0044 Liste ye thertyl allé thynge ye speke
Allé thyngés speke the name of godde.
Trete allé thynge as lichsome lissom mayde
thatte fore thu yearne to daunce as cheke to cheke
as for to sense the savour of here blome;
Ware thu watchen; thenne alle thynge schal speke
and telle al worldés hiden metodés
than speké not thatte godde speke of him self;
thorough goddes brethe hem brethe thy yeres thereinne
hem sondés, hwile thatte ye stonde and boté stare;
Hwaet thu! Tak boté steppés quicke and close
as alway maydé mak menne brazelich bolde –
for til godde speke thee in Hys allé thynge,
so ware thu watchen; alle thynge slepe inne godde.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
Hertes Academie (a metaphysical exercise)
My mistress’ bedde, my wylling scholeroom is,
where I do lerne my eager pupille’s taske;
her scorns, her prayse, to me as equalle are;
her swete chastisement, alle thatte I may aske;
In her anatomie, I lerne newe worldes;
I am Columbus, sayling to strange shores,
fynde alle thynges newe; I am as one fresshe-taughte;
nought of our schyppe to speke of myne or yours;
Whanne infants, we are all shored safelie uppe
by parentes luve, upon us richlie pored;
but thenne, in’th torment of our growing yeares,
where mighte we lerne where alle thysse luve is stored?
Where is the hertes academie, to teche
thysse bloody, beating, untaughte, human place,
where hevenes Creator meetes thysse mortal coil,
whatte is its role and rule, whatte it muste face?
Too layte, too layte, to tayke a lyfe to lerne
thysse herte to growe, and swell, and gratelie strive;
where is the hertes academie, whanne younge,
to sooner teche oure hertes with luve to thrive?
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Alison
Bytuene Mershe and Averil
When spray biginneth to springe,
The lutel foul hath hire wyl
On hyre lud to synge:
Ich libbe in love-longinge
For semlokest of alle thynge,
He may me blisse bringe,
Ich am in hire baundoun.
An hendy hap ichabbe y-hent,
Ichot from hevene it is me sent,
From alle wymmen my love is lent
And lyht on Alysoun.
On heu hire her is fayr ynoh,
Hire browe broune, hire eye blake;
With lossum chere he on me loh;
With middel smal and wel y-make;
Bote he me wolle to hire take
For to buen hire owen make,
Long to lyven ichulle forsake
And feye fallen adoun.
An hendy hap ichabbe y-hent,
Ichot from hevene it is me sent,
From alle wymmen my love is lent
And lyht on Alysoun.
Nihtes when I wende and wake,
For-thi myn wonges waxeth won,
Levedi, al for thine sake
Longinge is y-lent me on.
In world nis non so wyter mon
That al hire bounte telle con;
Hire swyre is whittore than the swon,
And feyrest may in toune.
An hendy hap ichabbe y-hent,
Ichot from hevene it is me sent,
From alle wymmen my love is lent
And lyht on Alysoun.
Ich am for wowyng al for-wake,
Wery so water in wore;
lest eny reve me my make
Ichabbe y-yerned yore.
betere is tholien whyle sore
Then mournen evermore.
Geynest under gore,
Herkne to my roun.
An hendy hap ichabbe y-hent,
Ichot from hevene it is me sent,
From alle wymmen my love is lent
And lyht on Alysoun.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Alle thyngen af Thu syngen
Today, all things sing of you;
you sing in all things.
you show yourself -
today - in all things;
all things show you.
you are here
in all things – today –
all things are you.
Dare we say – today –
You made them?
Better to be silent,
eyes shining.
Alle thyngen af Thu syngen,
Goddes-sonne yeboren ys;
Alleluya, belles beswyngen,
alle menne, synge inne blysse!
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Light Of The Stable-christmas
(steve rhymer/elizabeth rhymer)
Hail, hail to the newborn king
Let our voices sing him our praises
Hail, hail to the guiding light
That brought us tonight to our savior
Ale, alleluia, alle, alleluia
Ale, alleluia, alle, alleluia
Come now, there it shines so bright
To the knowing light of the stable
Lean close to the child so dear
Cast aside your fear and the thankful
Ale, alleluia, alle, alleluia
Ale, alleluia, alle, alleluia
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Alison
BYTUENE Mershe ant Averil
When spray biginneth to spring,
The lutel foul hath hire wyl
On hyre lud to synge:
Ich libbe in love-longinge
For semlokest of alle thynge,
He may me blisse bringe,
Icham in hire bandoun.
An hendy hap ichabbe y-hent,
Ichot from hevene it is me sent,
From alle wymmen my love is lent
Ant lyht on Alisoun.
On heu hire her is fayr ynoh,
Hire browe broune, hire eye blake;
With lossum chere he on me loh;
With middel smal ant wel y-make;
Bote he me wolle to hire take
For to buen hire owen make,
Long to lyven ichulle forsake
Ant feye fallen adoun.
An hendy hap, etc.
Nihtes when I wende and wake,
For-thi myn wonges waxeth won;
Levedi, al for thine sake
Longinge is y-lent me on.
In world his non so wyter mon
That al hire bounte telle con;
Hire swyre is whittore than the swon,
Ant feyrest may in toune.
An hendy hap, etc.
Icham for wowyng al for-wake,
Wery so water in wore;
Lest eny reve me my make
Ichabbe y-yerned yore.
Betere is tholien whyle sore
Then mournen evermore.
Geynest under gore,
Herkne to my roun--
An hendy hap, etc.
Bristowe Tragedie: Or The Dethe Of Syr Charles Badwin
THE featherd songster chaunticleer
Han wounde hys bugle horne,
And tolde the earlie villager
The commynge of the morne.
Kynge EDWARDE sawe the ruddie streakes
Of lyghte eclypse the greie;
And herde the raven's crokynge throte
Proclayme the fated daie.
'Thou'rt ryght,' quod hee, 'for, by the Godde
That syttes enthron'd on hyghe!
