IROBERT MANNYNG OF BRUNNE'S HANDLYNG SYNNEA.D.1303

[28]Books primarily of reference are distinguished by an asterisk. Details relating to texts, manuscript sources, editions, monographs, and articles that have appeared in periodicals, will be found in the bibliographical manuals cited.

*A New English Dictionary on Historical Principles, ed. Sir J. A. H. Murray, H. Bradley, W. A. Craigie, C. T. Onions, Oxford 1888—[quoted asN.E.D.].

*Stratmann, F. A.A Middle English Dictionary, new edn. by H. Bradley, Oxford 1891.

*Brown, Carleton.A Register of Middle English Religious and Didactic Verse(Part I, List of MSS.; Part II, Indices), Oxford 1916-20 (Bibliographical Society).

*Hammond, Miss E. P.Chaucer: A Bibliographical Manual, New York 1908.

*Wells, J. E.A Manual of the Writings in Middle English, 1050-1500, New Haven, &c., 1916; Supplement, 1919.

Chambers, E. K.The Mediaeval Stage, 2 vols., Oxford 1903.

Clark, J. W.The Care of Books, Cambridge (new edn.) 1909.

Ker, W. P.English Literature, Mediaeval, London 1912. [A good brief orientation.]

Legouis, E.Chaucer(transl. L. Lailavoix), London 1913.

Rashdall, H.The Universities of Europe in the Middle Ages, 2 vols., Oxford 1895.

Capes, W. W.The English Church in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries, London 1909.

*Dugdale, Sir William.Monasticon Anglicanum, new edn. by Caley, Ellis and Bandinel, 6 vols., London 1846. [Gives detailed histories of the English religious houses.]

Gasquet, Cardinal F. A.English Monastic Life, London, 4th edn. 1910.

Ashley, W. J.An Introduction to English Economic History and Theory, 2 vols., London 1888-93.

Bateson, Mary.Mediaeval England (1066-1350), London 1903. [A brief and exact social history.]

Cutts, E. L.Scenes and Characters of the Middle Ages, London 1872; 3rd edn. 1911. [Useful for its illustrations from MSS.]

Gasquet, Cardinal F. A.The Black Death of 1348 and 1349, London, 2nd edn. 1908.

Jessopp, A.The Coming of the Friars and other Historical Essays, London, 4th edn. 1890.

Jusserand, J. J.English Wayfaring Life in the Middle Ages(transl. L. Toulmin Smith), London 1889, &c.; revised 1921. [Invaluable.]

Lechler, G. V.John Wiclif and his English Precursors(transl. P. Lorimer), 2 vols., London 1878.

Oman, Sir Charles Wm. C.The Great Revolt of 1381, Oxford 1906.

Reville, A., et Petit-Dutaillis, Ch.Le Soulèvement des Travailleurs d'Angleterre en 1381, Paris 1898.

Riley, H. T.Memorials of London and London Life (1270-1419), London 1868.

*Rogers, J. E. T.A History of Agriculture and Prices in England (1259-1793). 7 vols., Oxford 1866-1902. [Rich in facts.]

Smith, S. Armitage.John of Gaunt, London 1904.

*Stubbs, Wm.The Constitutional History of England, 3 vols., Oxford (1st edn. 1874-78), 1903-6.

Tout, T. F.The History of England from the Accession of Henry III to the Death of Edward III (1216-1377), London 1905; new edn. 1920.

Trevelyan, G. M.England in the Age of Wycliffe, London 1899; new edn., 1909. [A brilliant study.]

Enlart, C.Le Costume(vol. iii of hisManuel d'Archéologie Française), Paris 1916.

Faral, E.Les Jongleurs en France au Moyen Âge, Paris 1910.

Paris, G.La Littérature Française au Moyen Âge, Paris, 5th edn. 1909. [A model handbook.]

What is known of Robert Mannyng of Brunne is derived from his own works. In the Prologue toHandlyng Synnehe writes:

To alle Crystyn men vndir sunne,And to gode men of Brunne,And speciali, alle be name,Þe felaushepe of Symprynghame,Roberd of Brunne greteþ ȝowIn al godenesse þat may to prow;Of Brunne wake yn Kesteuene,Syxe myle besyde Sympryngham euene,Y dwelled yn þe pryoryeFyftene ȝere yn cumpanye....

To alle Crystyn men vndir sunne,

And to gode men of Brunne,

And speciali, alle be name,

Þe felaushepe of Symprynghame,

Roberd of Brunne greteþ ȝow

In al godenesse þat may to prow;

Of Brunne wake yn Kesteuene,

Syxe myle besyde Sympryngham euene,

Y dwelled yn þe pryorye

Fyftene ȝere yn cumpanye....

And in the Introduction to hisChronicle:

Of Brunne I am; if any me blame,Robert Mannyng is my name;Blissed be he of God of heueneÞat me Robert with gude wille neuene!In þe third Edwardes tyme was I,When I wrote alle þis story,In þe hous of Sixille I was a throwe;Danȝ Robert of Malton, þat ȝe know,Did it wryte for felawes sakeWhen þai wild solace make.

Of Brunne I am; if any me blame,

Robert Mannyng is my name;

Blissed be he of God of heuene

Þat me Robert with gude wille neuene!

In þe third Edwardes tyme was I,

When I wrote alle þis story,

In þe hous of Sixille I was a throwe;

Danȝ Robert of Malton, þat ȝe know,

Did it wryte for felawes sake

When þai wild solace make.

From these passages it appears that he was born in Brunne, the modern Bourn, in Lincolnshire; and that he belonged to the Gilbertine Order. Sempringham was the head-quarters of the Order, and the dependent priory of Sixhill was near by. It has been suggested, without much evidence, that he was a lay brother, and not a full canon.

HisChronicle of Englandwas completed in 1338. It falls into two parts, distinguished by a change of metre and source. The first, edited by Furnivall in the Rolls Series (2 vols. 1887), extends from the Flood toA.D.689, and is based on Wace'sBrut, the French source of Layamon'sBrut. The second part, edited by Hearne, 2 vols., Oxford 1725, extends fromA.D.689 to the death of Edward I, and is based on the FrenchChronicleof a contemporary, who is sometimes called Pierre de Langtoft, sometimes Piers of Bridlington, because he was a native of Langtoft in Yorkshire, and a canon of the Austin priory at Bridlington in the same county. Mannyng'sChroniclehas no great historical value, and its chief literary interest lies in the references to current traditions and popular stories.

Handlyng Synneis a much more valuable work. It was begun in 1303:

Dane Felyp was mayster þat tymeÞat y began þys Englyssh ryme;Þe ȝeres of grace fyl þan to beA þousynd and þre hundred and þre.In þat tyme turnede y þysOn Englyssh tunge out of FrankysOf a boke as y fonde ynne,Men clepyn þe boke 'Handlyng Synne'.

Dane Felyp was mayster þat tyme

Þat y began þys Englyssh ryme;

Þe ȝeres of grace fyl þan to be

A þousynd and þre hundred and þre.

In þat tyme turnede y þys

On Englyssh tunge out of Frankys

Of a boke as y fonde ynne,

Men clepyn þe boke 'Handlyng Synne'.

The source was again a French work written by a contemporary Northerner—William of Wadington'sManuel de Pechiez. The popularity of such treatises on the Sins may be judged from the number of works modelled upon them: e.g. theAyenbyte of Inwyt, Gower'sConfessio Amantis, and Chaucer'sParson's Tale. Their purpose was, as Robert explains, to enable a reader to examine his conscience systematically and constantly, and so to guard himself against vice.

Two complete MSS. ofHandlyng Synneare known: British Museum MS. Harley 1701 (about 1350-75), and MS. Bodley 415, of a slightly later date. An important fragment is in the library of Dulwich College. The whole text, with the French source, has been edited by Furnivall for the Roxburghe Club, and later for the Early English Text Society. It treats, with the usual wealth of classification, of the Commandments, the Sins, the Sacraments, the Requisites and Graces of Shrift. But sucha bald summary gives no idea of the richness and variety of its content. For Mannyng, anticipating Gower, saw the opportunities that the illustrative stories offered to his special gifts, and spared no pains in their telling. A few examples are added from his own knowledge. More often he expands Wadington's outlines, as in the tale of the Dancers of Colbek. Here the French source is brief and colourless. But the English translator had found a fuller Latin version—clearly the same as that printed from Bodleian MS. Rawlinson C 938 in the preface to Furnivall's Roxburghe Club edition—and from it he produced the well-rounded and lively rendering given below.

Robert knew that a work designed to turn 'lewde men' from the ale-house to the contemplation of their sins must grip their attention; and in the art of linking good teaching with entertainment he is a master. He has the gift of conveying to his audience his own enjoyment of a good story. His loose-knit conversational style would stand the test of reading aloud to simple folk, and he allows no literary affectations, no forced metres or verbiage, to darken his meaning:

Haf I alle in myn Inglis laydIn symple speche as I couthe,Þat is lightest in mannes mouthe.I mad noght for no disours,Ne for no seggers, no harpours,But for þe luf of symple menÞat strange Inglis can not ken;For many it ere þat strange InglisIn ryme wate neuer what it is,And bot þai wist what it mente,Ellis me thoght it were alle schente.(Chronicle, ll. 72 ff.)

Haf I alle in myn Inglis layd

In symple speche as I couthe,

Þat is lightest in mannes mouthe.

I mad noght for no disours,

Ne for no seggers, no harpours,

But for þe luf of symple men

Þat strange Inglis can not ken;

For many it ere þat strange Inglis

In ryme wate neuer what it is,

And bot þai wist what it mente,

Ellis me thoght it were alle schente.

(Chronicle, ll. 72 ff.)

The simple form reflects the writer's frankness and directness. He points a moral fearlessly, but without harshness or self-righteousness. And the range of his sympathies and interests makesHandlyng Synnethe best picture of English life before Langland and Chaucer.

