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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117652" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>An Excelente Balade of Charitiem as wroten bie the gode Prieste Thomas Rowley, 1464</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">In Virgynë the sweltrie sun gan sheene,<br>And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie;<br>The apple rodded from its palie greene,<br>And the mole peare did bende the leafy spraie;<br>The peede chelandri sunge the livelong daie;<br>'Twas nowe the pride, the manhode of the yeare,<br>And eke the grounde was dighte in its moste defte aumere.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The sun was glemeing in the midde of daie,<br>Deadde still the aire, and eke the welken blue,<br>When from the sea arist in drear arraie<br>A hepe of cloudes of sable sullen hue,<br>The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe,<br>Hiltring attenes the sunnis fetive face,<br>And the blacke tempeste swolne and gatherd up apace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side,<br>Which dide unto Seyncte Godwine's covent lede,<br>A hapless pilgrim moneynge did abide.<br>Pore in his newe, ungentle in his weede,<br>Longe bretful of the miseries of neede,<br>Where from the hail-stone coulde the almer flie?<br>He had no housen theere, ne anie covent nie.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Look in his glommed face, his sprighte there scanne;<br>Howe woe-be-gone, how withered, forwynd, deade!<br>Haste to thie church-glebe-house, asshrewed manne!<br>Haste to thie kiste, thie onlie dortoure bedde.<br>Cale, as the claie whiche will gre on thie hedde,<br>Is Charitie and Love aminge highe elves;<br>Knightis and Barons live for pleasure and themselves.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The gatherd storme is rype; the bigge drops falle;<br>The forswat meadowes smethe, and drenche the raine;<br>The comyng ghastness do the cattle pall,<br>And the full flockes are drivynge ore the plaine;<br>Dashde from the cloudes the waters flott againe;<br>The welkin opes; the yellow levynne flies;<br>And the hot fierie smothe in the wide lowings dies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Liste! now the thunder's rattling clymmynge sound<br>Cheves slowlie on, and then embollen clangs,<br>Shakes the hie spyre, and losst, dispended, drown'd,<br>Still on the gallard eare of terroure hanges;<br>The windes are up; the lofty elmen swanges;<br>Again the levynne and the thunder poures,<br>And the full cloudes are braste attenes in stonen showers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Spurreynge his palfrie oere the watrie plaine,<br>The Abbote of Seyncte Godwynes convente came;<br>His chapournette was drented with the reine,<br>And his pencte gyrdle met with mickle shame;<br>He aynewarde tolde his bederoll at the same;<br>The storme encreasen, and he drew aside,<br>With the mist almes craver neere to the holme to bide.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His cope was all of Lyncolne clothe so fyne,<br>With a gold button fasten'd neere his chynne;<br>His autremete was edged with golden twynne,<br>And his shoone pyke a loverds mighte have binne;<br>Full well it shewn he thoughten coste no sinne:<br>The trammels of the palfrye pleasde his sighte,<br>For the horse-millanare his head with roses dighte.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"An almes, sir prieste!" the droppynge pilgrim saide,<br>"O! let me waite within your covente dore,<br>Till the sunne sheneth hie above our heade,<br>And the loude tempeste of the aire is oer;<br>Helpless and ould am I alas! and poor;<br>No house, ne friend, ne moneie in my pouche;<br>All yatte I call my owne is this my silver crouche."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Varlet," replyd the Abbatte, "cease your dinne;<br>This is no season almes and prayers to give;<br>Mie porter never lets a faitour in;<br>None touch mie rynge who not in honour live."<br>And now the sonne with the blacke cloudes did stryve,<br>And shettynge on the grounde his glairie raie,<br>The Abbatte spurrde his steede, and eftsoones roadde awaie.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Once moe the skie was blacke, the thunder rolde;<br>Faste reyneynge oer the plaine a prieste was seen;<br>Ne dighte full proude, ne buttoned up in golde;<br>His cope and jape were graie, and eke were clene;<br>A Limitoure he was of order seene;<br>And from the pathwaie side then turned hee,<br>Where the pore almer laie binethe the holmen tree.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"An almes, sir priest!" the droppynge pilgrim sayde,<br>"For sweete Seyncte Marie and your order sake."<br>The Limitoure then loosen'd his pouche threade,<br>And did thereoute a groate of silver take;<br>The mister pilgrim dyd for halline shake.<br>"Here take this silver, it maie eathe thie care;<br>We are Goddes stewards all, nete of oure owne we bare.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"But ah! unhailie pilgrim, lerne of me,<br>Scathe anie give a rentrolle to their Lorde.<br>Here take my semecope, thou arte bare I see;<br>Tis thyne; the Seynctes will give me mie rewarde."<br>He left the pilgrim, and his waie aborde.<br>Virgynne and hallie Seyncte, who sitte yn gloure,<br>Or give the mittee will, or give the gode man power.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Thomas+Chatterton">Thomas Chatterton</a><div class=q>
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