CHARLES BAWDIN, and hys fellowes twain,
To-daie shall surelie die.
Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy ale
Hys Knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite;
'Goe tell the traytour, thatt to-daie
'Hee leaves thys mortall state.'
Syr CANTERLONE thenne bendedd low;
Wythe harte brymm-fulle of woe;
Hee journey'd to the castle-gate,
And to Syr CHARLES dydd goe.
Butt whenne hee came, hys children twaine,
And eke hys lovynge wyfe,
Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore,
For goode Syr CHARLESES lyfe.
'O goode Syr CHARLES!' sayd CANTERLONE,
'Badde tydyngs I doe brynge.'
'Speke boldlie, manne,' sayd brave Syr CHARLES,
'Whatte says thie traytor kynge?'
'I greeve to telle, before yonne sonne
Does fromme the welkinn flye,
Hee hath uponne hys honour sworne,
Thatt thou thalt surelie die.'
'Wee all must die, quod brave Syr CHARLES;
'Of thatte I'm not affearde;
'Whatte bootes to lyve a little space?
'Thanke JESU, I'm prepar'd.
'Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not,
'I'de sooner die to-daie
'Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are,
'Tho' I shoulde lyve for aie.'
Thenne CANTERLONE hee dydd goe out,
To telle the maior straite
To gett all thynges ynne reddyness
For goode Syr CHARLESES fate.
Thenne Maisterr CANYNGE saughte the kynge,
And felle down onne hys knee;
'I'm come,' quod hee, 'unto your grace
'To move your clemencye.'
Thenne quod the kynge, 'Youre tale speke out,
'You have been much oure friende;
'Whatever youre request may bee,
'Wee wylle to ytte attende.'
'My nobile leige! alle my request
'Ys for a nobile knyghte,
'Who, tho' may hap hee has donne wronge,
'He thoghte ytte stylle was ryghte.
'Hee has a spouse and children twaine,
'Alle rewyn'd are for aie;
'Yff thatt you are resolv'd to lett
'CHARLES BAWDIN die to-daie.'
'Speke nott of such a traytour vile,'
The kynge ynne furie sayde;
'Before the evening starre doth sheene,
'BAWDIN shall loose hys hedde.
'Justice does loudlie for hym calle,
'And hee shalle have hys meede:
'Speke, Maister CANYNGE! Whatte thynge else
'Att present doe you neede?
'My nobile leige!' goode CANYNGE sayde,
'Leave justice to our Godde,
'And laye the yronne rule asyde;
'Be thyne the olyve rodde.
'Was Godde to serche our hertes and reines,
'The best were synners grete;
'CHRIST'S vycarr only knowes ne synne,
'Ynne alle thys mortall state.
'Lett mercie rule thyne infante reign;
''Twylle faste thye crowne fulle sure;
'From race to race thy familie
'Alle sov'reigns shall endure.
'But yff wythe bloode and slaughter thou
'Beginne thy infante reign;
'Thy crowne uponne thy childrennes brows
'Wylle never long remayne.'
'CANYNGE, awaie! thys traytour vile
'Has scorn'd my power and mee;
'Howe canst thou thenne for such a manne
'Intreate my clemencye?'
'My nobile leige! the trulie brave
'Wylle val'rous actions prize,
'Respect a brave and nobile mynde,
'Altho' ynne enemies.'
'CANYNGE, awale! By Godde ynne Heav'n
'Thatt dydd mee beinge gyve,
'I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade
'Whilst thys Syr CHARLES dothe lyve.
'By MARIE, and alle Seinctes ynne Heav'n,
'Thys sunne shall be hys laste.'
Thenne CANYNGE dropt a brinie teare,
And from the presence paste.
Wyth herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief,
Hee to Syr CHARLES dydd goe,
And satt hymm downe uponne a stoole,
And teares beganne to flowe.
'Wee all must die,' quod brave Syr CHARLES;
'Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne;
'Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate
'Of all wee mortall menne.
'Saye why, my friend, thie honest soul
'Runns overr att thyne eye;
'Is ytte for my most welcome doome
'Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?
Quod godlie CANYNGE, 'I doe weepe,
'Thatt thou so soone must dye;
'And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe;
''Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye.'
'Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye
'From godlie fountaines sprynge;
'Dethe I despise, and alle the power
'Of EDWARDE, traytor kynge.
'Whan throgh the tyrant's welcom means
'I shall resigne my lyfe,
'The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde
'For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe.'
'Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne,
'Thys was appointed mee;
'Shall mortal manne repyne or grudge
'Whatt Godde ordeynes to bee?
'Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode,
'Whan thousands dy'd arounde;
'Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode
'Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde.
'How dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte,
'Thatt cutte the airie waie,
'Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte,
'And close myne eyes for aie?
'And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe,
'Looke wanne and bee dysmayde?
'No! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere,
'Bee alle the manne display'd.
'Ah, goddelyke HENRIE! Godde forefende,
'And guarde thee and thye sonne,
'Yff 'tis hys wylle, but yff 'tis nott,
'Why thenne hys wylle bee donne.
'My honest friende, my faulte has beene
'To serve Godde and mye prynce;
'And thatt I no tyme-server am,
'My dethe wylle soone convynce.
'Ynne Londonne citye was I born;
'Of parents of grete note;
'My fadre dydd a nobile armes
'Emblazon onne hys cote.
'I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone
'Where soone I hope to goe;
'Where wee for ever shall bee blest,
'From oute the reech of woe
'Hee taughte mee justice and the laws
'Wyth pitie to unite;
'And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe
'The wronge cause fromm the ryghte.
'Hee taughte mee wythe a prudent hande
'To feede the hungrie poore,
'Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie
'The hungrie fromme my doore.
'And none can saye, butt alle mye lyfe
'I have hys wordyes kept;
'And summ'd the actyonns of the daie
'Eche nyghte before I slept.
