Ludus Coventriæ

by Unknown

III. CAIN AND ABEL.

Abeele. I wolde ffayn knowe how I xuld do,

To serve my lord God to his plesyng;

Therfore, Caym, brother, lete us now go

Unto oure ffadyr withowte lettyng,

Suenge hym in vertu and in norture

To com to the hyȝer joy celestyalle,

Remembryng to be clene and pure,

For in mysrewle we myth lythly falle

Aȝens hevyn kynge.

Lete us now don oure dyligens,

To come to oure faderes presens,

Good brother, passe we hens,

To knowe ffor oure levynge.

Caym. As to my fadyr, lete us now tee

To knowe what xal be his talkyng;

And that I holde it but vanyté,

To go to hym ffor any spekyng,

To lere of his lawe.

ffor if I have good anow plenté,

I kan be mery, so mot y the,

Thow my fadyr I nevyr se,

I ȝyf not therof an hawe.

Abel. Ryth sovereyn fadyr, semely sad and sure,

Ever we thank ȝow in hert, body, and thowth,

And alwey shulle whylle oure lyf may indure,

As inwardly in hert it kan be sought,

Bothe my brother and I.

ffadyr, I ffalle onto ȝour kne,

To knowe how we xul rewlyd be,

ffor Godys that ffallyth bothe hym and me,

I wolde ffayn wete trewly.

Adam. Sonys, ȝe arn to spekyn naturaly,

The ffyrst ffrute of kendely engendrure,

Befforn whom, saff ȝour modyr and I,

Were nevyr non of mannys nature.

And ȝit were we al of another portature,

As ȝe have me oftyn herd seyd sothly;

Wherfore, sonys, yf ȝe wyl lyff sad and sure,

ffyrst I ȝow counseylle most syngulerly,

God ffor to love and drede.

And suche good as God hath ȝow sent,

The fyrst frute offyr to hym in sacryfice brent,

Hym evyr besechyng with meke entent,

In alle ȝour werkys to save and spede.

Abeelle. Gramercy, ffadyr, ffor ȝour good doctrine,

ffor as ȝe us techyn so xal we do,

And as ffor me thoro Goddys grace dyvyne,

I wyl fforthwith applye me therto.

Cayme. And thow me be lothe I wyl now also

Onto ȝour counselle, ffadyr, me inclyne;

And ȝitt I say now to ȝow bothe too,

I had levyr gon hom welle ffor to dyne.

Adam. Now, God, graunt good sacryfice to ȝow bothe too,

He vowchesaff to acceptyn ȝow and alle myne,

And ȝeve ȝow now grace to plesyn hym soo,

That ȝe may come to that blysse that hymself is inne,

With gostly grace.

That alle ȝour here levyng

May be to his plesyng,

And at ȝour hens partyng,

To come to good place.

Abelle dicet.

Almyhtty God, and God ful of myth,

Be whom alle thing is made of nowth,

To the myn hert is redy dyht,

For upon the is alle my thought.

O sovereyn lord! reygnyng in eternyté,

With alle the mekenesse that I kan or may,

This lombe xal I offre it up to the,—

Accept it, blyssyd Lord! I the pray.

My ȝyft is but sympyl, this is no nay,

But my wyl is good and evyr xal be,

The to servyn and worchepyn bothe nyht and day,

And therto thi grace, Lord, grawnt thou me,

Throwhe thi gret mercy,

Whiche in a lombys lyknes

Thou xalt for mannys wyckydnes

Onys ben offeryd in peynfulnes

And deyn ful dolfoly.

ffor trewly, Lord, thow art most worthy

The best to have in eche degré,

Bothe beste and werst ful certeynly,

Alle is had thorowe grace of the.

The best schep fulle hertyly,

Amonges my flok that I kan se,

I tythe it to God of gret mercy,

And bettyr wolde, if bettyr myht be,—

Evyn here is myn offryng.

I tythe to the with ryht good wylle,

Of the best thou sentyst me tylle.

Now, gracyous God on hevyn hille,

Accept now my tythyng.

Caym. Amonges alle ffolys that gon on grownd,

I holde that thou be on of the most,

To tythe the best that is most sownd,

And kepe the werst that is nere lost.

