Ludus Coventriæ

by Unknown

II. THE FALL OF MAN.

Adam. Holy ffadyr blyssyd thou be,

ffor I may walke in welthe anow,

I ffynde datys gret plenté,

And many ffele frutes ful every bow;

Alle this wele is ȝevyn to me,

And to my wyf that on me lowh,

I have no nede to towche ȝon tre,

Aȝens my lordys wyl to werke now;

I am a good gardenere;

Every frute of ryche name,

I may gaderyn with gle and game,

To breke that bond I were to blame

That my lord bad me kepyn here.

Eva. We may bothe be blythe and glad,

Oure lordys comaundement to fulfylle,

With ffele frutys be we ffayr ffad,

Woundyr dowcet and nevyr on ille.

Every tre with frute is sprad,

Of them to take as plesyth us tylle,

Oure wytte were rakyl and ovyr don bad,

To fforfete ageyns oure lordys wylle

In ony wyse.

In this gardeyn I wyl go se,

Alle the ffloures of fayr bewté,

And tastyn the frutes of gret plenté.

That be in paradyse.

Serpens. Heyl ffayr wyff and comely dame!

This ffrute to ete I the cownselle,

Take this appyl and ete this ssame,

This ffrute is best as I the telle.

Eva. That appyl to ete I were to blame,

ffrom joy oure lorde wolde us expelle,

We xuld dye and be put out with schame,

In joye of paradyse nevyr more to duelle.

God hymself thus sayde,

What day of that frute we ete,

With these wurdys God dyd us threte,

That we xuld dye our lyff to lete,

Therffore I am affrayde.

Serpens. Of this appyl yf ȝe wyl byte,

Evyn as God is, so xal ȝe be,

Wys of connyng as I ȝow plyte,

Lyke onto God in al degré.

Sunne and mone and sterrys bryth,

ffysche and foule, bothe sond and se,

At ȝour byddyng bothe day and nyth,

Alle thynge xal be in ȝowre powsté;

ȝe xal be Goddys pere.

Take this appyl in thin hond,

And to byte therof thou ffond,

Take another to thin husbond,

Thereof have thou no dwere.

Eva. So wys as God is in his gret mayn,

And ffelaw in kunnyng ffayn wold I be.

Serpens. Ete this appyl, and in certeyn

That I am trewe, sone xalt thou se.

Eva. To myn husbond with herte fful fayne,

This appyl I bere, as thou byddyst me,

This frute to ete I xal asayn,

So wys as God is yf we may be,

And Goddys pere of myth.

To myn husbond I walke my way,

And of this appyl I xal asay,

To make hym to ete, yf that I may,

And of this ffrewte to byth.

Hic Eva reveniet Adæ viro suo et dicet ei.

My semely spowse and good husbond,

Lystenyth to me, sere, I ȝow pray,

Take this ffayr appyl alle in ȝour hond,

Therof a mursel byte and asay.

To ete this appyl, loke that ȝe fonde,

Goddys ffelaw to be alway,

Alle his wysdam to undyrstonde,

And Goddys pere to be ffor ay,

Alle thyng for to make,—

Bothe ffysche and foule, se and sond,

Byrd and best, watyr and lond;

This appyl thou take out of myn hond,

A bete therof thou take.

Adam. I dare not towche thin hand ffor dred

Of oure lord God omnypotent,

If I xuld werke after thi reed,

Of God oure makere I xuld be shent.

If that we do this synful dede,

We xal be ded by Goddys jugement.

Out of thin hand with hasty spede,

Cast out that appyl anon present,

ffor fer of Goddys threte.

Eva. Of this appyl yf thou wylt byte,

Goddys pere thou xalt be pyht,

So wys of kunnyng, I the plyht,

This frute yf thou wylt ete.

Adam. If we it ete oureself we kylle,

As God us told we xuld be ded;

To ete that frute and my lyf to spylle,

I dar not do aftyr thi reed.

Eva. A ffayr aungelle thus seyd me tylle,

“To ete that appyl take nevyr no dred,

So kunnyng as God in hevyn hille,

Thou xalt sone be withinne a sted,

Therfore this frute thou ete.”

Adam. Off Goddys wysdam for to lere,

And in kunnyng to be his pere,

Of thyn hand I take it here,

And xal sone tast this mete.

Adam dicet sic.

Alas! alas! ffor this fals dede,

My flesly frend my fo I fynde,

Schameful synne doth us unhede,

I se us nakyd before and behynde.

Oure lordes wurd wold we not drede,

Therfore we be now caytyvys unkynde,

Oure pore prevytés ffor to hede,

Summe ffygge-levys fayn wolde I fynde,

ffor to hyde oure schame.

Womman, ley this leff on thi pryvyté,

And with this leff I xal hyde me,

Gret schame it is us nakyd to se,

Oure lord God thus to grame.

Eva. Alas! that evyr that speche was spokyn,

That the fals aungel seyd onto me,

Alas! oure makers byddyng is brokyn,

ffor I have towchyd his owyn dere tre.

Oure fflescly eyn byn al unlokyn,

Nakyd for synne ouresylf we se,

That sory appyl that we han sokyn,

To dethe hathe brouth my spouse and me,

Ryth grevous is oure synne.

Of mekyl shame now do we knowe,

Alas! that evyr this appyl was growe,

To dredful deth now be we throwe,

In peyne us evyr to pynne.

Deus. Adam, that with myn handys I made,

Where art thou now? what hast thou wrought?

Adam. A! lord, for synne oure floures do ffade,

I here thi voys, but I se the nought.

Deus. Adam, why hast thou synnyd so sone,

Thus hastyly to breke my bone,

And I made the mayster, undyr mone,

Trewly of every tre.