'I have a spouse, goe aske of her,
'Yff I defyl'd her bedde?
'I have a kynge, and none can laie
'Blacke treason onne my hedde.
'Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve,
'Fromm fleshe I dydd refrayne;
'Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd
'To leave thys worlde of payne?
'Ne! hapless HENRIE! I rejoyce,
'I shalle ne see thye dethe;
'Moste willynglie ynne thye just cause
'Doe I resign my brethe.
'Oh, fickle people! rewyn'd londe!
'Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe;
'Whyle RICHARD'S sonnes exalt themselyes,
'Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe.
'Saie, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace,
'And godlie HENRIE'S reigne,
'Thatt you dydd choppe youre easie daies
'For those of bloude and peyne?
'Whatte tho' I onne a sledde bee drawne,
'And mangled by a hynde,
'I doe defye the traytor's pow'r,
'Hee can ne harm my mynde;
'Whatte tho', uphoisted onne a pole,
'Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre,
'And ne ryche monument of brasse
'CHARLES BAWDIN'S name shall bear;
'Yett ynne the holie booke above,
'Whyche tyme can't eate awaie,
'There wythe the sarvants of the Lorde
'Mye name shall lyve for aie.
'Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne
'I leave thys mortall lyfe
'Farewell, vayne worlde, and all that's deare,
'Mye sonnes and lovynge wyfe!
'Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes,
'As e'er the moneth of Maie;
'Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,
'Wyth my dere wyfe to staie.
Quod CANYGE, 'Tys a goodlie thynge
'To bee prepar'd to die;
'And from thys world of peyne and grefe
'To Godde ynne Heav'n to flie.'
And nowe the bell beganne to tolle,
And claryonnes to sounde;
Syr CHARLES hee herde the horses feete
A prauncyng onne the grounde.
And just before the officers,
His lovynge wyfe came ynne,
Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe,
Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.
'Sweet FLORENCE! nowe I praie forbere
'Ynne quiet lett mee die;
'Praie Godde, thatt ev'ry Christian soule
'Maye looke onne dethe as I.
'Sweet FLORENCE! why these brinie teeres?
'Theye washe my soule awaie,
'And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe,
'Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie.
''Tys butt a journie I shall goe
'Untoe the lande of blysse;
'Nowe, as a proof of husbande's love,
'Receive thys holie kysse.'
Thenne FLORENCE, fault'ring ynne her saie,
Tremblynge these wordyes spoke,
'Ah, cruele EDWARDE! bloudie kynge!
'My herte ys welle nyghe broke.
'Ah, sweete Syr CHARLES! why wylt thou goe,
'Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe?
'The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke,
'Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe.'
And nowe the officers came ynne
To brynge Syr CHARLES awaie
Whoe turnedd toe his lovynge wyfe,
And thus toe her dydd saie
'I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe;
'Truste thou ynne Godde above,
'And teache thye sonnes to feare the Lorde,
'And ynne theyre hertes hym love.
'Teache them to runne the nobile race
'Thatt I theyre fader runne:
'FLORENCE! shou'd dethe thee take -- adieu!
'Yee officers, leade onne.'
Thenne FLORENCE rav'd as anie madde,
And dydd her tresses tere;
'Oh! staie, mye husbande! lorde! and lyfe!' --
Syr CHARLES thenne dropt a teare.
'Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loud,
Shee fellen onne the floore;
Syr CHARLES exerted alle hys myghte,
And march'd fromm oute the dore.
Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne
Wythe lookes fulle brave and swete;
Lookes, thatt enshone ne moe concern
Thanne anie ynne the strete.
Before hym went the council-menne,
Ynne scarlett robes and golde
And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne,
Muche glorious to beholde.
The Freers of Seincte AUGUSTYNE next
Appeared to the fyghte,
Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes,
Of godlie monkysh plyghte.
Ynne diffraunt parts a godlie psaume
Moste sweetlie theye dydd chaunt;
Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came,
Who tun'd the strunge bataunt.
Thenne fyve-and-twentye archers came;
Echone the bowe dydd bende,
From rescue of kynge HENRIES friends
Syr CHARLES forr to defend.
Bolde as a lyon came Syr CHARLES;
Drawne onne a clothe-layde sledde,
Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white,
Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde.
Behynde hym fyve-and-twentye moe
Of archers stronge and stoute,
Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande,
Marched ynne goodlie route.
Seincte JAMESES Freers marched next,
Echone hys parte dydd chaunt;
Behynde theyre backs syx mynstrelles came,
Who tun'd the strunge bataunt.
Thenne came the maior and eldermenne,
Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't;
And theyre attendyng menne echone,
Lyke Easterne princes trickt.
And after them, a multitude
Of citizenns dydd thronge;
The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes,
As hee dydd passe alonge.
And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse,
Syr CHARLES dydd turne and saie,
O Thou, thatt savest manne fromme synne,
Wasshe mye soule clean thys daie!
Att the grete mynsterr wyndowe sat
The kynge ynne myckle state,
To see CHARLES BAWDIN goe alonge,
To hys most welcom fate.
Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe,
Thatt EDWARDE hee myghte heare,
The brave Syr CHARLES hee dydd stande uppe,
And thus hys wordes declare.
'Thou seest me; EDWARDE! traytour vile!
'Expos'd to infamie;
'Butt bee assur'd, disloyall manne
'I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee.
'Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,
'Thou wearest nowe a crowne;
'And hast appoynted mee to dye,
'By power nott thyne owne.
'Thou thynkest I shall dye to-daie;
'I have beene dede 'till nowe,
'And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne
'For aie uponne my browe:
'Whylst thou, perhapps, for som few yeares,
'Shalt rule thys fickle lande,
'To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule
'Twixt kynge and tyrant hande:
'Thye pow'r unjust, thou traytour slave!
'Shall falle onne thye owne hedde --'
Fromm out of hearyng of the kynge
Departed thenne the sledde.