Karolles, wrastlynges, or somour games,1Whoso euer haunteþ any swyche shamesYn cherche, oþer yn chercheȝerd,Of sacrylage he may be aferd;Or entyrludes, or syngynge,5Or tabure bete, or oþer pypynge—Alle swyche þyng forbodyn esWhyle þe prest stondeþ at messe.Alle swyche to euery gode preste ys lothe,And sunner wyl he make hym wroth10Þan he wyl, þat haþ no wyt,Ne vndyrstondeþ nat Holy Wryt.And specyaly at hygh tymesKarolles to synge and rede rymysNoght yn none holy stedes,15Þat myȝt dysturble þe prestes bedes,Or ȝyf he were yn orysunOr any ouþer deuocyun:Sacrylage ys alle hyt tolde,Þys and many oþer folde.20But for to leue yn chercheforto daunce,Y shal ȝow telle a ful grete chaunce,And y trow þe most þat felYssoþe as y ȝow telle;And fyl þys chaunce yn þys londe,25Yn Ingland, as y vndyrstonde,Yn a kynges tyme þat hyght EdwardFyl þys chauce þat was so hard.Hytwas vppon a Crystemesse nyȝtÞat twelue folys a karolle dyȝt,30Yn wodehed, as hyt were yn cuntek,Þey come to a tounne men calle Colbek.Þe cherche of þe tounne þat þey to comeYs of Seynt Magne, þat suffred martyrdome;Of Seynt Bukcestre hyt ys also,35Seynt Magnes suster, þat þey come to.Here names of alle þus fonde y wryte,And as y wote now shul ȝe wyte:Here lodesman, þat made hem glew,Þus ys wryte, he hyȝte Gerlew.40Twey maydens were yn here coueyne,Mayden Merswynde and Wybessyne.Alle þese come þedyr for þat enchesoneOf þe prestes doghtyr of þe tounne.Þe prest hyȝt Robert, as y kan ame;45Aȝone hyght hys sone by name;Hys doghter, þat þese men wulde haue,Þus ys wryte, þat she hyȝt Aue.Echoune consented to o wylWho shuld go Aue oute to tyl,50Þey graunted echone out to sendeBoþe Wybessyne and Merswynde.Þese wommen ȝede and tolled here outeWyþ hem to karolle þe cherche aboute.Beune ordeyned here karollyng;55Gerlew endyted what þey shuld syng.Þys ys þe karolle þat þey sunge,As telleþ þe Latyn tunge:'Equitabat Beuo per siluam frondosam,Ducebat secum Merswyndam formosam.60Quid stamus? cur non imus?''By þe leued wode rode Beuolyne,Wyþhym he ledde feyre Merswyne.Why stonde we? why go we noght?'Þys ys þe karolle þat Grysly wroght;65Þys songe sunge þey yn þe chercheȝerd—Of foly were þey no þyng aferd—Vnto þe matynes were alle done,And þe messe shuld bygynne sone.Þe preste hym reuest to begynne messe,70And þey ne left þerfore neuer þe lesse,But daunsed furþe as þey bygan,For alle þe messe þey ne blan.Þe preste, þat stode at þe autere,And herd here noyse and here bere,75Fro þe auter down he nam,And to þe cherche porche he cam,And seyd 'On Goddesbehalue, y ȝow forbedeÞat ȝe no lenger do swych dede,But comeþ yn on feyre manere80Goddes seruyse for to here,And doþ at Crystyn mennys lawe;Karolleþ no more, for Crystys awe!Wurschyppeþ Hym with alle ȝoure myȝtÞat of þe Vyrgyne was bore þys nyȝt.'85For alle hys byddyng lefte þey noȝt,But daunsed furþ, as þey þoȝt.Þe preste þarefor was sore agreued;He preyd God þat he on beleuyd,And for Seynt Magne, þat he wulde so werche—90Yn whos wurschyp sette was þe cherche—Þat swych a veniaunce were on hem sent,Are þey oute of þat stede were went,Þat <þey> myȝt euer ryȝt so wendeVntoþat tyme tweluemonth ende;95(Yn þe Latyne þat y fonde þoreHe seyþ nat 'tweluemonth' but 'euermore';)He cursed hem þere alsaumeAs þey karoled on here gaume.As sone as þe preste hadde so spoke100Euery hand yn ouþer so fast was lokeÞat no man myȝt with no wundyrÞat tweluemoþe parte hem asundyr.Þe preste ȝede yn, whan þys was done,And commaunded hys sone Aȝone105Þat shulde go swyþe aftyr Aue,Oute of þat karolle algate to haue.But al to late þat wurde was seyd,For on hem alle was þe veniaunce leyd.Aȝone wende weyl for to spede;110Vnto þe karolle as swyþe he ȝede,Hys systyr by þe arme he hente,And þe arme fro þe body wente.Men wundred alle þat þere wore,And merueyle mowe ȝe here more,115For, seþen he had þe arme yn hand,Þe body ȝede furþ karoland,And noþer <þe> body ne þe armeBledde neuer blode, colde ne warme,But was as drye, with al þe haunche,120As of a stok were ryue a braunche.Aȝone to hys fadyr went,And broght hym a sory present:'Loke, fadyr,' he seyd, 'and haue hyt here,Þe arme of þy doghtyr dere,125Þat was myn owne syster Aue,Þat y wende y myȝt a saue.Þycursyng now sene hyt ysWyth veniaunce on þy owne flessh.Fellyche þou cursedest, and ouer sone;130Þou askedest veniaunce,—þou hast þy bone.'Ȝow þar nat aske ȝyf þere was woWyth þe preste, and wyth many mo.Þe prest, þat cursed for þat daunce,On some of hys fyl harde chaunce.135He toke hys doghtyr armeforlornAnd byryed hyt on þe morn;Þe nexte day þe arme of AueHe fonde hyt lyggyng aboue þe graue.He byryed on anouþer day,140And eft aboue þe graue hyt lay.Þe þrydde tyme he byryed hyt,And eft was hyt kast oute of þe pyt.Þe prest wulde byrye hyt no more,He dredde þe veniaunce ferly sore;145Ynto þe cherche he bare þe arme,For drede and doute of more harme,He ordeyned hyt for to beÞat euery man myȝt wyth ye hyt se.Þese men þat ȝede so karolland,150Alle þat ȝere, hand yn hand,Þey neuer oute of þat stede ȝede,Ne none myȝt hem þenne lede.Þere þe cursyng fyrst bygan,Yn þat place aboute þey ran,155Þat neuer ne felte þey no werynesAs many †bodyes for goyng dos†,Ne mete ete, ne drank drynke,Ne slepte onely alepy wynke.Nyȝtne day þey wyst of none,160Whan hyt was come, whan hyt was gone;Frost ne snogh, hayle ne reyne,Of colde ne hete, felte þey no peyne;Heere ne nayles neuer grewe,Ne solowed cloþes, ne turned hewe;165Þundyr ne lyȝtnyng dyd hem no dere,Goddys mercy ded hyt fro hem were;—But sungge þat songge þat þe wo wroȝt:'Why stonde we? why go we noȝt?'What man shuld þyr be yn þys lyue170Þatne wulde hyt see and þedyr dryue?Þe Emperoure Henry come fro RomeFor to see þys hard dome.Whan he hem say, he wepte soreFor þe myschefe þat he sagh þore.175He ded come wryȝtes for to makeCoueryng ouer hem, for tempest sake.But þat þey wroght hyt was yn veyn,For hyt come to no certeyn,For þat þey sette on oo day180On þe touþer downe hyt lay.Ones, twyys, þryys, þus þey wroȝt,And alle here makyng was for noȝt.Myght no coueryng hyle hem fro coldeTyl tyme of mercy þat Cryst hyt wolde.185Tyme of grace fyl þurgh Hys myȝtAt þe tweluemonth ende, on þe ȝole nyȝt.Þe same oure þat þe prest hem banned,Þe same oure atwynne þey †woned†;Þat houre þat he cursed hem ynne,190Þe same oure þey ȝede atwynne,And as yn twynkelyng of an yeYntoþe cherche gun þey flye,And on þe pauement þey fyl alle downeAs þey had be dede, or fal yn a swone.195Þre days styl þey lay echone,Þat none steryd oþer flesshe or bone,And at þe þre days endeTo lyfe God graunted hem to wende.Þey sette hem vpp and spak apert200To þe parysshe prest, syre Robert:'Þou art ensample and enchesunOf oure long confusyun;Þou maker art of oure trauayle,Þat ys to many grete meruayle,205And þy traueyle shalt þou sone ende,For to þy long home sone shalt þou wende.'Alle þey ryse þat yche tydeBut Aue,—she lay dede besyde.Grete sorowe had here fadyr, here broþer;210Merueyle and drede had alle ouþer;Y trow no drede of soule dede,But with pyne was broght þe body dede.Þe fyrst man was þe fadyr, þe prest,Þat deyd aftyr þe doȝtyr nest.215Þys yche arme þat was of Aue,Þat none myȝt leye yn graue,Þe Emperoure dyd a vessel wercheTo do hyt yn, and hange yn þe cherche,Þat alle men myȝt se hyt and knawe,220And þenk on þe chaunce whenmenhyt sawe.Þese men þat hadde go þus karollandAlle þe ȝere, fast hand yn hand,Þogh þat þey were þan asunderȜyt alle þe worlde spake of hem wunder.225Þatsame hoppyng þat þey fyrst ȝede,Þatdaunceȝedeþey þurgh land and lede,And, as þey ne myȝt fyrst be vnbounde,So eftetogedyrmyȝt þey neuer be founde,Ne myȝt þey neuer come aȝeyn230Togedyr to oo stede certeyn.Foure ȝede to þe courte of Rome,And euer hoppyng aboute þey nome,†Wyth sundyr lepys† come þey þedyr,But þey come neuer efte togedyr.235Here cloþes ne roted, ne nayles grewe,Ne heere ne wax, ne solowed hewe,Ne neuer hadde þey amendement,Þat we herde, at any corseynt,But at þe vyrgyne Seynt Edyght,240Þere was he botened,SeyntTeodryght,On oure Lady day, yn lenten tyde,As he slepte here toumbe besyde.Þere he had hys medycyneAt Seynt Edyght, þe holy vyrgyne.245Brunyng þe bysshope of seynt TolousWrote þys tale so merueylous;Seþþe was hys name of more renoun,Men called hym þe pope Leoun.Þys at þe court of Rome þey wyte,250And yn þe kronykeles hyt ys wryteYn many stedys beȝounde þe see,More þan ys yn þys cuntré.Þarfor men seye, an weyl ys trowed,'Þe nere þe cherche, þe fyrþer fro God'.255So fare men here by þys tale,Some holde hyt but a troteuale,Ynoþer stedys hyt ys ful dereAnd for grete merueyle þey wyl hyt here.A tale hyt ys of feyre shewyng,260Ensample and drede aȝens cursyng.Þys tale y tolde ȝow to ȝow aferdeYn cherche to karolle, or yn chercheȝerde,Namely aȝens þe prestys wylle:Leueþ whan he byddeþ ȝow be stylle.265