But I more wysly xal werke this stownde,

To tythe the werst, and make no bost,

Off alle my cornys that may be fownde,

In alle my ffeldys bothe crofte and cost,

I xal lokyn on every syde.

Here I tythe this unthende sheff,

Lete God take it or ellys lef,

Thow it be to me gret repreff,

I ȝeve no ffors this tyde.

Abelle. Now Caym, brother, thou dost ful ille,

ffor God the sent bothe best and werst,

Therfore thou shewe to hym good wylle,

And tythe to God evyr of the best.

Caym. In feyth, thou shewyst now a febylle skylle,

It wolde me hyndyr and do me greff,

What were God the better, thou sey me tylle,

To ȝevyn hym awey my best sheff,

And kepe myself the wers?

He wylle neyther ete nor drynke,

ffor he doth neyther swete nor swynke:

Thou shewyst a ffebyl reson, me thynke,

What thou fonnyst as a best I gesse.

Abelle. ȝit me thynkyth my wyt is good.

To God evermore sum love to shewe,

Off whom we have oure dayly food,

And ellys we had but lytyl drewe.

Caym. ȝitt me thynkeht thi wytt is wood,

ffor of thi lore I ffynde but ffewe;

I wylle never the more chawnge my mood,

ffor no wordys that thou dost shewe;

I sey I wylle tythe the werst.

Abelle. Now God, that syt in hefne above,

On whom is sett alle myn hool love,

This wyckyd wylle from the he showe,

As it plesyth hym best!

Hic ardent decimum Abel et Caym; quo facto, dicent,

Caym. Herke, Abel, brother, what aray is this,

Thy tythyng brennyth as ffyre fful bryght,

It is to me gret wondyr i-wys,

I trow this is now a straunge syght.

Abelle. Goddys wylle fforsothe it is,

That my tythyng with fyre is lyth,

ffor of the best were my tythis,

And of the werst thou dedyst hym dyght,

Bad thyng thou hym bede.

Of the best was my tythyng,

And of the werst was thin offryng,

Therfor God Almyghty, hevyn kyng,

Alowyht ryht nowth thi dede.

Caym. What? thou stynkyng losel, and is it so?

Doth God the love and hatyht me?

Thou xalt be ded, I xal the slo,

Thi Lord thi God thou xalt nevyr se!

Tythyng more xalt thou nevyr do,

With this chavyl bon I xal sle the,

Thi deth is dyht, thi days be go,

Out of myn handys xalt thou not fle,

With this strok I the kylle.—

Now this boy is slayn and dede,

Of hym I xal nevyr more han drede;

He xal hereafter nevyr ete brede,

With this gresse I xal hym hylle.

Deus. Caym, come fforthe and answere me,

Asoyle my qwestyon anon ryght,

Thy brother Abel, wher is now he?

Ha don, and answere me as tyght.

Caym. My brothers kepere ho made me?

Syn whan was I his kepyng knyght?

I kan not telle wher that he be,

To kepe hym was I nevyr dyght,

I knowe not wher he is.

Deus. Acursyd Caym, thou art untrewe,

And for thi dede thou xalt sore rewe;

Thi brothers blood that thou slewe,

Askyht vengeauns of thi mys.

Thu xalt be cursyd on the grounde,

Unprophitable where so thou wende,

Bothe veyn and nowthty and nothyng sounde,

With what thing thou medele thou xalt it shende.

Caym. Alas! in whoo now am I wounde,

Acursyd of God, as man unkende;

Of any man yf I be founde,

He xal me slo, I have no ffrende,

Alas and weleaway!

Deus. Of what man that thou be sclayne,

He xal have vij. folde more payn,

Hym were bettyr never to be sayn

On lyve be nyth ne day.

Caym. Alas! alas! whedyr may I go?

I dare nevyr se man in the vesage,

I am woundyn as a wrecche in wo,

And cursyd of God ffor my ffalfage.

Unprofytabyl and vayn also,

In felde and towne, in strete and stage,

I may nevyr make merthis mo,

I wot nevyr whedyr to take passage;

I dare not here abyde.

Now wyl I go wende my way,

With sore syeng and welaway,

To loke where that I best may

ffrom mannys ssyht me hyde.