Kynge EDWARDE'S soule rush'd to hys face,
Hee turn'd hys hedde awaie,
And to hys broder GLOUCESTER
Hee thus dydd speke and saie.
'To hym that soe-much-dreaded dethe
'Ne ghastlie terrors brynge,
'Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe,
'Hee's greater thanne a kynge!
'Soe lett hym die!' Duke RICHARD sayde;
'And maye echone oure foes
'Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe,
'And feede the carryon crowes.
And nowe the horses gentlie drewe
Syr CHARLES uppe the hyghe hylle;
The axe dydd glysterr ynne the sunne,
Hys pretious bloude to spylle.
Syrr CHARLES dydd uppe the scaffold goe,
As uppe a gilded carre
Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs
Gayn'd ynne the bloudie warre.
And to the people hee dydd saie,
'Beholde you see mee dye;
'For servynge loyally mye kynge,
'Mye kynge most rightfullie.
As longe as EDWARDE rules thys lande,
'Ne quiet you wylle knowe;
'Youre sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slayne,
'And brookes wythe bloude shalle flowe.
'You leave youre goode and lawfulle kynge,
'Whenne ynne adversitye;
'Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke,
'And for the true cause dye.
Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees,
A pray'r to Godde dydd make,
Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe
Hys partynge soule to take.
Thenne, kneelynge downe, hee layd hys hedde
Most seemlie onne the blocke;
Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once
The able heddes-manne stroke:
And oute the bloude beganne to flowe,
And rounde the scaffolde twyne;
And teares, enow to washe't awaie,
Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne.
The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre
Ynnto foure parties cutte;
And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde,
Uponne a pole was putte.
One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle,
One onne the mynster-tower,
And one from off the castle-gate
The crowen dydd devoure:
The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode gate,
A dreery spectacle;
Hys hedde was plac'd onne the hyghe crosse,
Ynne hyghe-streete most nobile.
Thus was the ende of BAWDIN'S fate:
Godde prosper longe oure kynge,
And grante hee maye, wyth BAWDIN'S soule,
Ynne heav'n Godd's mercie synge!
poem by Thomas Chatterton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Hymn to the Virgin
OF on that is so fayr and bright
Velut maris stella,
Brighter than the day is light,
Parens et puella:
Ic crie to the, thou see to me,
Levedy, preye thi Sone for me,
Tam pia,
That ic mote come to thee
Maria.
Al this world was for-lore
Eva peccatrice,
Tyl our Lord was y-bore
De te genetrice.
With ave it went away
Thuster nyth and comz the day
Salutis;
The welle springeth ut of the,
Virtutis.
Levedy, flour of alle thing,
Rose sine spina,
Thu bere Jhesu, hevene king,
Gratia divina:
Of alle thu ber'st the pris,
Levedy, quene of paradys
Electa:
Mayde milde, moder es
Effecta.
Cleveland Lyke-wake Dirge (Traditional)
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
Every nighte and alle;
Fire and sleete and candle lighte,
And Christe receive thye saule.
When thou from hence away are paste,
Every nighte and alle;
To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste;
And Christe receive thye saule.
If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,
Every nighte and alle;
Sit thee down, and put them on;
And Christe receive thye saule.
If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gavest nane,
Every nighte and alle;
The whinnes shall pricke thee to the bare bane,
And Christe receive thye saule.
From Whinny-muir when thou mayst passe,
Every nighte and alle ;
To Brigg o' Dread thou comest at laste,
And Christe receive thye saul
(A stanza wanting)
From Brigg o' Dread when thou mayst passe,
Every nighte and alle;
To purgatory fire thou comest at laste;
And Christ receive thye saule.
If ever thou gavest meat or drinke,
Every nighte and alle;
The fire shall never make thee shrinke;
And Christ receive thye saule.
If meate or drinke thou never gavest nane,
Every nighte and alle;
The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;
And Christe receive thye saule.
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
Every nighte and alle;
Fire and sleete, and candle lighte,
And Christe receive thye saule.
poem by Sir Walter Scott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Lyke-Wake Dirge
THIS ae nighte, this ae nighte,
--Every nighte and alle,
Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,
And Christe receive thy saule.
When thou from hence away art past,
--Every nighte and alle,
To Whinny-muir thou com'st at last;
And Christe receive thy saule.
If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,
--Every nighte and alle,
Sit thee down and put them on;
And Christe receive thy saule.
If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gav'st nane
--Every nighte and alle,
The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane;
And Christe receive thy saule.
From Whinny-muir when thou may'st pass,
--Every nighte and alle,
To Brig o' Dread thou com'st at last;
And Christe receive thy saule.
From Brig o' Dread when thou may'st pass,
--Every nighte and alle,
To Purgatory fire thou com'st at last;
And Christe receive thy saule.
If ever thou gavest meat or drink,
--Every nighte and alle,
The fire sall never make thee shrink;
And Christe receive thy saule.
If meat or drink thou ne'er gav'st nane,
--Every nighte and alle,
The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;
And Christe receive thy saule.
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
--Every nighte and alle,
Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,
And Christe receive thy saule.
Goddwyn; A Tragedie
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
HAROLDE, bie T. Rowleie, the Aucthoure.
GODDWYN, bie Johan de Iscamme.
ELWARDE, bie Syrr Thybbot Gorges.
ALSTAN, bie Syrr Alan de Vere.
KYNGE EDWARD; bie Mastre Wilyam Canynge.
Odhers bie Knyghtes Mynnstrells.
PROLOGUE
WHYLOMME bie pensmenne moke ungentle name
Have upon Goddwynne Erle of Kente bin layde,
Dherebie benymmynge hymme of faie and fame;
Unliart divinistres haveth saide,
Thatte he was knowen toe noe hallie wurche ;
Botte thys was all hys faulte, he gyfted ne the churche.
The aucthoure of the piece whiche we enacte,
Albeytte a clergyon trouthe wyll wrytte.