Karolles, wrastlynges, or somour games,1

Whoso euer haunteþ any swyche shames

Yn cherche, oþer yn chercheȝerd,

Of sacrylage he may be aferd;

Or entyrludes, or syngynge,5

Or tabure bete, or oþer pypynge—

Alle swyche þyng forbodyn es

Whyle þe prest stondeþ at messe.

Alle swyche to euery gode preste ys lothe,

And sunner wyl he make hym wroth10

Þan he wyl, þat haþ no wyt,

Ne vndyrstondeþ nat Holy Wryt.

And specyaly at hygh tymes

Karolles to synge and rede rymys

Noght yn none holy stedes,15

Þat myȝt dysturble þe prestes bedes,

Or ȝyf he were yn orysun

Or any ouþer deuocyun:

Sacrylage ys alle hyt tolde,

Þys and many oþer folde.20

But for to leue yn chercheforto daunce,

Y shal ȝow telle a ful grete chaunce,

And y trow þe most þat fel

Yssoþe as y ȝow telle;

And fyl þys chaunce yn þys londe,25

Yn Ingland, as y vndyrstonde,

Yn a kynges tyme þat hyght Edward

Fyl þys chauce þat was so hard.

Hytwas vppon a Crystemesse nyȝt

Þat twelue folys a karolle dyȝt,30

Yn wodehed, as hyt were yn cuntek,

Þey come to a tounne men calle Colbek.

Þe cherche of þe tounne þat þey to come

Ys of Seynt Magne, þat suffred martyrdome;

Of Seynt Bukcestre hyt ys also,35

Seynt Magnes suster, þat þey come to.

Here names of alle þus fonde y wryte,

And as y wote now shul ȝe wyte:

Here lodesman, þat made hem glew,

Þus ys wryte, he hyȝte Gerlew.40

Twey maydens were yn here coueyne,

Mayden Merswynde and Wybessyne.

Alle þese come þedyr for þat enchesone

Of þe prestes doghtyr of þe tounne.

Þe prest hyȝt Robert, as y kan ame;45

Aȝone hyght hys sone by name;

Hys doghter, þat þese men wulde haue,

Þus ys wryte, þat she hyȝt Aue.

Echoune consented to o wyl

Who shuld go Aue oute to tyl,50

Þey graunted echone out to sende

Boþe Wybessyne and Merswynde.

Þese wommen ȝede and tolled here oute

Wyþ hem to karolle þe cherche aboute.

Beune ordeyned here karollyng;55

Gerlew endyted what þey shuld syng.

Þys ys þe karolle þat þey sunge,

As telleþ þe Latyn tunge:

'Equitabat Beuo per siluam frondosam,

Ducebat secum Merswyndam formosam.60

Quid stamus? cur non imus?'

'By þe leued wode rode Beuolyne,

Wyþhym he ledde feyre Merswyne.

Why stonde we? why go we noght?'

Þys ys þe karolle þat Grysly wroght;65

Þys songe sunge þey yn þe chercheȝerd—

Of foly were þey no þyng aferd—

Vnto þe matynes were alle done,

And þe messe shuld bygynne sone.

Þe preste hym reuest to begynne messe,70

And þey ne left þerfore neuer þe lesse,

But daunsed furþe as þey bygan,

For alle þe messe þey ne blan.

Þe preste, þat stode at þe autere,

And herd here noyse and here bere,75

Fro þe auter down he nam,

And to þe cherche porche he cam,

And seyd 'On Goddesbehalue, y ȝow forbede

Þat ȝe no lenger do swych dede,

But comeþ yn on feyre manere80

Goddes seruyse for to here,

And doþ at Crystyn mennys lawe;

Karolleþ no more, for Crystys awe!

Wurschyppeþ Hym with alle ȝoure myȝt

Þat of þe Vyrgyne was bore þys nyȝt.'85

For alle hys byddyng lefte þey noȝt,

But daunsed furþ, as þey þoȝt.

Þe preste þarefor was sore agreued;

He preyd God þat he on beleuyd,

And for Seynt Magne, þat he wulde so werche—90

Yn whos wurschyp sette was þe cherche—

Þat swych a veniaunce were on hem sent,

Are þey oute of þat stede were went,

Þat <þey> myȝt euer ryȝt so wende

Vntoþat tyme tweluemonth ende;95

(Yn þe Latyne þat y fonde þore

He seyþ nat 'tweluemonth' but 'euermore';)

He cursed hem þere alsaume

As þey karoled on here gaume.

As sone as þe preste hadde so spoke100

Euery hand yn ouþer so fast was loke

Þat no man myȝt with no wundyr

Þat tweluemoþe parte hem asundyr.

Þe preste ȝede yn, whan þys was done,

And commaunded hys sone Aȝone105

Þat shulde go swyþe aftyr Aue,

Oute of þat karolle algate to haue.

But al to late þat wurde was seyd,

For on hem alle was þe veniaunce leyd.

Aȝone wende weyl for to spede;110

Vnto þe karolle as swyþe he ȝede,

Hys systyr by þe arme he hente,

And þe arme fro þe body wente.

Men wundred alle þat þere wore,

And merueyle mowe ȝe here more,115

For, seþen he had þe arme yn hand,

Þe body ȝede furþ karoland,

And noþer <þe> body ne þe arme

Bledde neuer blode, colde ne warme,

But was as drye, with al þe haunche,120

As of a stok were ryue a braunche.

Aȝone to hys fadyr went,

And broght hym a sory present:

'Loke, fadyr,' he seyd, 'and haue hyt here,

Þe arme of þy doghtyr dere,125

Þat was myn owne syster Aue,

Þat y wende y myȝt a saue.

Þycursyng now sene hyt ys

Wyth veniaunce on þy owne flessh.

Fellyche þou cursedest, and ouer sone;130

Þou askedest veniaunce,—þou hast þy bone.'

Ȝow þar nat aske ȝyf þere was wo

Wyth þe preste, and wyth many mo.

Þe prest, þat cursed for þat daunce,

On some of hys fyl harde chaunce.135

He toke hys doghtyr armeforlorn

And byryed hyt on þe morn;

Þe nexte day þe arme of Aue

He fonde hyt lyggyng aboue þe graue.

He byryed on anouþer day,140

And eft aboue þe graue hyt lay.

Þe þrydde tyme he byryed hyt,

And eft was hyt kast oute of þe pyt.

Þe prest wulde byrye hyt no more,

He dredde þe veniaunce ferly sore;145

Ynto þe cherche he bare þe arme,

For drede and doute of more harme,

He ordeyned hyt for to be

Þat euery man myȝt wyth ye hyt se.

Þese men þat ȝede so karolland,150

Alle þat ȝere, hand yn hand,

Þey neuer oute of þat stede ȝede,

Ne none myȝt hem þenne lede.

Þere þe cursyng fyrst bygan,

Yn þat place aboute þey ran,155

Þat neuer ne felte þey no werynes

As many †bodyes for goyng dos†,

Ne mete ete, ne drank drynke,

Ne slepte onely alepy wynke.

Nyȝtne day þey wyst of none,160

Whan hyt was come, whan hyt was gone;

Frost ne snogh, hayle ne reyne,

Of colde ne hete, felte þey no peyne;

Heere ne nayles neuer grewe,

Ne solowed cloþes, ne turned hewe;165

Þundyr ne lyȝtnyng dyd hem no dere,

Goddys mercy ded hyt fro hem were;—

But sungge þat songge þat þe wo wroȝt:

'Why stonde we? why go we noȝt?'

What man shuld þyr be yn þys lyue170

Þatne wulde hyt see and þedyr dryue?

Þe Emperoure Henry come fro Rome

For to see þys hard dome.

Whan he hem say, he wepte sore

For þe myschefe þat he sagh þore.175

He ded come wryȝtes for to make

Coueryng ouer hem, for tempest sake.

But þat þey wroght hyt was yn veyn,

For hyt come to no certeyn,

For þat þey sette on oo day180

On þe touþer downe hyt lay.

Ones, twyys, þryys, þus þey wroȝt,

And alle here makyng was for noȝt.

Myght no coueryng hyle hem fro colde

Tyl tyme of mercy þat Cryst hyt wolde.185

Tyme of grace fyl þurgh Hys myȝt

At þe tweluemonth ende, on þe ȝole nyȝt.

Þe same oure þat þe prest hem banned,

Þe same oure atwynne þey †woned†;

Þat houre þat he cursed hem ynne,190

Þe same oure þey ȝede atwynne,

And as yn twynkelyng of an ye

Yntoþe cherche gun þey flye,

And on þe pauement þey fyl alle downe

As þey had be dede, or fal yn a swone.195

Þre days styl þey lay echone,

Þat none steryd oþer flesshe or bone,

And at þe þre days ende

To lyfe God graunted hem to wende.