O tre I kept for my owe,

Lyff and deth therin I knowe,

Thi synne fro lyf now the hath throwe,

ffrom deth thou mayst not fle.

Adam. Lord I have wrought aȝens thi wylle,

I sparyd nat mysylf to spylle,

The woman that thou toke me tylle,

Sche brougth me therto.

It was here counselle and here reed,

Sche bad me do the same deed,

I walke as werme withowtyn wede,

A wey is schrowde and sho.

Deus. Womman that arte this mannys wyffe,

Why hast thou steryd ȝour bothers stryffe?

Now ȝe be ffrom ȝour ffayr lyffe,

And are demyd for to deye.

Unwys womman, sey me why,

That thou hast don this fowle foly,

And I made the a gret lady,

In paradys for to pleye?

Eva. Lord! whan thou wentyst from this place,

A werm with an aungelys face,

He hyth us to be ful of grace,

The frute yf that we ete.

I dyd his byddyng, alas! alas!

Now we be bowndyn in dethis las,

I suppose it was Sathanas,

To peyne he gan us pete.

Deus. Thou werm with thi wylys wyk,

Thi fals fablis thei be ful thyk,

Why hast thou put dethis pryk

In Adam and his wyff?

Thow thei bothyn my byddyng have brokyn,

Out of whoo ȝet art not wrokyn,

In helle logge thou xalt be loky[n],

And nevyr mo lacche lyff.

Diabolus. I xal the sey whereffore and why

I ded hem alle this velony,

ffor I am ful of gret envy,

Of wrethe and wyckyd hate.

That man xulde leve above the sky,

Where as sumtyme dwellyd I,

And now I am cast to helle sty,

Streyte out at hevyn gate.

Deus. Adam! ffor thou that appyl boot,

Aȝens my byddyng, welle I woot,

Go teyl thi mete with swynk and swoot,

Into thi lyvys ende.

Goo nakyd, ungry, and bare ffoot,

Ete bothe erbys, gres, and root,

Thy bale hath non other boot,

As wrecche in werlde thou wende.

Womman thou sowtyst this synnyng,

And bad hym breke myn byddyng,

Therfore thou xalt ben undyrlyng,

To mannys byddyng bend.

What he byddyth the, do thou that thynge,

And bere thi chyldere with gret gronynge,

In daungere and in deth dredynge,

Into thi lyvys ende.

Thou wyckyd worm fful of pryde,

ffowle envye syt be thi syde,

Upon thi gutt thou xalt glyde,

As werm wyckyd in kende.

Tyl a maydon in medyl-erth be borne,

Thou ffende I warn the beforn,

Thorwe here thi bed xal be to-torn,

On wombe awey thou wende.

Diabolus. At thi byddyng ffowle I falle,

I krepe hem to my stynkyng stalle,

Helle pyt and hevyn halle,

Xul do thi byddyng bone.

I ffalle downe here a ffowle freke,

ffor this ffalle I gynne to qweke,

With a ffart my breche I breke,

My sorwe comyth ful sone.

Deus. ffor ȝour synne that ȝe have do,

Out of this blysse sone xal ȝe go,

In erthely labour to levyn in wo,

And sorwe the xal atast.

ffor your synne and mysdoyng,

An angelle with a swerd brennyng,

Out of this joye he xal ȝow dyng,

ȝour welthe awey is past.

Hic recedit Deus, et angelus seraphicus cum gladio fflammea verberat Adam et Evam extra Paradisum.

Seraphim.ȝe wrecchis unkend and ryht unwyse,

Out of this joye hyȝ ȝow in hast,

With fflammyng swerd ffrom paradyse

To peyn I bete ȝow, of care to tast.

ȝour myrthe is turnyd to carfulle syse,

ȝour welthe with synne awey is wast,

ffor ȝour ffalse dede of synful gyse,

This blysse I spere ffrom ȝow ryth fast.

Here in come ȝe no more;

Tyl a chylde of a mayd be born,

And upon the rode rent and torn,

To save alle that ȝe have forlorn,

ȝour welthe ffor to restore.

Eva. Alas! alas! and wele away,

That evyr towchyd I the tre;

I wende as wrecche in welsom way,

In blake busshys my boure xal be.

In paradys is plenté of pleye,

ffayr frutys ryth gret plenté,

The ȝatys be schet with Godys keye,

My husbond is lost because of me.

Leve spowse now thou fonde,

Now stomble we on stalk and ston,

My wyt awey is fro me gon,

Wrythe on to my necke bon,

With hardnesse of thin honde.

Adam. Wyff, thi wytt is not wurthe a rosche,

Leve woman, turne thi thought,

I wyl not sle fflescly of my fflesche,

ffor of my flesche thi fflesche was wrought.

Oure hap was hard, oure wytt was nesche,

To paradys whan we were brought,

My wepyng xal be longe ffresche,

Schort lykyng xal be longe bought.

No more telle thou that tale,

ffor yf I xulde sle my wyff,

I sclow myself withowtyn knyff,

In helle logge to lede my lyff,

With woo in wepyng dale.

But lete us walke forthe into the londe,

With ryth gret labour oure fode to fynde,

With delvyng and dyggyng with myn hond,

Oure blysse to bale and care to-pynde.

And, wyff, to spynne now must thou ffonde,

Oure nakyd bodyes in clothe to wynde,

Tylle sum comforthe of Godys sonde,

With grace releve oure careful mynde.

Now come go we hens, wyff.

Eva. Alas! that ever we wrought this synne,

Oure bodely sustenauns for to wynne,

ȝe must delve and I xal spynne,

In care to ledyn oure lyff.