Inne drawynge of hys menne no wytte ys lackte;
Entyn a kynge mote bee full pleased to nyghte.
Attende, and marcke the partes nowe to be done;
Wee better for toe doe do champyon anie onne.
GODDWYN; A TRAGEDIE.
ACT I.
GODDWYN AND HAROLDE.
GODDWYN.
HAROLDE!
HAROLDE.
M ie loverde!
GODDWYN.
O! I weepe to thyncke,
What foemen riseth to isrete the londe.
Theie batten onne her fleshe, her hartes bloude dryncke,
And all ys graunted from the roieal honde.
HAROLDE.
Lette notte this agreme blyn ne aledge stonde;
Bee I toe wepe, I wepe in teres of gore.
Am I betrassed , syke shulde mie burlie bronde
Depeyncte the wronges on hym from whom I bore.
GODDWYN.
I ken thie spryte ful welle; gentle thou art,
Stringe , ugsomme rou as smethynge armyes seeme;
Yett efte , I feare, thie chefes toe grete a parte,
And that thie rede bee efte borne downe bie breme .
What tydynges from the kynge?
HAROLDE.
His Normans know.
I make noe compheeres of the shemrynge trayne.
GODDWYN.
Ah Harolde! tis a syghte of myckle woe,
To kenne these Normannes everich rennome gayne.
What tydynge withe the foulke ?
HAROLDE.
Stylle mormorynge atte yer shap , stylle toe the kynge
Theie rolle theire trobbles, lyche a sorgie sea.
Hane Englonde thenne a tongue, butte notte a stynge?
Dothe alle compleyne, yette none wylle ryghted bee?
GODDWYN.
Awayte the tyme, whanne Godde wylle sende us ayde.
HAROLDE.
No, we muste streve to ayde oureselves wyth powre.
Whan Godde wylle sende us ayde! tis fetelie prayde.
Moste we those calke awaie the lyve-longe howre?
Thos croche oure armes, and ne toe lyve dareygne ,
Unburled , undelievre , unespryte ?
Far fro mie harte be fled thyk thoughte of peyne,
Ile free mie countrie, or Ille die yn fyghte.
GODDWYN.
Botte lette us wayte untylle somme season fytte.
Mie Kentyshmen, thie Summertons shall ryse;
Adented prowess to the gite of witte,
Agayne the argent horse shall daunce yn skies.
Oh Harolde, heere forstraughteynge wanhope lies.
Englonde, oh Englonde, tys for thee I blethe .
Whylste Edwarde to thie sonnes wylle nete alyse ,
Shulde anie of thie sonnes sele aughte of ethe ?
Upponne the trone I sette thee, helde thie crowne;
Botte oh! twere hommage nowe to pyghte thee downe.
Thou arte all preeste, & notheynge of the kynge.
Thou arte all Norman, nothynge of mie blodde.
Know, ytte beseies thee notte a masse to synge;
Servynge thie leegefolcke thou arte servynge Godde.
HAROLDE.
Thenne Ille doe heaven a servyce. To the skyes
The dailie contekes of the londe ascende,
The wyddowe, fahdrelesse, & bondemennes cries
Acheke the mokie aire & heaven astende
On us the rulers doe the folcke depende
Hancelled from erthe these Normanne hyndes shalle bee;
Lyche a battently low , mie swerde shalle brende ;
Lyche fallynge softe rayne droppes, I wyll hem slea .
Wee wayte too longe; our purpose wylle defayte
Aboune the hyghe empryze , & rouze the champyones strayte.
GODDWYN.
Thie suster --
HAROLDE.
Aye, I knowe, she is his queene.
Albeytte , dyd shee speeke her foemen fayre,
I wulde dequace her comlie semlykeene ,
And foulde mie bloddie anlace yn her hayre.
GODDWYN.
Thye fhuir blyn .
HAROLDE.
No, bydde the leathal mere ,
Upriste withe hiltrene wyndes & cause unkend ,
Beheste it to be lete ; so twylle appeare,
Eere Harolde hyde hys name, his contries frende.
The gule-steyncte brygandyne , the adventayle
The feerie anlace brede shal make mie gare prevayle.
GODDWYN.
Harolde, what wuldest doe?
HAROLDE.
Bethyncke thee whatt,
Here liethe Englonde, all her drites unfree,
Here liethe Normans coupynge her bie lotte,
Caltysnyng everich native plante to gre
Whatte woulde I doe? I brondeous wulde hem slee ;
Tare owte theyre sable harte bie ryghtefulle breme ;
Theyre deathe a meanes untoe mie lyfe shulde bee,
Mie spryte shulde revelle yn theyr harte-blodde streme.
Eftsoones I wylle bewryne mie ragefulle ire,
And Goddis anlace wielde yn furie dyre.
GODDWYN.
Whatte wouldest thou wythe the kynge?
HAROLDE.
Take offe hys crowne;
The ruler of somme mynster hym ordeyne;
Sette uppe som dygner than I han pyghte downe;
And peace in Englonde shulde be brayd agayne.
GODDWYN.
No, lette the super-hallie seyncte kynge reygne,
Ande somme moe reded rule the untentyff reaulme;
Kynge Edwarde, yn hys cortesie, wylle deygne
So to yielde the spoiles, and alleyne were the heaulme
Botte from mee harte bee everych thoughte of gayne,
Nor anie of mie kin I wysche him to ordeyne.
HAROLDE.
Tell me the meenes, and I wylle boute ytte strayte;
Bete mee to slea mieself, ytte shalle be done.
GODDWYN.
To thee I wylle swythynne the menes unplayte ,
Bie whyche thou, Harolde, shalte be proved mie sonne.
I have longe seen whatte peynes were undergon,
Whatte agrames braunce out from the general tree;
The tyme ys commynge, whan the mollock gron
Drented of alle yts swolynge owndes shalle bee;
Mie remedie is goode; our menne shall ryse.
