, So am I than encombred with distresse;For Danyell the prophete seith expresse, That in his myschief and suche aduersiteHe fonde none othir helpe but only the.
Wherfore, if I haue the displeased ought, So that of me thu takest now none heed,Aftir this oure, I mote with alle my thoughtThe done pleasaunce, for betere I schal spede;For who þat well be holpen at his nede, Ful sekere, Placebo mvst go before,As doth the Crosse in the litel childes lore.
Baptist, an holy man, martir, seint Iohn, and alle prophetës of oure lord on heighe,And ye euaungelistës euerichon,And also aposteles, alle the company,With alle myne herte I pray you humb[le]ly, Of youre meritës superhábundaunce,As grauntith me of almesse some pietaunce.
In youre tresoure suche plente is bestowe, Of wich you nedith nought a deel I-wis,And lorne it may not bethis weel I knowe,Discreasyn may it noughtthe sothe it isFor whi, of almesse-dede (I pray you this)
That I some manere of porcïon may haue,Where-with I may my self[ë] helpe and saue.
Ye that haue suffird hard and grevous peyne Of martirdam, for ihesu crist-is love,Wich, weel I wottë, was not done in veyne,Yit merite is youre medë muche a-bove;I that am pore, and gret[e]ly be-hove, Of helpe I pray you, and [of] almës-dede,Of youre meriteis, helpith at this nede!
And sithë thei schul endëles endure, Thei wastë nought be dymynucïon:To me, that am so pore a crëature,Of almesse grauntith now a porcïon,I you require, with hool affeccïon, That blisful that sittith an highe in trone,Appelith him as töward my persone.
Ye cónfessourës, and ye othir seintes, And uirginës þat to Crist be so dere,Entendith to my pietous complayntes,Be moevid [now] with rewthe vpon my chiere;For woman none, the wich that is ful nere To childe-beryng, so of her peynës dredeth,As I woot that my iugëment procedeth.
And if that ye, of youre meriteis grete, Somwhat departen to so pouere a wight,ye wil vouchesaff such gracë me to gete,This foulë gost to putte owt of my sight,Yitte wolde I hope to Ihesu ful of myght, Of malice wich he hath a-geyn me spoke,He schuld be atteynt, & alle his barrës broke.
I have not whom, my selff to turnë to, In specïal to speke, or elles compleyne,
That may me ony helpe and socoure do,My symple cause to forthere or susteyne:That doth me sorë grevë and constreyne. The holy Court of Seintës I appele,Betakyng you my quarell eueridell.
Ye knowë weel [right] now what is my nede Ageyn the malice of myne enemy,Þat is a-bowte to noyë and mysbedeMe, nedi wrecchë: help[ë] me forththi!Geve audience vnto my pietows cry, And to my Kyng now reconsilë me,Schewyng the feruoure of youre charite!
The relieff of youre excellent merites, Ye preciows seintës chosen euerichon,A-geyn the malice of this perilous witesWich þat the feend [now] puttith me upon,Þat whil I was levyng in flesch and bon, With his disceiptës and his fraudës feleHe drowe me to, & now me doth appele.
Seint Poule him-selff[ë] writith in this wise, And saith that "veray parfight chariteIs a thing þat may to muche poepil suffice";Sche aboundith nought in propirte.Sithe it behouith, than, in communalte Among the nedi to be díspended,Let myne estate somwhat be ámendid!
