Ne how fer of folde that man me fleme:
335 When I am partles of perles myne,
Bot durande doel what may men deme?’
‘Thou demes noght bot doel-distresse,’
Then sayd that wyght. ‘Why dos thou so?
For dyn of doel of lures lesse,
340 Oft mony man forgos the mo.
Thee oghte better thyselven blesse,
And love aye God in wele and wo,
For anger gaynes thee not a cresse.
Who nedes schal thole, be not so thro.
345 For thogh thou daunce as any do,
Braundysch and bray thy brathes breme,
When thou no ferre may, to ne fro,
Thou most abide that He schal deme.
‘Deme Dryhtyn, ever Him adyte, –
350 Of the way a fote ne wil He wrythe;
Thy mendes mountes not a myte,
Thagh thou for sorw be never blythe.
Stynt of thy strot and fyne to flyte,
And sech His blythe ful swyft and swythe, –
355 Thy prayer may His pyty bite,
That mercy schal her craftes kythe;
His comfort may thy langour lythe,
And thy lures of lyghtly leme.
For, marre or madde, mourne and mythe,
360 All lys in Him to dight and deme.’
VII
Then demed I to that damyselle:
‘Ne worthe no wrath unto my Lorde,
If rapely I rave, spornande in spelle:
My hert was all with mysse remorde,
365 As wallande water gos out of welle.
I do me aye in His myserecorde.
Rebuke me never with wordes felle,
Thagh I forloyne, my dere endorde,
Bot kythes me kyndly your coumforde,
370 Pitously thenkande upon this:
Of care and me ye made acorde,
That ere was grounde of all my blisse.
‘My blisse, my bale, ye haf ben bothe,
Bot much the bigger yet was my mone:
375 Fro thou was wroken fro uch a wothe,
I wyst never where my perle was gon;
Now I hit see, now lethes my lothe.
And when we departed, we were at one;
God forbede we be now wrothe,
380 We meten so selden by stok or stone.
Thagh cortaysly ye carpe con,
I am bot mul, and maneres mysse:
Bot Crystes mercy, and Mary and John,
These are the grounde of all my blisse.
385 ‘In blisse I see thee blythely blent,
And I a man all mornyf mate:
Ye take thereon ful little tente,
Thagh I hent ofte harmes hate.
Bot now I am here in your present,
390 I wolde beseche, withoute debate,
Ye wolde me say, in sobre asent,
What lif ye leden, erly and late;
For I am ful fayn that your astate
Is worthen to worschip and wele, iwysse:
395 Of all my joy the highe gate,
It is in grounde of all my blisse.’
‘Now blisse, burn, mot thee bityde,’
Then sayd that lufsum of lyth and lere,
‘And welcom here to walk and bide,
400 For now thy speche is to me dere.
Maysterful mod and high pryde,
I hete thee, are heterly hated here;
My Lord ne loves not for to chyde,
For meke are all that wones Him nere;
405 And when in His place thou schal apere,
Be depe devout in hole mekenisse.
My Lord the Lamb loves aye such chere,
That is the grounde of all my blisse.
‘A blysful lif thou says I lede:
410 Thou woldes know thereof the stage.
Thou wost wel, when thy perle con schede,
I was ful yong and tender of age;
Bot my Lord the Lamb, thurgh His godhede,
He toke myself to His maryage,
415 Corounde me quene in blisse to brede,
In lenghe of dayes that ever schal wage,
And sesed in all His heritage
His lef is. I am holly His:
His prese, His pris, and His parage
420 Is rote and grounde of all my blisse.’
VIII
‘Blysful,’ quoth I, ‘may this be true?
Displeses not if I speke errour.
Art thou the quene of hevens blue
That all this world schal do honour?
425 We leven on Mary, that grace of grewe,
That bere a barn of vyrgyn flour;
The crowne fro her who myght remue,
Bot ho her passed in sum favour?
Now, for synglerty of her dousour,
430 We calle her Fenyx of Arraby,
That freles flewe of her Fasor,
Like to the quene of courtaysye.’
‘Cortays quene,’ then sayd that gay,
Knelande to grounde, folde up her face,
435 ‘Makeles moder and merriest may,
Blessed begynner of uch a grace!’
Then ros ho up and con restay,
And speke me toward in that space:
‘Sir, fele here porchases and fonges pray,
440 Bot supplantores none within this place:
That emperise all hevens has,
And erthe and helle, in her bayly;
Of heritage yet none wil ho chace,
For ho is quene of courtaysye.
445 ‘The court of the kyndom of God alyve
Has a property in hitself beyng:
Alle that may therein aryve
Of all the reme is quene or kyng,
And never other yet schal depryve,
450 Bot uchone fayn of otheres hafyng,
And wolde her crownes were worth tho fyve,
If possyble were her mendyng.
Bot my lady, of whom Jesu con spryng,
Ho holdes the empire over us ful high,
455 And that displeses none of our gyng,
For ho is quene of courtaysye.
‘Of courtaysye, as says Saynt Poule,
All are we membres of Jesu Cryst:
As hed and arme and legg and naule
460 Temen to his body ful true and tryste,
Right so is uch a Krystyin saule
A longande lym to the Mayster of myste.
Then loke what hate or any gawle
Is tached or tyed thy lymmes bytwyste:
465 Thy hed has nauther greme ne gryste,
On arme or finger thagh thou bere bye:
So fare we all with luf and lyst
To kyng and quene, by courtaysye.’
‘Courtaysye,’ quoth I, ‘I leve,
470 And charyte gret be yow among;
Bot, my speche that yow ne greve,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Thyself in heven over high thou heve,
To make thee quene that was so yong.
475 What more honour myght he acheve
That had endured in worlde strong,
And lyved in penaunce his lyves long,
With bodyly bale him blisse to bye?
What more worschip myght he fonge
480 Then corounde be kyng by courtaysye?
IX
‘That courtaysye is to fre of dede,
If hit be soth that thou cones say.
Thou lyved not two yere in our thede;
Thou couthes never God nauther plese ne pray,
485 Ne never nauther Pater ne Crede:
And quene made on the firste day! –
I may not trow, so God me spede,
That God wolde wrythe so wrong away.
Of countes, damysel, par ma fay,
490 Were fayr in heven to holde astate,
Or elles a lady of lesse array; –
Bot a quene! Hit is to dere a date.’
‘There is no date of His godness,’