Eftsoons the Normans and owre agrame flies.
HAROLDE.
I will to the West, and gemote alle the knyghtes,
Wythe bylles that pancte for blodde, and sheeldes as brede
As the ybroched moon, when blaunch she dyghtes
The wodeland grounde or water-mantled mede;
Wythe hondes whose myghte canne make the doughtiest blede,
Who efte have knelte upon forslagen foes,
Whoe wythe yer fote orrests a castle-stede
Who dare on kynges for to bewrecke yiere woes;
Nowe wylle the menne of Englonde haile the daie,
Whan Goddwyn leades them to the ryghtfulle fraie.
GODDWYN.
Botte firste we'll call the loverdes of the West,
The erles of Mercia, Conventrie and all;
The moe wee gayne, the gare wylle prosper beste,
Wythe syke a nomber wee can never fall.
HAROLDE.
True, so wee sal doe best to lyncke the chayne,
And alle attenes the spreddynge kyngedomme bynde.
No crouched champyone wythe an harte moe feygne
Dyd yssue owte the hallie swerde to fynde,
Than I nowe strev to ryd mie londe of peyne.
Goddwyn, what thanckes owre laboures wylle enhepe!
I'lle ryse mie friendes unto the bloddie pleyne;
I'lle wake the honnoure thatte ys now aslepe.
When wylle the chiefes mete atte thie feastive halle,
That I wythe voice alowde maie there upon 'em calle?
GODDWYN.
Next eve, mie sonne.
HAROLDE.
Nowe, Englonde, ys the tyme,
Whan thee or thie felle foemens cause moste die.
Thie geason wronges bee reyne ynto theyre pryme;
Nowe wylle thie sonnes unto thie succoure flie.
Alyche a storm egederinge yn the skie,
Tys fulle ande brasteth on the chaper grounde;
Sycke shalle mie fhuirye on the Normans flie,
And alle theyre mittee
Nowe, nowe, wylle Harolde or oppressionne falle,
Ne moe the Englyshmenne yn vayne for hele shal calle.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
KYNGE EDWARDE AND HIS QUEENE.
QUEENE.
BOTTE, loverde , whie so manie Normannes here?
Mee thynckethe wee bee notte yn Englyshe londe.
These browded straungers alwaie doe appere,
Theie parte yor trone , and sete at your ryghte honde.
KYNGE.
Go to, goe to, you doe ne understonde.
Theie yeave mee lyffe, and dyd mie bowkie kepe;
Theie dyd mee feeste, and did embowre me gronde;
To trete hem ylle wulde lette mie kyndnesse slepe.
QUEENE.
Mancas you have yn store, and to them parte;
Youre leege-folcke make moke dole , you have theyr worthe asterte .
KYNGE.
I heste no rede of you. I ken mie friendes.
Hallie dheie are, fulle ready mee to hele ,
Theyre volundes are ystorven to self endes;
No denwere yn mie breste I of them fele.
I muste to prayers; goe yn, and you do wele;
I muste ne lose the dutie of the daie;
Go inne, go ynne, ande viewe the azure rele
Fulle welle I wote you have noe mynde toe praie.
QUEENE.
I leeve youe to doe hommage heaven-were
To serve yor leege-folcke toe is doeynge hommage there.
SCENE II.
KYNGE AND SIR HUGHE.
KYNGE.
Mie friende, Syr Hughe, whatte tydynges brynges thee here?
HUGHE.
There is no mancas yn mie loverdes ente .
The hus dyspense unpaied doe appere;
The laste receivure ys eftesoones dispente
KYNGE.
Thenne guylde the Weste.
HUGHE.
Mie loverde, I dyd speke
Untoe the mitte Erle Harolde of the thynge;
He raysed hys honde, and smote me onne the cheke,
Saieynge, go beare thatte message to the kynge.
KYNGE.
Arace hym of hys powere; bie Goddis worde,
Ne moe thatte Harolde shall ywield the erlies swerde.
HUGHE.
Atte seeson sytte, mie loverde, lette itt bee;
Botte nowe the folcke doe soe enalse hys name,
Inne strevvynge to slea hymme, ourselves wee slea;
Syke ys the doughtyness of hys grete fame.
KYNGE.
Hughe, I beethyncke, thie rede ys notte to blame.
Botte thou maiest fynde fulle store of marckes yn Kente.
HUGHE.
Mie noble loverde, Godwynn ys the same
He sweeres he wylle notte swelle the Normans ent.
KYNG
Ah traytoure! botte mie rage I wylle commaunde.
Thou arte a Normanne, Hugh; a straunger to the launde.
Thou kenneste howe these Englysche erle doe bere
Such stedness in the yll and evylle thynge,
Botte atte the goode theie hover yn denwere ,
Onknowlachynge gif thereunto to clynge.
HUGHE.
Onwordie syke a marvelle of a kynge!
O Edward; thou deservest purer leege ;
To thee heie shulden all theire mancas brynge;
Thie nodde should save menne, and thie glomb forslege .
I amme no curriedowe I lacke no wite
I speke whatte bee the trouthe, and whatte all see is ryghte.
KYNGE.
Thou arte a hallie mann; I doe thee pryze.
Comme, comme, and here and hele mee ynn mie praires.
Fulle twentie mancas I wylle thee alise ,
And twayne of hamlettes to thee and thie heyres.
So shalle all Normannes from mie londe be fed,
Theie alleyn have syke love as to acquyre yer bredde.
ACT III.
CHORUS.
WHAN Freedom, dreste yn blodde-steyned veste,
To everie knyghte her warre-songe sunge,
Uponne her hedde wylde wedes were spredde;
A gorie anlace bye her honge.
She daunced onne the heathe;
She hearde the voice of deathe;
Pale-eyned assryghte, hys harte of sylver hue,
In vayne assayled her bosomme to acale
She hearde onflemed the shriekynge voice of woe,
And sadnesse ynne the owlette shake the dale.
