80rb] 5 10 15 20 25 30    35 40 45 50 55 60

Nou skrinketh rose ant lylie-flour That whilen ber that suete savour    In somer, that suete tyde; Ne is no quene so stark ne stour, Ne no levedy so bryht in bour,    That ded ne shal byglyde. Whose wol fleysh lust forgon    Ant hevene blis abyde, On Jesu be is thoht anon,    That therled was ys side. From Petresbourh in o morewenyng, As Y me wende o my pleyyyng,    On mi folie Y thohte; Menen Y gon my mournyng To hire that ber the hevene kyng,    Of merci hire bysohte: “Ledy, preye thi sone for ous,    That us duere bohte, Ant shild us from the lothe hous    That to the Fend is wrohte!” Myn herte of dedes wes fordred Of synne that Y have my fleish fed,    Ant folewed al my tyme, That Y not whider I shal be led When Y lygge on dethes bed,    In joie ore into pyne. On o Ledy myn hope is,    Moder ant virgyne; Whe shulen into hevene blis    Thurh hire medicine. Betere is hire medycyn Then eny mede or eny wyn;    Hire erbes smulleth suete! From Catenas into Dyvelyn, Nis ther no leche so fyn    Oure serewes to bete. Mon that feleth eni sor    Ant his folie wol lete, Withoute gold other eny tresor    He mai be sound ant sete. Of penaunce is his plastre al. Ant ever serven hire Y shal,    Nou ant al my lyve; Nou is fre that er wes thral, Al thourh that Levedy gent ant smal:         Heried be hyr joies fyve! Wherso eny sek ys,    Thider hye blyve! Thurh hire beoth ybroht to blis,    Bo mayden ant wyve. For he that dude is body on tre Of oure sunnes have piete,    That weldes heovene boures! Wymmon, with thi jolyfte, Thah thou be whyt ant bryth on ble,    Thou thench on Godes shoures! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .    Falewen shule thy floures. Jesu, have merci of us,    That al this world honoures.       Amen.

Now wither rose and lily-flower That once bore such sweet scent    In summer, that sweet season; There’s no queen so mighty or strong, Nor any lady so beautiful in bower,    Whom death will not steal away. Whoever will forego fleshly lust    And wait for heaven’s bliss, On Jesus is forever his thought,    Whose side was pierced through. From Peterborough one morning, As I took my way for pleasure,    I reflected on my folly; I began to utter my lament To her who bore the heaven’s king,    I besought her for mercy: “Lady, pray to your son for us,    He who bought us dearly, And shield us from the loathsome house    That’s made for the Devil!” My heart was terrified of deeds Of sin by which I’ve fed my flesh,    And pursued all my time, So I don’t know which way I'll be led When I lie on death’s bed,    In joy or into pain. On one Lady is my hope,    Mother and virgin; We will go into heaven’s bliss    Through her medicine. Better is her medicine Than any mead or any wine;    Her herbs smell sweet! From Caithness to Dublin, There’s no physician so excellent    To assuage our sorrows. The one who feels any grief    And will abandon his sin, Without gold or other treasure    He may be sound and content. His whole remedy consists of penance. And always I shall serve her,    Now and all my life; Now he’s free who once was thrall, On account of that Lady noble and delicate:    Praised be her five joys! Wherever one is sick,    Hasten there quickly! He’ll be brought to bliss through her,    Both maiden and wife. May he who set his body on tree Have mercy of our sins,    He who rules heaven’s bowers! Women, with your joyfulness, Though you be fair and lovely of face,    Think on God’s afflictions! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .    Wither shall your flowers. Have mercy on us, Jesus,    Whom all this world honors.       Amen.

(t-note) (see note) (t-note) (t-note) (see note) (see note) (see note); (t-note) (t-note) (see note); (t-note)