Þey sette hem vpp and spak apert200

To þe parysshe prest, syre Robert:

'Þou art ensample and enchesun

Of oure long confusyun;

Þou maker art of oure trauayle,

Þat ys to many grete meruayle,205

And þy traueyle shalt þou sone ende,

For to þy long home sone shalt þou wende.'

Alle þey ryse þat yche tyde

But Aue,—she lay dede besyde.

Grete sorowe had here fadyr, here broþer;210

Merueyle and drede had alle ouþer;

Y trow no drede of soule dede,

But with pyne was broght þe body dede.

Þe fyrst man was þe fadyr, þe prest,

Þat deyd aftyr þe doȝtyr nest.215

Þys yche arme þat was of Aue,

Þat none myȝt leye yn graue,

Þe Emperoure dyd a vessel werche

To do hyt yn, and hange yn þe cherche,

Þat alle men myȝt se hyt and knawe,220

And þenk on þe chaunce whenmenhyt sawe.

Þese men þat hadde go þus karolland

Alle þe ȝere, fast hand yn hand,

Þogh þat þey were þan asunder

Ȝyt alle þe worlde spake of hem wunder.225

Þatsame hoppyng þat þey fyrst ȝede,

Þatdaunceȝedeþey þurgh land and lede,

And, as þey ne myȝt fyrst be vnbounde,

So eftetogedyrmyȝt þey neuer be founde,

Ne myȝt þey neuer come aȝeyn230

Togedyr to oo stede certeyn.

Foure ȝede to þe courte of Rome,

And euer hoppyng aboute þey nome,

†Wyth sundyr lepys† come þey þedyr,

But þey come neuer efte togedyr.235

Here cloþes ne roted, ne nayles grewe,

Ne heere ne wax, ne solowed hewe,

Ne neuer hadde þey amendement,

Þat we herde, at any corseynt,

But at þe vyrgyne Seynt Edyght,240

Þere was he botened,SeyntTeodryght,

On oure Lady day, yn lenten tyde,

As he slepte here toumbe besyde.

Þere he had hys medycyne

At Seynt Edyght, þe holy vyrgyne.245

Brunyng þe bysshope of seynt Tolous

Wrote þys tale so merueylous;

Seþþe was hys name of more renoun,

Men called hym þe pope Leoun.

Þys at þe court of Rome þey wyte,250

And yn þe kronykeles hyt ys wryte

Yn many stedys beȝounde þe see,

More þan ys yn þys cuntré.

Þarfor men seye, an weyl ys trowed,

'Þe nere þe cherche, þe fyrþer fro God'.255

So fare men here by þys tale,

Some holde hyt but a troteuale,

Ynoþer stedys hyt ys ful dere

And for grete merueyle þey wyl hyt here.

A tale hyt ys of feyre shewyng,260

Ensample and drede aȝens cursyng.

Þys tale y tolde ȝow to ȝow aferde

Yn cherche to karolle, or yn chercheȝerde,

Namely aȝens þe prestys wylle:

Leueþ whan he byddeþ ȝow be stylle.265

21for (2nd)om. MS. Bodley 415.24Ys as soþas þe gospelMS. Bodley.78behalue] halfeMS. Bodley.94þey]so MS. Bodley: om. MS. Harley.106he]so MS. Bodley.118þe]so MS. Bodley.136-7forlorn̄... morn̄MS.140hyt]so MS. Bodley:om. MS. Harley.171Þat] Þat hytMS. Harley.221men] þeyMS. Bodley.227ȝede] wenteMS. Bodley.229togedyr... neuer] myȝt þey neuer togedyrMS. Bodley.241Seyntom. MS. Bodley.

21for (2nd)om. MS. Bodley 415.

24Ys as soþas þe gospelMS. Bodley.

78behalue] halfeMS. Bodley.

94þey]so MS. Bodley: om. MS. Harley.

106he]so MS. Bodley.

118þe]so MS. Bodley.

136-7forlorn̄... morn̄MS.

140hyt]so MS. Bodley:om. MS. Harley.

171Þat] Þat hytMS. Harley.

221men] þeyMS. Bodley.

227ȝede] wenteMS. Bodley.

229togedyr... neuer] myȝt þey neuer togedyrMS. Bodley.

241Seyntom. MS. Bodley.

Sir Orfeois found in three MSS.: (1) the Auchinleck MS. (1325-1350), a famous Middle English miscellany now in the Advocates' Library, Edinburgh; (2) British Museum MS. Harley 3810 (fifteenth century); (3) Bodleian MS. Ashmole 61 (fifteenth century). Our text follows the Auchinleck MS., with ll. 1-24 and ll. 33-46 supplied from the Harleian MS. The critical text of O. Zielke, Breslau 1880, reproduces the MSS. inaccurately.

The story appears to have been translated from a French source into South-Western English at the beginning of the fourteenth century. It belongs to a group of 'lays' which claim to derive from Brittany, e.g.Lai le Freine, which has the same opening lines (1-22);Emaré; and Chaucer'sFranklin's Tale.

The story of Orpheus and Eurydice was known to the Middle Ages chiefly from Ovid (Metamorphosesx) and from Virgil (Georgicsiv). King Alfred's rendering of it in hisBoethiusis one of his best prose passages, despite the crude moralizing which makes Orpheus's backward glance at Eurydice before she is safe from Hades a symbol of the backslider's longing for his old sins. The Middle English poet has a lighter and daintier touch. The Greek myth is almost lost in a tale of fairyland, the earliest English romance of the kind; and to provide the appropriate happy ending, Sir Orfeo is made successful in his attempt to rescue Heurodis. The adaptation of the classical subject to a mediaeval setting is thorough. An amusing instance is the attempt in the Auchinleck MS. to give the poem an English interest by the unconvincing assurance thatTraciens(which from 'Thracian' had come to mean 'Thrace') was the old name of Winchester (ll. 49-50).

Orfeo was a king,25In Inglondan heiȝe lording,A stalworþ man and hardi bo,Large and curteys he was also.His fader was comen of King Pluto,And his moder of King Iuno,30Þat sum time were as godes yhold,For auentours þat þai dede and told.Þis king soiournd in Traciens,Þat was a cité of noble defens;For Winchesterwas cleped þoTraciens wiþouten no.50Þe kinghadde a quen of priis,Þat was ycleped Dame Herodis,Þe fairest leuedi, for þe nones,Þat miȝt gon on bodi and bones,Ful of loue and of godenisse;55Ac no man may telle hir fairnise.Bifel so in þe comessing of May,When miri and hot is þe day,And oway beþ winter-schours,And eueri feld is ful of flours,60And blosme breme on eueri bouȝOueral wexeþ miri anouȝ,Þis ich quen, Dame Heurodis,Tok to maidens of priis,Andwent in an vndrentide65To play bi an orchard side,To se þe floures sprede and spring,And to here þe foules sing.Þai sett hem doun al þreVnder a fair ympe-tre,70And wel sone þis fair queneFel on slepe opon þe grene.Þe maidens durst hir nouȝt awake,Bot lete hir ligge and rest take.So sche slepe til afternone,75Þat vndertide was al ydone.Ac as sone as sche gan awake,Sche crid and loþli bere gan make,Sche froted hir honden and hir fet,And crached hir visage, it bled wete;80Hir riche robe hye al torett,And wasreueydout of hir witt.Þe tvo maidens hir bisideNo durst wiþ hir no leng abide,Bot ourn to þe palays ful riȝt,85And told boþe squier and kniȝtÞat her quen awede wold,And bad hem go and hir athold.Kniȝtes vrn, and leuedis also,Damisels sexti and mo,90In þe orchard to þe quen hye come,And her vp in her armes nome,And brouȝt hir to bed atte last,And held hir þere fine fast;Ac euer sche held in o cri,95And wold vp and owy.When Orfeo herd þat tiding,Neuer him nas wers for no þing.He come wiþ kniȝtes teneTochaumber riȝt bifor þe quene,100And biheld, and seyd wiþ grete pité:'O lef liif, what is te,Þat euer ȝete hast ben so stille,And now gredest wonder schille?Þi bodi, þat was so white ycore,105Wiþ þine nailes is al totore.Allas! þi rode, þat was so red,Is al wan as þou were ded;And also þine fingres smaleBeþ al blodi and al pale.110Allas! þi louesom eyȝen toLokeþ so man doþ on his fo.A! dame, ich biseche merci.Lete ben al þis reweful cri,And tel me what þe is, and hou,115And what þing may þe help now.'Þo lay sche stille atte last,And gan to wepe swiþe fast,And seyd þus þe king to:'Allas! mi lord, Sir Orfeo,120Seþþen we first togider were,Ones wroþ neuer we nere,Bot euer ich haue yloued þeAs mi liif, and so þou me.Ac now we mot delen ato;125Do þi best, for y mot go.''Allas!' quaþ he, 'forlorn icham.Whider wiltow go, and to wham?Whider þou gost, ichil wiþ þe,And whider y go, þou schalt wiþ me.'130'Nay, nay, sir, þat nouȝt nis;Ichilþe telle al hou it is:As ich lay þis vndertide,And slepe vnder our orchard-side,Þer come to me to fair kniȝtes135Wele y-armed al to riȝtes,And bad me comen an heiȝing,And speke wiþ her lord þe king.And ich answerd at wordes bold,Y durst nouȝt, no y nold.140Þai priked oȝain as þai miȝt driue;Þo com her king also bliue,Wiþ an hundred kniȝtes and mo,And damisels an hundred also,Al on snowe-white stedes;145As white as milke were her wedes:Y no seiȝe neuer ȝete biforeSo fair creatours ycore.Þe king hadde a croun on hed,It nas of siluer, no of gold red,150Ac it was of a precious ston,As briȝt as þe sonne it schon.And as son as he to me cam,Wold ich, nold ich, he me nam,And made me wiþ him ride155Opon a palfray, bi his side,And brouȝt me to his palays,Wele atird in ich ways,And schewed me castels and tours,Riuers, forestes, friþ wiþ flours,160And his riche stedes ichon;And seþþen me brouȝt oȝain homInto our owhen orchard,And said to me þus afterward:"Loke, dame, to-morwe þatow be165Riȝthere vnder þis ympe-tre,And þan þou schalt wiþ ous go,And liue wiþ ous euermo;And ȝif þou makest ous ylet,Whar þou be, þou worst yfet,170And totore þine limes al,Þat noþing help þe no schal;And þei þou best so totorn,Ȝete þou worst wiþ ous yborn."'When King Orfeo herd þis cas,175'O we!' quaþ he, 'allas, allas!Leuer me were to lete mi liif,Þan þus to lese þe quen mi wiif!'He asked conseyl at ich man,Ac no man him help no can.180Amorwe þe vndertide is come,And Orfeo haþ his armes ynome,And wele ten hundred kniȝtes wiþ himIch y-armed stout and grim;And wiþ þe quen wenten he185Riȝt vnto þat ympe-tre.Þai made scheltrom in ich a side,And sayd þai wold þere abide,And dye þer euerichon,Er þe quen schuld fram hem gon.190Ac ȝete amiddes hem ful riȝtÞe quen was oway ytuiȝt,Wiþ fairi forþ ynome;Men wist neuer wher sche was bicome.Þo was þer criing, wepe and wo.195Þe king into his chaumber is go,And oft swoned opon þe ston,And made swiche diol and swiche monÞat neiȝe his liif was yspent:Þerwas non amendement.200He cleped togider his barouns,Erls, lordes of renouns;And when þai al ycomen were,'Lordinges,' he said, 'bifor ȝou hereIch ordainy min heiȝe steward205To wite mi kingdom afterward;In mi stede ben he schal,To kepe mi londes ouer al.For, now ichaue mi quen ylore,Þe fairest leuedi þat euer was bore,210Neuer eft y nil no woman se.Into wildernes ichil te,And liue þer euermoreWiþ wilde bestes in holtes hore.And when ȝe vnderstond þat y be spent,215Make ȝou þan a parlement,And chese ȝou a newe king.Now doþ ȝour best wiþ al mi þing.'Þo was þer wepeing in þe halle,And grete cri among hem alle;220Vnneþe miȝt old or ȝongFor wepeing speke a word wiþ tong.Þai kneled adoun al yfere,And praid him, ȝif his wille were,Þat he no schuld nouȝt fram hem go.225'Do way!' quaþ he, 'it schal be so.'Al his kingdom he forsoke;Bot a sclauin on him he toke;He no hadde kirtel no hode,Schert,no noþer gode.230Bot his harp he tok algate,And dede him barfot out atte ȝate;Noman most wiþ him go.O way! what þer was wepe and wo,When he, þat hadde ben king wiþ croun,235Went so pouerlich out of toun!Þurch wode and ouer heþInto þe wildernes he geþ.Noþing he fint þat him is ays,Bot euer he liueþ in gret malais.240He þat hadde ywerd þe fowe and griis,And on bed þe purper biis,Now on hard heþe he liþ,Wiþ leues and gresse he him wriþ.He þat hadde had castels and tours,245Riuer, forest, friþ wiþ flours,Now, þei it comenci to snewe and frese,Þis king mot make his bed in mese.He þat had yhad kniȝtes of priisBifor him kneland, and leuedis,250Now seþ he noþing þat him likeþ,Bot wilde wormes bi him strikeþ.He þat had yhad plentéOf mete and drink, of ich deynté,Now may he al day digge and wrote255Er he finde his fille of rote.In somer he liueþ bi wild frutAnd berien bot gode lite;In winter may he noþing findeBot rote, grases, and þe rinde.260Al his bodi was oway duineFor missays, and al tochine.Lord! who may telle þe soreÞis king sufferd ten ȝere and more?His here of his berd, blac and rowe,265To his girdelstede was growe.Hisharp, whereon was al his gle,He hidde in an holwe tre;And, when þe weder was clere and briȝt,He toke his harp to him wel riȝt,270And harped at his owhen wille.Into alle þe wode þe soun gan schille,Þat alle þe wilde bestes þat þer beþFor ioie abouten him þai teþ;And alle þe foules þat þer were275Come and sete on ich a brere,To here his harping afine,So miche melody was þerin;And when he his harping lete wold,No best bi him abide nold.280He miȝt se him bisidesOft in hot vndertidesÞe king o fairy wiþ his routCom to hunt him al about,Wiþ dim cri and bloweing;285And houndes also wiþ him berking;Ac no best þai no nome,No neuer he nist whider þai bicome.And oþer while he miȝt him seAs a gret ost bi him te290Wele atourned ten hundred kniȝtes,Ich y-armed to his riȝtes,Of cuntenaunce stout and fers,Wiþ mani desplaid baners,And ich his swerd ydrawe hold,295Ac neuer he nist whider þai wold.And oþer while he seiȝe oþer þing:Kniȝtes and leuedis com daunceingIn queynt atire, gisely,Queynt pas and softly;300Taboursand trunpes ȝede hem bi,And al maner menstraci.And on a day he seiȝe him bisideSexti leuedis on hors ride,Gentil and iolif as brid on ris,—305Nouȝt o man amonges hem þer nis.And ich a faucoun on hond bere,And riden on haukin bi o riuere.Of game þai founde wel gode haunt,Maulardes, hayroun, and cormeraunt;310Þe foules of þe water ariseþ,Þe faucouns hem wele deuiseþ;Ich faucoun his pray slouȝ.Þat seiȝe Orfeo, and louȝ:'Parfay!' quaþ he, 'þer is fair game,315Þider ichil, bi Godes name!Ich was ywon swiche werk to se.'He aros, and þider gan te.To a leuedi he was ycome,Biheld, and haþ wele vndernome,320And seþ bi al þing þat it isHis owhen quen, Dam Heurodis.Ȝern he biheld hir, and sche him eke,Ac noiþer to oþer a word no speke.For messais þat sche on him seiȝe,325Þat had ben so riche and so heiȝe,Þe teres fel out of her eiȝe.Þe oþer leuedis þis yseiȝe,And maked hir oway to ride,Sche most wiþ him no lenger abide.330'Allas!' quaþ he, 'now me is wo.Whi nil deþ now me slo?Allas!wreche, þat y no miȝtDyenow after þis siȝt!Allas! to long last mi liif,335When y no dar nouȝt wiþ mi wiif,No hye to me, o word speke.Allas! whi nil min hert breke?Parfay!' quaþ he, 'tide wat bitide,Whider so þis leuedis ride,340Þe selue way ichil streche;Of liif no deþ me no reche.'His sclauain he dede on also spac,And henge his harp opon his bac,And had wel gode wil to gon,—345He no spard noiþer stub no ston.In at a roche þe leuedis rideþ,And he after, and nouȝt abideþ.When he was in þe roche ygoWele þre mile oþer mo,350He com into a fair cuntray,As briȝt so sonne on somers day,Smoþe and plain and al grene,Hille no dale nas þer non ysene.Amidde þe lond a castel he siȝe,355Riche and real, and wonder heiȝe.Al þe vtmast walWas clere and schine as cristal;An hundred tours þer were about,Degiselich, and bataild stout;360Þe butras com out of þe diche,Of rede gold y-arched riche;Þe vousour was anowed alOf ich maner diuers animal.Wiþin þer wer wide wones365Al of precious stones.Þe werst piler on to biholdeWasal of burnist gold.Al þat lond was euer liȝt,For when it schuld be þerk and niȝt,370Þe riche stones liȝt gonne,As briȝt as doþ at none þe sonne.No man may telle, no þenche in þouȝt,Þe riche werk þat þer was wrouȝt;Bi al þing him þink þat it is375Þe proude court of Paradis.In þis castel þe leuedis aliȝt;He wold in after, ȝif he miȝt.Orfeo knokkeþ atte gate,Þe porter was redi þerate,380And asked what he wold haue ydo.'Parfay!' quaþ he, 'icham a minstrel, lo!To solas þi lord wiþ mi gle,Ȝif his swete wille be.'Þe porter vndede þe ȝate anon,385And lete him into þe castel gon.Þan he gan bihold about al,And seiȝe †ful† liggeand wiþin þe walOf folk þat were þider ybrouȝt,And þouȝt dede, and nare nouȝt.390Sum stode wiþouten hade,And sum non armes nade,And sum þurch þe bodi hadde wounde,And sum lay wode, ybounde,And sum armed on hors sete,395And sum astrangled as þai ete,And sum were in water adreynt,And sum wiþ fire al forschreyntWiues þer lay on childbedde,Sum ded, and sum awedde;400And wonder fele þer lay bisides,Riȝtas þai slepe her vndertides.Eche was þus in þis warld ynome,Wiþ fairi þider ycome.Þer he seiȝe his owhen wiif,405Dame Heurodis, hislefliif,Slepe vnder an ympe-tre:Bi her cloþes he knewe þat it was he.And when he hadde bihold þis meruails alle,He went into þe kinges halle.410Þan seiȝe he þer a semly siȝt,A tabernacle blisseful and briȝt,Þerin her maister king sete,And her quen fair and swete.Her crounes, her cloþes, schine so briȝt,415Þat vnneþe bihold he hem miȝt.When he hadde biholden al þat þing,He kneled adoun bifor þe king.'O lord,' he seyd, 'ȝif it þi wille were,Mi menstraci þou schust yhere.'420Þe king answerd: 'What man artow,Þat art hider ycomen now?Ich, no non þat is wiþ me,No sent neuer after þe;Seþþen þat ich here regni gan,425Y no fond neuer so folehardi manÞat hider to ous durst wende,Bot þat ichim wald ofsende.''Lord,' quaþ he, 'trowe ful wel,Y nam bot a pouer menstrel;430And, sir, it is þe maner of ousTo seche mani a lordes hous;Þei we nouȝt welcom no be,Ȝete we mot proferi forþ our gle.'Biforþe king he sat adoun,435And tok his harp so miri of soun,And tempreþ his harp, as he wele can,And blisseful notes he þer gan,Þat al þat in þe palays wereCom to him for to here,440And liggeþ adoun to his fete,Hem þenkeþ his melody so swete.Þe king herkneþ and sitt ful stille,To here his gle he haþ gode wille;Gode bourde he hadde of his gle,445Þe riche quen also hadde he.When he hadde stint his harping,Þan seyd to him þe king:'Menstrel, me likeþ wele þi gle.Now aske of me what it be,450Largelich ichil þe pay.Now speke, and tow miȝt asay.''Sir,' he seyd, 'ich biseche þeÞatow woldest ȝiue meÞat ich leuedi, briȝt on ble,455Þat slepeþ vnder þe ympe-tre.''Nay,' quaþ þe king, 'þat nouȝt nere!A sori couple of ȝou it were,For þou art lene, rowe, and blac,And sche is louesum, wiþouten lac;460A loþlich þing it were forþiTo sen hir in þi compayni.''O sir,' he seyd, 'gentil king,Ȝete were it a wele fouler þingTo here a lesing of þi mouþe,465So, sir, as ȝe seyd nouþe,What ich wold aski, haue y schold,And nedes þou most þi word hold.'Þeking seyd: 'Seþþen it is so,Take hir bi þe hond, and go;470Of hir ichil þatow be bliþe.'He kneled adoun, and þonked him swiþe;His wiif he tok bi þe hond,And dede him swiþe out of þat lond,And went him out of þat þede,—475Riȝt as he come þe way he ȝede.So long he haþ þe way ynome,ToWinchesterhe is ycome,Þat was his owhen cité;Ac no man knewe þat it was he.480No forþer þan þe tounes endeFor knoweleche no durst wende,Bot wiþ a begger y bilt ful narwe,Þer he tok his herbarwe,To him and to his owhen wiif,485As a minstrel of pouer liif,And asked tidinges of þat lond,And who þe kingdom held in hond.Þe pouer begger in his coteTold him euerich a grot:490Hou her quen was stole owyTen ȝer gon wiþ fairy;And hou her king en exile ȝede,Bot no man nist in wiche þede;And hou þe steward þe lond gan hold;495And oþer mani þinges him told.Amorwe, oȝain nonetide,He maked his wiif þer abide;Þe beggers cloþes he borwed anon,And heng his harp his rigge opon,500And went him into þat cité,Þatmen miȝt him bihold and se.Erls and barouns bold,Buriays and leuedis him gun bihold.'Lo,' þai seyd, 'swiche a man!505Hou long þe here hongeþ him opan!Lo, hou his berd hongeþ to his kne!He is yclongen also a tre!'And as he ȝede in þe strete,Wiþ his steward he gan mete,510And loude he sett on him a crie:'Sir steward,' he seyd, 'merci!Icham an harpour of heþenisse;Help me now in þis destresse!'Þe steward seyd: 'Com wiþ me, come;515Of þat ichaue þou schalt haue some.Euerich gode harpour is welcom me to,For mi lordes loue Sir Orfeo.'In þe castel þe steward sat atte mete,And mani lording was bi him sete.520Þer were trompour and tabourers,Harpours fele, and crouders.Miche melody þai maked alle,And Orfeo sat stille in þe halle,And herkneþ. When þai ben al stille,525He toke his harp and tempred schille,Þe blifulest notes he harped þereÞat euer ani man yherd wiþ ere;Ich man liked wele his gle.Þe steward biheld and gan yse,530And knewe þe harp als bliue.'Menstrel,' he seyd, 'so mot þou þriue,Where hadestow þis harp, and hou?Y pray þat þou me telle now.''Lord,' quaþ he, 'in vncouþe þede,535Þurcha wildernes as y ȝede,Þer y founde in a daleWiþ lyouns a man totorn smale,And wolues him frete wiþ teþ so scharp.Bi him y fond þis ich harp;540Wele ten ȝere it is ygo.''O,' quaþ þe steward, 'now me is wo!Þat was mi lord Sir Orfeo.Allas! wreche, what schal y do,Þat haue swiche a lord ylore?545A way! þat ich was ybore!Þat him was so hard grace yȝarked,And so vile deþ ymarked!'Adoun he fel aswon to grounde.His barouns him tok vp in þat stounde,550And telleþ him hou it geþ—It nis no bot of manes deþ.King Orfeo knewe wele bi þanHis steward was a trewe manAnd loued him as he auȝt to do,555And stont vp and seyt þus: 'Lo,Steward, herkne now þis þing:Ȝif ich were Orfeo þe king,And hadde ysuffred ful ȝoreIn wildernisse miche sore,560And hadde ywon mi quen owyOut of þe lond of fairy,And hadde ybrouȝt þe leuedi hendeRiȝt here to þe tounes ende,And wiþ a begger her in ynome,565And were miself hider ycomePouerlich to þe, þus stille,For to asay þi gode wille,And ich founde þe þus trewe,Þou no schust it neuer rewe:570Sikerlich,for loue orÞou schust be king after mi day.And ȝif þou of mi deþ hadest ben bliþe,Þou schust haue voided also swiþe.'Þo al þo þat þerin sete575Þat it was King Orfeo vnderȝete,And þe steward him wele knewe;Ouer and ouer þe bord he þrewe,And fel adoun to his fet;So dede euerich lord þat þer sete,580And al þai seyd at o criing:'Ȝe beþ our lord, sir, and our king!'Glad þai were of his liue.To chaumber þai ladde him als biliue,And baþed him, and schaued his berd,585And tired him as a king apert.And seþþen wiþ gret processiounÞai brouȝt þe quen into þe toun,Wiþ al maner menstraci.Lord! þer was grete melody!590For ioie þai wepe wiþ her eiȝeÞat hem so sounde ycomen seiȝe.Now King Orfeo newe coround is,And his quen Dame Heurodis,And liued long afterward;595And seþþen was king þe steward.Harpours in Bretaine after þanHerd hou þis meruaile bigan,And made herof a lay of gode likeing,And nempned it after þe king;600Þat lay 'Orfeo' is yhote,Gode is þe lay, swete is þe note.Þus com Sir Orfeo out of his care.God graunt ous alle wele to fare.