She shooke the burled speere,
On hie she jeste her sheelde,
Her foemen all appere,
And flizze alonge the feelde.
Power, wythe his heafod straught ynto the skyes,
Hys speere a sonne-beame, and his sheelde a starre,
Alyche twaie brendeynge gronfyres rolls hys eyes,
Chastes with hys yronne feete and soundes to war.
She syttes upon a rock;
She bendes before his speere,
She ryses from the shocke,
Wieldynge her owne yn ayre.
Harde as the thonder dothe she drive ytte on,
Wytte scillye wympled gies ytte to hys crowne,
Hys longe sharpe speere, hys spreddynge sheelde ys gon,
He falles, and fallynge rolleth thousandes down.
War, goare-faced war, bie envie burld , arist
Hys feerie heaulme noddynge to the ayre,
Tenne bloddie arrowes ynne hys streynynge fyste --
poem by Thomas Chatterton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Aftendæmring
See, Aftnen er saa stille, og Himlen er saa blaae!
Nu sove alle Blomster og alle Fugle smaae;
De nikke og de drømme, forstyr ei deres Lyst!
En Verden der jo bygger, selv i det mindste Bryst.
I Drømme svinger Lærken sig i den friske Luft,
Og hvad hvert Blomster føler, det aander ud i Duft.
Den hele, vide Verden med sine Verdner smaae,
Og alle Himlens Himle, jo i mit Hjerte staae;
Jeg føler Øiet græde, og svimler dog af Lyst;
Jeg kunde salig trykke hver Skabning til mit Bryst!
See, alle Stjerner blinke — og Aftnen smelter bort;
— Lad Stormene kun stige og klæde Natten sort,
Sov sødt og drøm, I Fugle! — drøm kun I Blomster smaae!
I Hjertet er der stille, og der er Himlen blaae!
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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Man Gratuliert Mir
Man gratuliert mir und applaudiert mir
Seit jenem Sonntag, da ich mich in dich verliebt
Man gratuliert mir und applaudiert mir
Weil's Girls wie dich nur alle Jubeljahre gibt
Wie du mir zrtlich sagst, my little Cassanova
Der Flirt mit Jane und Pat und Mary-Ann, that's over
Und auch im Club da lsst du Jack und Johnny steh'n
Dass sie seh'n du gehrst zu mir
Man gratuliert mir und applaudiert mir
Seit jenem Sonntag, da ich mich in dich verliebt
Man gratuliert mir und applaudiert mir
Weil's Girls wie dich nur alle Jubeljahre gibt
Ich hatte Angst du liebst nur meinen tollen Wagen
Und wollte dir schon das auf 'bye bye, darling' sagen
Nun bleibst du ewig fr mein Leben unentbehrlich
Und das ist ehrlich und ist keine Schau
Man gratuliert mir und applaudiert mir
Seit jenem Sonntag, da ich mich in dich verliebt
Man gratuliert mir und applaudiert mir
Weil's Girls wie dich nur alle Jubeljahre gibt
Man gratuliert mir und applaudiert mir
Seit jenem Sonntag, da ich mich in dich verliebt
Man gratuliert mir und applaudiert mir
Weil's Girls wie dich nur alle Jubeljahre gibt
Weil's Girls wie dich nur alle Jubeljahre gibt
song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Canterbury Tales; Epilogue
The wordes of the Hoost to the Phisicien and the Pardoner.
Oure Hooste gan to swere as he were wood;
'Harrow!' quod he, 'by nayles and by blood!
This was a fals cherl and a fals justice!
As shameful deeth as herte may devyse
Come to thise juges and hire advocatz!
Algate this sely mayde is slayn, allas!
Allas! to deere boughte she beautee!
Wherfore I seye al day, as men may see
That yiftes of Fortune and of Nature
Been cause of deeth to many a creature.
(Hir beautee was hir deeth, I dar wel sayn;
Allas, so pitously as she was slayn!)
Of bothe yiftes that I speke of now
Men han ful ofte moore harm than prow.
But trewely, myn owene maister deere,
This is a pitous tale for to heere.
But nathelees, passe over is no fors;
I pray to God so save thy gentil cors,
And eek thyne urynals and thy jurdanes,
Thyn ypocras and eek thy Galianes
And every boyste ful of thy letuarie,
God blesse hem, and oure lady Seinte Marie!
So moot I theen, thou art a propre man,
And lyk a prelat, by Seint Ronyan.
Seyde I nat wel? I kan nat speke in terme;
But wel I woot thou doost myn herte to erme,
That I almoost have caught a cardyacle.
By corpus bones, but I have triacle,
Or elles a draughte of moyste and corny ale,
Or but I heere anon a myrie tale,
Myn herte is lost, for pitee of this mayde!
Thou beelamy, thou Pardoner,' he sayde,
'Telle us som myrthe or japes right anon.'
'It shal be doon,' quod he, 'by Seint Ronyon;
But first,' quod he, 'heere at this ale-stake,
I wol bothe drynke and eten of a cake.'
And right anon the gentils gonne to crye,
'Nay, lat hym telle us of no ribaudye!
Telle us som moral thyng that we may leere
Som wit, and thanne wol we gladly heere!'
'I graunte, ywis,' quod he, 'but I moot thynke
Upon som honeste thyng, while that I drynke.'
