For alle Cristen sowles, withe mercy
De profundis, Pater noster, and ave,
This prayer he used contynuauly,
Til God purveyed for hym contynuauly.
It fil on a tyme, he was pursued
Of his mortal enemyes, withe grete violence,
He fledde for the best, and ther malice eschewed,
And toke the chircheyerde for his defence,
And sayde De profundis with entier diligence,
The bodyes arose out of theyr graves,
Somme appered withe gleyves, and somme withe
So grete a multitude assemblid to fight,
His enemyes gan fle and sore were agast,
He thankyd God of his grete myght,
And seyde De profundis whan they were past;
His reward in heven he had at last.
Therfor it is holsom for to have in memory,
The soulis that ly in paynes of purgatory.
ON THE INSTABILITY OF HUMAN AFFAIRS.
[From MS. Harl. 2251, fol. 38-39.]
IS THIS FORTUNE OR INFORTUNE?
THE more I go, the further I am behynde;
The further behynde, the nere the weyes ende;
The more I seche, the wers can I fynde; v
The lighter leve, the lother for to wende;
The lengger I serve, the more out of mynde;
Is this fortune, or is it infortune?
Though I go loose, I tyed am withe a lyne.
Drye in the see, and wete upon the stronde;
Brenne in water, in fuyre fresyng; ✓
In reveris thurstlew, and moyst upon the londe;
Gladde in mornyng, in gladnes compleyneng;
The fuller wombe, the gredyer in etyng;
Is this fortune, or is it infortune? ✓
Thoughe I go loose, I teyed am withe a luyne.
A wery pees, and pees amyd the werre;
The better felaw, the rathir at discorde;
The neere at hande, the sonner set a-ferre ;
Accorde debatyng, debatynge at accorde;
Furthest fro court, grettest withe the lorde;
Is this fortune, or is it infortune?
Thoughe I go loose, I tyed am withe a lyne.
A wepyng laughter, a mery glad wepyng;
A fresy thowe, a meltyng fryse;
The slowar paas, the further in rennyng;
The more I renne, the more wey I lese;
The grettest losse whan I my chaunce do chese;
Is this fortune, or is it infortune? ✓
Thoughe I go loose, I teyed am withe a lyne.
Weryles I walke ay in trouble and travaile,
Ever travilyng witheout werynes;
In labour idel, wynnyng that may nat availe;
A troubled joy, a joyeful hevynes; v
A sobbyng songe, a chierful distres;
Is it fortune, or is it infortune?
Thoughe I go loose, I tyed am withe a lyne.
Wakyng a bedde, fastyng at the table;
Riche with wysshis, pore of possessioune;
Stable unassured, assured eke unstable;
Hope dispeyred, a gwerdonles gwerdone;
Trusty disceyte, feythful decepcioune;
Is this fortune, or is it infortune?
Thoughe I go loose, I tiede am wythe a lyne.
A mournyng myrthe, sobrenes savage,
Prudent foly, stidefast wildenesse ;
Providence conveyed ay withe rage;
A dronken sadnesse, and a sad drunkenesse
A woode wisdom, and a wise woodenesse; }
Is this fortune, or is it infortune?
Thoughe I go loose, I tyed am withe a lyne.
Unhappy everons fortune infortunat;
An hertles thought, a thoughtiees remembraunce;
Lo what avauntage! and sodainly chekmate,
Now six, now synke, now deny for my chaunce;
Thus al the worlde stant in variaunce:
Late men dispute, whethir this be fortune?
No man so loose, but he is tied withe a luyne.
The world unsure, contrary al stablenesse,
Whos joy is meyni ay withe adversité;
Now light, now bevy, now sorwe, now gladnes;
Ebbe after floode of al prosperité.
Set al asyde and lierne this of me,
Trust upon fortune, defye false fortune,
And al recleymes of hyr double luyne.
The gretter lorde, the lasse his assuraunce;
The sikerest lyffe is in glad poverté;
Bothe highe and loughe shal go on dethis daunce,
Renne unto Powlis, beholde the Machabé;
Fraunchise of phisyk makithe no man go free;
Trust upon God, defye fals fortune,
Ande al recleymes of hyr double luyne.
Lothest departyng where is grettest richesse;
Al worldly tresour gothe to the worlde agayne;
To kepe it longe may be no sikernesse,
Of grete receytis grete rekenyng in certayne.
Whan we gon hens al this shalbe but vayne;
Trust upon God, defye false fortune,
That al recleymes of hir double luyne.
Nothyng more sure than al men shal deye,
Late men aforne make theyr ordynaunce;
vij. dedis of mercy shal best for us purveye,
And almesdede shal make achevisaunce,
T'exclude by grace the rigour of vengeaunce;
For Cristis passionne maugré false fortune,
Shal recleyme us to his merciable luyne.
[From MS. Harl. 2251, fol. 37-38.]
As I me lenyd unto a joyful place,
Lusty Phebus to supervive,
How God Almyghti of his grete grace,
Hath florisshed the erthe on every side,
The woodes and the medowes wyde,
Withe grete habundaunce of vyridité,
Whiche caused me so grete felicité,
That stille I stoode in perplexité.
To Phebus my wittes gan refere,
And on this wise he sayde to me,
Abyde a while, and thow shalt here,
Hym commendid whiche dide conquere,
Thi soule from peynes perpetualle,
And of his blisse to make the paroyalle.
Than I herd a voyce celestialle,
Rejoysyng my spirites inwardly,
Of dyverse soules bothe grete and smalle,
Praisyng God with swete melody,
In al his werkis ful reverently,
With an hevenly ympne and an holsum,
Conditor alme siderum.
The poppinjay allone gan syng,
And saide, this is my propirté,
With ave or kirye salute a kyng,
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