Transcript: Lines 309-352

Þus dulfully þis dede body devisyt hit sorowe

Þat alle wepyd for woo þe wordes þat herden,

And þe bysshop balefully bere doun his eghen,

Þat hade no space to speke, so spakly he 3oskyd,

Til he toke hym a tome and to þe toumbe lokyd,

To þe liche þer hit lay, with lavande teres.

“Oure Lorde lene”, quod þat lede, “þat þou lyfe hades,

By Goddes leve, as longe as I myg3t lacche water,

And cast upon þi faire cors and carpe þes words,

“I folwe þe in þe Fader nome and his fre Childes

And of þe gracious Holy Goste”, and not one grue lenger.

With þat worde þat he warpyd, þe wete of his eghen

And teres trillyd adoun and on þe toumbe lighten,

And one felle on his face, and þe freke syked.

Þen sayd he with a sadde soun: “Oure Savyoure be lovyd!

Now hend be þou, high God, and þi hende Moder,

And blissid be þat blisful houre þat ho the bere in!

And also be þou, byssop, þe bote of my sorowe

And þe relefe of þe lodely lures þat my soule has levyd in!

For þe words þat þou werpe and þe water þat þou sheddes,

Þe bry3t bourne of þin eghen, my bapteme is worthyn.

Þe yirst slent þat on me slode slekkyd al my tene;

Ry3t now to soper my soule is sette at þe table.

For with þe words and þe water þat wesche us of payne,

Li3tly lasshit þer a leme loghe in þe abyme

Þat spakly sprent my spyrit with unsparid murthe

Into þe cenacle solemply þer soupen all trewe;

And þer a marciall hyr mette with menske alder-grattest,

And with reverence a rowme he ra3t hyr for ever.

I here þerof my high God and also þe, bysshop,

Fro bale has bro3t us to blis, blessed þou worth!”

Wyt this cessyd his sowne, sayd he no more,

Bot sodenly his swete chere swyndid and faylid

And all the blee of his body wos blakke as þe moldes,

As roten as þe rottok þat rises in powdere.

For as sone as þe soule was sesyd in blisse,

Corrupt was þat oþir crafte þat covert þe bones,

For þe ay-lastande life þat lethe shall never,

Devoydes uche a vayneglorie þat vayles so litelle.

Þen wos loving oure Lord with loves uphalden,

Meche mourning and myrthe was mellyd togeder.

Þai passyd forthe in procession and alle þe pepull folowid,

And all þe belles in þe burgh beryd at ones.

 

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