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Alle Mnner Mssen Kmpfen
Alle Mnner mssen Kmpfen
sagten sie mir
Alle Mnner mssen Kmpfen
Das sag ich nur Dir
Viele Menschen werden sterben
Und ich bet ich wr nicht dabei
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Und wenn's mich trifft hoff ich Du verzeihst
Keiner weiss wer die Schlacht gewinnt
Pass gut auf Dich auf
und auf das ungeborene Kind
Ich weiss noch nicht
ob ich Dich wieder seh
Auch weiss ich nicht,
Ob ich im Kampf besteh
Alle Mnner mssen Kmpfen
sagten sie mir
Alle Mnner mssen Kmpfen
Das sag ich nur Dir
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Und ich bet ich wr nicht dabei
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Und wenn's mich trifft hoff ich Du verzeihst
Ich warte Hier bis Du wiederkehrst
Ich Glaube fest,
dass Du Dich dem tod verwehrst
Du wirst dein kind in meinen Armen sehen
Denn Ich glaube fest, dass wir das berstehen
Alle Mnner mussen Kmpfen
sagten sie mir
Alle Mnner mussen Kmpfen
Das sag ich nur Dir
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Und ich bet ich wr nicht dabei
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Und wenn's mich trifft hoff ich Du verzeihst
Ich seh Dich an und ich glaub daran
der krieg ist vorbei, ihrgendwann
dann kehre ich wieder heim zu Frau und Kind
Ich fnde Euch, wr ich auch Taub und Blind
Alle Mnner mussen Kmpfen
sagten sie mir
Alle Mnner mussen Kmpfen
Das sag ich nur Dir
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Und ich bet ich wr nicht dabei
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Und wenn's mich trifft hoff ich Du verzeihst
sagten sie mir
Alle Mnner mussen Kmpfen
Das sag ich nur Dir
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Und ich bet ich wr nicht dabei
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Und wenn's mich trifft hoff ich Du verzeihst
Das sagten sie mir
Alle Mnner mussen Kmpfen
Das sag ich nur Dir
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Und ich bete ich wr nicht dabei
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Ich muss Dich wiedersehen ich muss dich wiedersehen
Der Krieg ist vorbei
song performed by by Xavier Naidoo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Alle Mnner Mssen Kmpfen
Alle Mnner mssen Kmpfen
sagten sie mir
Alle Mnner mssen Kmpfen
Das sag ich nur Dir
Viele Menschen werden sterben
Und ich bet ich wr nicht dabei
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Und wenn's mich trifft hoff ich Du verzeihst
Keiner weiss wer die Schlacht gewinnt
Pass gut auf Dich auf
und auf das ungeborene Kind
Ich weiss noch nicht
ob ich Dich wieder seh
Auch weiss ich nicht,
Ob ich im Kampf besteh
Alle Mnner mssen Kmpfen
sagten sie mir
Alle Mnner mssen Kmpfen
Das sag ich nur Dir
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Und ich bet ich wr nicht dabei
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Und wenn's mich trifft hoff ich Du verzeihst
Ich warte Hier bis Du wiederkehrst
Ich Glaube fest,
dass Du Dich dem tod verwehrst
Du wirst dein kind in meinen Armen sehen
Denn Ich glaube fest, dass wir das berstehen
Alle Mnner mussen Kmpfen
sagten sie mir
Alle Mnner mussen Kmpfen
Das sag ich nur Dir
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Und ich bet ich wr nicht dabei
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Und wenn's mich trifft hoff ich Du verzeihst
Ich seh Dich an und ich glaub daran
der krieg ist vorbei, ihrgendwann
dann kehre ich wieder heim zu Frau und Kind
Ich fnde Euch, wr ich auch Taub und Blind
Alle Mnner mussen Kmpfen
sagten sie mir
Alle Mnner mussen Kmpfen
Das sag ich nur Dir
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Und ich bet ich wr nicht dabei
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Und wenn's mich trifft hoff ich Du verzeihst
sagten sie mir
Alle Mnner mussen Kmpfen
Das sag ich nur Dir
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Und ich bet ich wr nicht dabei
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Und wenn's mich trifft hoff ich Du verzeihst
Das sagten sie mir
Alle Mnner mussen Kmpfen
Das sag ich nur Dir
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Und ich bete ich wr nicht dabei
Viele Mnner werden sterben
Ich muss Dich wiedersehen ich muss dich wiedersehen
Der Krieg ist vorbei
song performed by by Xavier Naidoo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This World's Joy
Wynter wakeneth al my care,
Nou thise leves waxeth bare;
Ofte I sike and mourne sare
When hit cometh in my thoht
Of this worldes joie, hou hit geth al to noht.
Nou hit is, and nou hit nys,
Al so hit ner nere, ywys;
That moni mon seith, soth hit ys:
Al goth bote Godes wille:
Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle.
Al that gren me graveth grene,
Nou hit faleweth al bydene:
Jehsu, help that hit be sene
And shild us from helle!
For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Traumtnzer (demo 1)
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Alphaville - Traumtaenzer
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zeit steht still wie ein denkmal
in der menschenleeren stadt
auf dem eisengrauen himmel
zieht ein flugzeug seine bahn
wie ein kuss aus stahl
alles was zu sagen war
ist schon lngst gesagt
alle trume ausgetrumt
alle helden sind lngst fort
alle sterne ausgebrannt
dein zimmer ist so leer wie der mond
mach dich auf den weg
gehorch der automatik
folg' der lichtspur ins zentrum des bildschirms
jeder geht allein
jeder fr sich
auf seinem weg nach alphaville
komm gib mir deine hand, den befehl
fr den allerletzten tanz
du bist wie ein funken in der nacht
ich bin die maschine, die dich trumt
regenbogengleiter fliegen in die wirklichkeit so wie im traum
einmal um die sonne und zurck so wie im traum
so wie im traum
tanz !
song performed by by Alphaville
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My first occupation was to map the country.
quote by John H. Speke
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Each tribe has its characteristics, it is true.
quote by John H. Speke
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This World's Joy
WYNTER wakeneth al my care,
Nou this leves waxeth bare;
Ofte I sike ant mourne sare
When hit cometh in my thoht
Of this worldes joie, hou hit goth al to noht.
Nou hit is, and nou hit nys,
Al so hit ner nere, ywys;
That moni mon seith, soth hit ys:
Al goth bote Godes wille:
Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle.
Al that gren me graueth grene,
Nou hit faleweth albydene:
Jesu, help that hit be sene
Ant shild us from helle!
For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle.