Al for mon he tholede shame,

Withouten gult, withouten blame, bothe day ant other.

Mon, ful muchel he lovede the,
When he wolde make the fre,

ant bicome thi brother.

XXIX.

[Fol. 80, ro.]

I SYKE when y singe,
for sorewe that y se,
When y with wypinge
biholde upon the tre,
Ant se Jhesu the suete,
Is herte blod for-lete,

for the love of me;

Ys woundes waxen wete,

Thei wepen stille ant mete:
Marie, reweth the.

Heze upon a doune,

ther al folk hit se may, A mile from uch toune, aboute the midday, The rode is up arered, His frendes aren afered

ant clyngeth so the clay;

The rode stond in stone,

Marie stont hire one,

ant seith, wey-la-way!

When y the biholde with eyzen bryhte bo, Ant thi bodi colde,

thi ble waxeth blo, Thou hengest al of blode, So heze upon the rode, bituene theves tuo, Who may syke more? Marie wepeth sore,

ant siht al this wo.

The naylles beth to stronge,
the smythes are to sleye,
Thou bledest al to longe,
the tre is al to heyze;
The stones beoth al wete,

Alas! Jhesu the suete,

for nou frend hast thou non, Bote Seint Johan to-mournynde, Ant Marie wepynde,

for pyne that the ys on.

Ofte when y sike

ant makie my mon,

Wel ille thah me like,

wonder is hit non,

When y se honge heze,
Ant bittre pynes dreze,
Jhesu, my lemmon;
His wondes sore swerte,
The spere al to is herte

ant thourh is sydes gon.

Ofte when y syke,

with care y am thourh-soht, When y wake y wyke,

of serewe is al mi thoht;

Alas! men beth wode,

That suereth by the rode,

ant selleth him for noht, That bohte us out of synne! He bring us to wynne,

that hath us duere boht!

XXX.

[Fol. 80, ro.]

Nou skruketh 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 by-glyde.

Whose wol fleysh lust for-gon,

ant hevene blis abyde,

On Jhesu be is thoht anon, that therled was ys side.

From Petresbourh in o morewenyng As y me wende omy pley3yng, on mi folie y thohte,

Menen y gon my mournyng

To hire that ber the hevene kyng, of merci hire by-sohte: 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 for-dred,

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 in to pyne.

On o ledy myn hope is,

moder ant virgyne,

Whe shulen in to hevene blis

thurh hire medicine.

Betere is hire medycyn,

Then eny mede or eny wyn;

hire erbes smulleth suete;

From Catenas in to 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 by hyr joies fyve.

Wher so eny sek ys,

thider hye blyve;

Thurh hire beoth y-broht to blis

bo mayden ant wyve.

For he that dude is body on tre,
Of oure sunnes have pieté,

that weldes heovene boures;

Wymmon with thi jolyfté,

thou thench on Godes shoures

Thah thou be whyt ant bryth on ble,

falewen shule thy floures.

Jesu, have merci of us,

that al this world honoures! AMEN.