As clerkes don us to wyte,

The layes that ben of harpyng

Ben yfounde of frely thing.

Sum ben of wele, and sum of wo,5

And sum of ioy and merthe also;

Sum oftrechery, and sum of gyle,

And sum of happes þat fallen by whyle;

Sum of bourdys, and sum of rybaudry,

And sum þer ben of the feyré.10

Of alle þing þat men may se,

Moostoloueforsoþe þey be.

In Brytayn þis layes arne ywryte,

Furst yfounde and forþe ygete,

Of aventures þat fillen by dayes,15

Wherof Brytouns made her layes.

When þey myght owher heryn

Of aventures þat þer weryn,

Þey toke her harpys wiþ game,

Maden layes and ȝaf it name.20

Of aventures þat han befalle

Y can sum telle, but nouȝt all.

Herken, lordyngys þat ben trewe,

And y wol ȝou telle of Sir Orphewe.>

Orfeo was a king,25

In Inglondan heiȝe lording,

A stalworþ man and hardi bo,

Large and curteys he was also.

His fader was comen of King Pluto,

And his moder of King Iuno,30

Þat sum time were as godes yhold,

For auentours þat þai dede and told.

Louede þe gle of harpyng;

Syker was euery gode harpoure35

Of hym to haue moche honoure.

Hymself loued for to harpe,

And layde þeron his wittes scharpe.

He lernyd so, þer noþing was

A better harper in no plas;40

In þe world was neuer man born

Þat euer Orpheo sat byforn,

And he myȝt of his harpyng here,

He schulde þinke þat he were

In one of þe ioys of Paradys,45

Suche ioy and melody in his harpyng is.>

Þis king soiournd in Traciens,

Þat was a cité of noble defens;

For Winchesterwas cleped þo

Traciens wiþouten no.50

Þe kinghadde a quen of priis,

Þat was ycleped Dame Herodis,

Þe fairest leuedi, for þe nones,

Þat miȝt gon on bodi and bones,

Ful of loue and of godenisse;55

Ac no man may telle hir fairnise.

Bifel so in þe comessing of May,

When miri and hot is þe day,

And oway beþ winter-schours,

And eueri feld is ful of flours,60

And blosme breme on eueri bouȝ

Oueral wexeþ miri anouȝ,

Þis ich quen, Dame Heurodis,

Tok to maidens of priis,

Andwent in an vndrentide65

To play bi an orchard side,

To se þe floures sprede and spring,

And to here þe foules sing.

Þai sett hem doun al þre

Vnder a fair ympe-tre,70

And wel sone þis fair quene

Fel on slepe opon þe grene.

Þe maidens durst hir nouȝt awake,

Bot lete hir ligge and rest take.

So sche slepe til afternone,75

Þat vndertide was al ydone.

Ac as sone as sche gan awake,

Sche crid and loþli bere gan make,

Sche froted hir honden and hir fet,

And crached hir visage, it bled wete;80

Hir riche robe hye al torett,

And wasreueydout of hir witt.

Þe tvo maidens hir biside

No durst wiþ hir no leng abide,

Bot ourn to þe palays ful riȝt,85

And told boþe squier and kniȝt

Þat her quen awede wold,

And bad hem go and hir athold.

Kniȝtes vrn, and leuedis also,

Damisels sexti and mo,90

In þe orchard to þe quen hye come,

And her vp in her armes nome,

And brouȝt hir to bed atte last,

And held hir þere fine fast;

Ac euer sche held in o cri,95

And wold vp and owy.

When Orfeo herd þat tiding,

Neuer him nas wers for no þing.

He come wiþ kniȝtes tene

Tochaumber riȝt bifor þe quene,100

And biheld, and seyd wiþ grete pité:

'O lef liif, what is te,

Þat euer ȝete hast ben so stille,

And now gredest wonder schille?

Þi bodi, þat was so white ycore,105

Wiþ þine nailes is al totore.

Allas! þi rode, þat was so red,

Is al wan as þou were ded;

And also þine fingres smale

Beþ al blodi and al pale.110

Allas! þi louesom eyȝen to

Lokeþ so man doþ on his fo.

A! dame, ich biseche merci.

Lete ben al þis reweful cri,

And tel me what þe is, and hou,115

And what þing may þe help now.'

Þo lay sche stille atte last,

And gan to wepe swiþe fast,

And seyd þus þe king to:

'Allas! mi lord, Sir Orfeo,120

Seþþen we first togider were,

Ones wroþ neuer we nere,

Bot euer ich haue yloued þe

As mi liif, and so þou me.

Ac now we mot delen ato;125

Do þi best, for y mot go.'

'Allas!' quaþ he, 'forlorn icham.

Whider wiltow go, and to wham?

Whider þou gost, ichil wiþ þe,

And whider y go, þou schalt wiþ me.'130

'Nay, nay, sir, þat nouȝt nis;

Ichilþe telle al hou it is:

As ich lay þis vndertide,

And slepe vnder our orchard-side,

Þer come to me to fair kniȝtes135

Wele y-armed al to riȝtes,

And bad me comen an heiȝing,

And speke wiþ her lord þe king.

And ich answerd at wordes bold,

Y durst nouȝt, no y nold.140

Þai priked oȝain as þai miȝt driue;

Þo com her king also bliue,

Wiþ an hundred kniȝtes and mo,

And damisels an hundred also,

Al on snowe-white stedes;145

As white as milke were her wedes:

Y no seiȝe neuer ȝete bifore

So fair creatours ycore.

Þe king hadde a croun on hed,

It nas of siluer, no of gold red,150

Ac it was of a precious ston,

As briȝt as þe sonne it schon.

And as son as he to me cam,

Wold ich, nold ich, he me nam,

And made me wiþ him ride155

Opon a palfray, bi his side,

And brouȝt me to his palays,

Wele atird in ich ways,

And schewed me castels and tours,

Riuers, forestes, friþ wiþ flours,160

And his riche stedes ichon;

And seþþen me brouȝt oȝain hom

Into our owhen orchard,

And said to me þus afterward:

"Loke, dame, to-morwe þatow be165

Riȝthere vnder þis ympe-tre,

And þan þou schalt wiþ ous go,

And liue wiþ ous euermo;

And ȝif þou makest ous ylet,

Whar þou be, þou worst yfet,170

And totore þine limes al,

Þat noþing help þe no schal;

And þei þou best so totorn,

Ȝete þou worst wiþ ous yborn."'

When King Orfeo herd þis cas,175

'O we!' quaþ he, 'allas, allas!

Leuer me were to lete mi liif,

Þan þus to lese þe quen mi wiif!'

He asked conseyl at ich man,

Ac no man him help no can.180

Amorwe þe vndertide is come,

And Orfeo haþ his armes ynome,

And wele ten hundred kniȝtes wiþ him

Ich y-armed stout and grim;

And wiþ þe quen wenten he185

Riȝt vnto þat ympe-tre.

Þai made scheltrom in ich a side,

And sayd þai wold þere abide,

And dye þer euerichon,

Er þe quen schuld fram hem gon.190

Ac ȝete amiddes hem ful riȝt

Þe quen was oway ytuiȝt,

Wiþ fairi forþ ynome;

Men wist neuer wher sche was bicome.

Þo was þer criing, wepe and wo.195

Þe king into his chaumber is go,

And oft swoned opon þe ston,

And made swiche diol and swiche mon

Þat neiȝe his liif was yspent:

Þerwas non amendement.200

He cleped togider his barouns,

Erls, lordes of renouns;

And when þai al ycomen were,

'Lordinges,' he said, 'bifor ȝou here

Ich ordainy min heiȝe steward205

To wite mi kingdom afterward;

In mi stede ben he schal,

To kepe mi londes ouer al.

For, now ichaue mi quen ylore,

Þe fairest leuedi þat euer was bore,210

Neuer eft y nil no woman se.

Into wildernes ichil te,

And liue þer euermore

Wiþ wilde bestes in holtes hore.

And when ȝe vnderstond þat y be spent,215

Make ȝou þan a parlement,

And chese ȝou a newe king.

Now doþ ȝour best wiþ al mi þing.'

Þo was þer wepeing in þe halle,

And grete cri among hem alle;220

Vnneþe miȝt old or ȝong

For wepeing speke a word wiþ tong.

Þai kneled adoun al yfere,

And praid him, ȝif his wille were,

Þat he no schuld nouȝt fram hem go.225

'Do way!' quaþ he, 'it schal be so.'

Al his kingdom he forsoke;

Bot a sclauin on him he toke;

He no hadde kirtel no hode,

Schert,no noþer gode.230

Bot his harp he tok algate,

And dede him barfot out atte ȝate;

Noman most wiþ him go.

O way! what þer was wepe and wo,

When he, þat hadde ben king wiþ croun,235

Went so pouerlich out of toun!

Þurch wode and ouer heþ

Into þe wildernes he geþ.

Noþing he fint þat him is ays,

Bot euer he liueþ in gret malais.240

He þat hadde ywerd þe fowe and griis,

And on bed þe purper biis,

Now on hard heþe he liþ,

Wiþ leues and gresse he him wriþ.

He þat hadde had castels and tours,245

Riuer, forest, friþ wiþ flours,

Now, þei it comenci to snewe and frese,

Þis king mot make his bed in mese.

He þat had yhad kniȝtes of priis

Bifor him kneland, and leuedis,250

Now seþ he noþing þat him likeþ,

Bot wilde wormes bi him strikeþ.

He þat had yhad plenté

Of mete and drink, of ich deynté,

Now may he al day digge and wrote255

Er he finde his fille of rote.

In somer he liueþ bi wild frut

And berien bot gode lite;

In winter may he noþing finde

Bot rote, grases, and þe rinde.260

Al his bodi was oway duine

For missays, and al tochine.

Lord! who may telle þe sore

Þis king sufferd ten ȝere and more?

His here of his berd, blac and rowe,265

To his girdelstede was growe.

Hisharp, whereon was al his gle,

He hidde in an holwe tre;

And, when þe weder was clere and briȝt,

He toke his harp to him wel riȝt,270

And harped at his owhen wille.

Into alle þe wode þe soun gan schille,

Þat alle þe wilde bestes þat þer beþ

For ioie abouten him þai teþ;

And alle þe foules þat þer were275

Come and sete on ich a brere,

To here his harping afine,

So miche melody was þerin;

And when he his harping lete wold,

No best bi him abide nold.280

He miȝt se him bisides

Oft in hot vndertides

Þe king o fairy wiþ his rout

Com to hunt him al about,

Wiþ dim cri and bloweing;285

And houndes also wiþ him berking;

Ac no best þai no nome,

No neuer he nist whider þai bicome.

And oþer while he miȝt him se

As a gret ost bi him te290

Wele atourned ten hundred kniȝtes,

Ich y-armed to his riȝtes,

Of cuntenaunce stout and fers,

Wiþ mani desplaid baners,

And ich his swerd ydrawe hold,295

Ac neuer he nist whider þai wold.

And oþer while he seiȝe oþer þing:

Kniȝtes and leuedis com daunceing

In queynt atire, gisely,

Queynt pas and softly;300

Taboursand trunpes ȝede hem bi,

And al maner menstraci.

And on a day he seiȝe him biside

Sexti leuedis on hors ride,

Gentil and iolif as brid on ris,—305

Nouȝt o man amonges hem þer nis.

And ich a faucoun on hond bere,

And riden on haukin bi o riuere.

Of game þai founde wel gode haunt,

Maulardes, hayroun, and cormeraunt;310

Þe foules of þe water ariseþ,

Þe faucouns hem wele deuiseþ;

Ich faucoun his pray slouȝ.

Þat seiȝe Orfeo, and louȝ:

'Parfay!' quaþ he, 'þer is fair game,315

Þider ichil, bi Godes name!

Ich was ywon swiche werk to se.'

He aros, and þider gan te.

To a leuedi he was ycome,

Biheld, and haþ wele vndernome,320

And seþ bi al þing þat it is

His owhen quen, Dam Heurodis.

Ȝern he biheld hir, and sche him eke,

Ac noiþer to oþer a word no speke.

For messais þat sche on him seiȝe,325

Þat had ben so riche and so heiȝe,

Þe teres fel out of her eiȝe.

Þe oþer leuedis þis yseiȝe,

And maked hir oway to ride,

Sche most wiþ him no lenger abide.330

'Allas!' quaþ he, 'now me is wo.

Whi nil deþ now me slo?

Allas!wreche, þat y no miȝt

Dyenow after þis siȝt!

Allas! to long last mi liif,335

When y no dar nouȝt wiþ mi wiif,

No hye to me, o word speke.

Allas! whi nil min hert breke?

Parfay!' quaþ he, 'tide wat bitide,

Whider so þis leuedis ride,340

Þe selue way ichil streche;

Of liif no deþ me no reche.'

His sclauain he dede on also spac,

And henge his harp opon his bac,

And had wel gode wil to gon,—345

He no spard noiþer stub no ston.

In at a roche þe leuedis rideþ,

And he after, and nouȝt abideþ.

When he was in þe roche ygo

Wele þre mile oþer mo,350

He com into a fair cuntray,

As briȝt so sonne on somers day,

Smoþe and plain and al grene,

Hille no dale nas þer non ysene.

Amidde þe lond a castel he siȝe,355

Riche and real, and wonder heiȝe.

Al þe vtmast wal

Was clere and schine as cristal;

An hundred tours þer were about,

Degiselich, and bataild stout;360

Þe butras com out of þe diche,

Of rede gold y-arched riche;

Þe vousour was anowed al

Of ich maner diuers animal.

Wiþin þer wer wide wones365

Al of precious stones.

Þe werst piler on to biholde

Wasal of burnist gold.

Al þat lond was euer liȝt,

For when it schuld be þerk and niȝt,370

Þe riche stones liȝt gonne,

As briȝt as doþ at none þe sonne.

No man may telle, no þenche in þouȝt,

Þe riche werk þat þer was wrouȝt;

Bi al þing him þink þat it is375

Þe proude court of Paradis.

In þis castel þe leuedis aliȝt;

He wold in after, ȝif he miȝt.

Orfeo knokkeþ atte gate,

Þe porter was redi þerate,380

And asked what he wold haue ydo.

'Parfay!' quaþ he, 'icham a minstrel, lo!

To solas þi lord wiþ mi gle,

Ȝif his swete wille be.'

Þe porter vndede þe ȝate anon,385

And lete him into þe castel gon.

Þan he gan bihold about al,

And seiȝe †ful† liggeand wiþin þe wal

Of folk þat were þider ybrouȝt,

And þouȝt dede, and nare nouȝt.390

Sum stode wiþouten hade,

And sum non armes nade,

And sum þurch þe bodi hadde wounde,

And sum lay wode, ybounde,

And sum armed on hors sete,395

And sum astrangled as þai ete,

And sum were in water adreynt,

And sum wiþ fire al forschreynt

Wiues þer lay on childbedde,

Sum ded, and sum awedde;400

And wonder fele þer lay bisides,

Riȝtas þai slepe her vndertides.

Eche was þus in þis warld ynome,

Wiþ fairi þider ycome.

Þer he seiȝe his owhen wiif,405

Dame Heurodis, hislefliif,

Slepe vnder an ympe-tre:

Bi her cloþes he knewe þat it was he.

And when he hadde bihold þis meruails alle,

He went into þe kinges halle.410

Þan seiȝe he þer a semly siȝt,

A tabernacle blisseful and briȝt,

Þerin her maister king sete,

And her quen fair and swete.

Her crounes, her cloþes, schine so briȝt,415

Þat vnneþe bihold he hem miȝt.

When he hadde biholden al þat þing,

He kneled adoun bifor þe king.

'O lord,' he seyd, 'ȝif it þi wille were,

Mi menstraci þou schust yhere.'420

Þe king answerd: 'What man artow,

Þat art hider ycomen now?

Ich, no non þat is wiþ me,

No sent neuer after þe;

Seþþen þat ich here regni gan,425

Y no fond neuer so folehardi man

Þat hider to ous durst wende,

Bot þat ichim wald ofsende.'

'Lord,' quaþ he, 'trowe ful wel,

Y nam bot a pouer menstrel;430

And, sir, it is þe maner of ous

To seche mani a lordes hous;

Þei we nouȝt welcom no be,

Ȝete we mot proferi forþ our gle.'

Biforþe king he sat adoun,435

And tok his harp so miri of soun,

And tempreþ his harp, as he wele can,

And blisseful notes he þer gan,

Þat al þat in þe palays were

Com to him for to here,440

And liggeþ adoun to his fete,

Hem þenkeþ his melody so swete.

Þe king herkneþ and sitt ful stille,

To here his gle he haþ gode wille;

Gode bourde he hadde of his gle,445

Þe riche quen also hadde he.

When he hadde stint his harping,

Þan seyd to him þe king:

'Menstrel, me likeþ wele þi gle.

Now aske of me what it be,450

Largelich ichil þe pay.

Now speke, and tow miȝt asay.'

'Sir,' he seyd, 'ich biseche þe

Þatow woldest ȝiue me

Þat ich leuedi, briȝt on ble,455

Þat slepeþ vnder þe ympe-tre.'

'Nay,' quaþ þe king, 'þat nouȝt nere!

A sori couple of ȝou it were,

For þou art lene, rowe, and blac,

And sche is louesum, wiþouten lac;460

A loþlich þing it were forþi

To sen hir in þi compayni.'

'O sir,' he seyd, 'gentil king,

Ȝete were it a wele fouler þing

To here a lesing of þi mouþe,465

So, sir, as ȝe seyd nouþe,

What ich wold aski, haue y schold,

And nedes þou most þi word hold.'

Þeking seyd: 'Seþþen it is so,

Take hir bi þe hond, and go;470

Of hir ichil þatow be bliþe.'

He kneled adoun, and þonked him swiþe;

His wiif he tok bi þe hond,

And dede him swiþe out of þat lond,

And went him out of þat þede,—475

Riȝt as he come þe way he ȝede.

So long he haþ þe way ynome,

ToWinchesterhe is ycome,

Þat was his owhen cité;

Ac no man knewe þat it was he.480

No forþer þan þe tounes ende

For knoweleche no durst wende,

Bot wiþ a begger y bilt ful narwe,

Þer he tok his herbarwe,

To him and to his owhen wiif,485

As a minstrel of pouer liif,

And asked tidinges of þat lond,

And who þe kingdom held in hond.

Þe pouer begger in his cote

Told him euerich a grot:490

Hou her quen was stole owy

Ten ȝer gon wiþ fairy;

And hou her king en exile ȝede,

Bot no man nist in wiche þede;

And hou þe steward þe lond gan hold;495

And oþer mani þinges him told.

Amorwe, oȝain nonetide,

He maked his wiif þer abide;

Þe beggers cloþes he borwed anon,

And heng his harp his rigge opon,500

And went him into þat cité,

Þatmen miȝt him bihold and se.

Erls and barouns bold,

Buriays and leuedis him gun bihold.

'Lo,' þai seyd, 'swiche a man!505

Hou long þe here hongeþ him opan!

Lo, hou his berd hongeþ to his kne!

He is yclongen also a tre!'

And as he ȝede in þe strete,

Wiþ his steward he gan mete,510

And loude he sett on him a crie:

'Sir steward,' he seyd, 'merci!

Icham an harpour of heþenisse;

Help me now in þis destresse!'

Þe steward seyd: 'Com wiþ me, come;515

Of þat ichaue þou schalt haue some.

Euerich gode harpour is welcom me to,

For mi lordes loue Sir Orfeo.'

In þe castel þe steward sat atte mete,

And mani lording was bi him sete.520

Þer were trompour ~~and tabourers,~~

Harpours fele, and crouders.

Miche melody þai maked alle,

And Orfeo sat stille in þe halle,

And herkneþ. When þai ben al stille,525

He toke his harp and tempred schille,

Þe blifulest notes he harped þere

Þat euer ani man yherd wiþ ere;

Ich man liked wele his gle.

Þe steward biheld and gan yse,530

And knewe þe harp als bliue.

'Menstrel,' he seyd, 'so mot þou þriue,

Where hadestow þis harp, and hou?

Y pray þat þou me telle now.'

'Lord,' quaþ he, 'in vncouþe þede,535

Þurcha wildernes as y ȝede,

Þer y founde in a dale

Wiþ lyouns a man totorn smale,

And wolues him frete wiþ teþ so scharp.

Bi him y fond þis ich harp;540

Wele ten ȝere it is ygo.'

'O,' quaþ þe steward, 'now me is wo!

Þat was mi lord Sir Orfeo.

Allas! wreche, what schal y do,

Þat haue swiche a lord ylore?545

A way! þat ich was ybore!

Þat him was so hard grace yȝarked,

And so vile deþ ymarked!'

Adoun he fel aswon to grounde.

His barouns him tok vp in þat stounde,550

And telleþ him hou it geþ—

It nis no bot of manes deþ.

King Orfeo knewe wele bi þan

His steward was a trewe man

And loued him as he auȝt to do,555

And stont vp and seyt þus: 'Lo,

Steward, herkne now þis þing:

Ȝif ich were Orfeo þe king,

And hadde ysuffred ful ȝore

In wildernisse miche sore,560

And hadde ywon mi quen owy

Out of þe lond of fairy,

And hadde ybrouȝt þe leuedi hende

Riȝt here to þe tounes ende,

And wiþ a begger her in ynome,565

And were miself hider ycome

Pouerlich to þe, þus stille,

For to asay þi gode wille,

And ich founde þe þus trewe,

Þou no schust it neuer rewe:570

Sikerlich,for loue or

Þou schust be king after mi day.

And ȝif þou of mi deþ hadest ben bliþe,

Þou schust haue voided also swiþe.'

Þo al þo þat þerin sete575

Þat it was King Orfeo vnderȝete,

And þe steward him wele knewe;

Ouer and ouer þe bord he þrewe,

And fel adoun to his fet;

So dede euerich lord þat þer sete,580

And al þai seyd at o criing:

'Ȝe beþ our lord, sir, and our king!'

Glad þai were of his liue.

To chaumber þai ladde him als biliue,

And baþed him, and schaued his berd,585

And tired him as a king apert.

And seþþen wiþ gret processioun

Þai brouȝt þe quen into þe toun,

Wiþ al maner menstraci.

Lord! þer was grete melody!590

For ioie þai wepe wiþ her eiȝe

Þat hem so sounde ycomen seiȝe.

Now King Orfeo newe coround is,

And his quen Dame Heurodis,

And liued long afterward;595

And seþþen was king þe steward.

Harpours in Bretaine after þan

Herd hou þis meruaile bigan,

And made herof a lay of gode likeing,

And nempned it after þe king;600

Þat lay 'Orfeo' is yhote,

Gode is þe lay, swete is þe note.

Þus com Sir Orfeo out of his care.

God graunt ous alle wele to fare.

Back to Index Next