Ludus Coventriæ

by Unknown

XII. JOSEPH’S RETURN.

Joseph. How, dame, how! undo ȝoure dore, undo!

Are ȝe at hom? why speke ȝe notht?

Susanna. Who is ther? why cry ȝe so?

Telle us ȝour herand. Wyl ȝe ought?

Joseph. Undo ȝour dore, I sey ȝow to,

ffor to com in is alle my thought.

Maria. It is my spowse that spekyth us to;

Ondo the dore, his wyl were wrought.

Wellecome hom, myn husbond dere,

How have ȝe ferd in fer countré?

Joseph. To gete oure levynge withowtyn dwere,

I have sore laboryd ffor the and me.

Maria. Husbond, ryght gracyously now come be ȝe,

It solacyth me sore sothly to se ȝow in syth.

Joseph. Me merveylyth, wyff, surely ȝour face I cannot se,

But as the sonne with his bemys qwhan he is most bryth.

Maria. Husbond, it is as it plesyth oure Lord, that grace of hym grew,

Who that evyr beholdyth me veryly,

They xall be grettly steryd to vertu,

ffor this ȝyfte and many moo, good Lord, gramercy.

Joseph. How hast thou ferde, jentyl mayde,

Whyl I have be out of londe?

Maria. Sekyr, sere, beth nowth dysmayde,

Ryth aftyr the wyl of Goddys sonde.

Joseph. That semyth evyl, I am afrayd,

Thi wombe to hyȝe doth stonde.

I dred me sore I am betrayd,

Sum other man the had in honde,

Hens sythe that I went.

Thy wombe is gret, it gynnyth to ryse,

Than hast thou begownne a synfulle gyse,

Telle me now in what wyse,

Thyself thou hast thus schent.

Ow! dame, what thinge menyth this?

With childe thou gynnyst ryth gret to gone.

Sey me, Mary, this childys fadyr ho is?

I pray the telle me, and that anon.

Maria. The fadyr of hevyn and ȝe it is,

Other fadyr hath be non;

I dede nevyr forfete with man i-wys;

Wherfore I pray ȝow amende ȝour mon,—

This childe is Goddys and ȝour.

Joseph. Goddys childe! thou lyist, in fay;

God dede nevyr jape so with may,

And I can nevyr ther, I dare wel say,

ȝitt so nyh thi boure.

But ȝit I sey, Mary, whoos childe is this?

Maria. Goddys and ȝoure, I sey i-wys.

Joseph. ȝa! ȝa! alle olde men to me take tent,

And weddyth no wyff in no kynnys wyse,

That is a ȝonge wenche, be myn asent,

ffor doute and drede and swyche servyse.

Alas! alas! my name is shent!

Alle men may me now dyspyse,

And seyn, “olde cokwold, thi bowe is bent

Newly now after the Frensche gyse.”

Alas and welaway!

Alas! dame, why dedyst thou so?

ffor this synne that thou hast do,

I the forsake and from the go,

ffor onys, evyr, and ay.

Maria. Alas! gode spowse, why sey ȝe thus?

Alas! dere hosbund, amende ȝour mod.

It is no man, but swete Jhesus,

He wylle be clad in flesche and blood,

And of ȝour wyff be born.

Sephor, ffor sothe, the aungel, thus seyd he,

That Goddys sone in Trynité,

ffor mannys sake a man wolde be,

To save that is forlorn.

Joseph. An aungel! allas, alas! fy for schame!

ȝe syn now in that ȝe to say,

To puttyn an aungel in so gret blame.

Alas! alas! let be, do way.

It was sum boy began this game,

That clothyd was clene and gay;

And ȝe ȝeve hym now an aungele name,—

Alas! alas and welaway!

That evyr this game betydde.

A! dame, what thought haddyst thou?

Here may alle men this proverbe trow,

That many a man doth bete the bow,

Another man hath the brydde.

Maria. A! gracyous God, in hefne trone,

Comforte my spowse in this hard cas;

Mercyful God amend his mone,

As I dede nevyr to gret trespas.

Joseph. Lo! lo! seres, what told I ȝow,

That it was not for my prow,

A wyff to take me to;

An that is wel sene now,

ffor Mary I make god avow,

Is grett with childe, lo!

Alas! why is it so?

To the busshop I wole it telle,

That he the lawe may here do,

With stonys here to qwelle.

Nay! nay! ȝet God fforbede,

That I xuld do that vegeabyl dede,

But if I wyst wel qwy.

I knew never with here, so God me spede,

Tokyn of thynge in word nor dede

That towchyd velany.

Nevyr-the-les what for-thy,

Thow she be meke and mylde,

Withowith mannys company

She myght not be with childe.

But I ensure myn was it nevyr;

Thow that she hath not done here devyr.

Rather than I xuld pleynyn opynly,

Serteynly ȝitt had I levyr

fforsake the countré ffor evyr,

And nevyr come in here company.

ffor and men knew this velany,

In repreff thei wolde me holde,

And ȝett many bettyr than I,

ȝa, hath ben made cokolde.

Now, alas! whedyr xal I gonne?

I wot nevyr whedyr nor to what place;

ffor oftyn tyme sorwe comyth sone,

And lenge it is or it pace,—

No comforte may I have here.

I wys wyff thou dedyst me wronge;

Alas! I traryed from the to longe,

Alle men have pety on me amonge,

ffor to my sorwe is no chere.

Maria. God, that in my body art sesyd,

Thou knowist myn husbond is dysplesyd,

To se me in this plight.

ffor unknowlage he is desesyd,

And therefore help that he were esyd,

That he myght knowe the ful perfyght.

ffor I have levyr abyde respyt,

To kepe thi sone in privité,

Grauntyd by the Holy Spyryt,

Than that it xulde be opynd by me.

Deus. Descende, I sey, myn aungelle,

Onto Joseph, for to telle

Suche as my wyl is;

Byd hym with Mary abyde and dwelle,

ffor it my sone fful snelle

That she is with i-wys.

Angelus. Almyghty God of blys,

I am redy ffor to wende

Wedyr as thi wyl is,

To go bothe fer and hynde.

Joseph, Joseph; thou wepyst shryle,

ffro thi wyff why comyst thou owte?

Joseph. Good sere, lete me wepe my ffylle,

Go forthe thi wey and lett me nowght.

Angelus. In thi wepynge, thou dost ryght ylle,

Aȝens God thou hast myswrought;

Go chere thi wyff with herty wylle,

And chawnge thi chere, amende thi thought.

Sche is a ful clene may.

I telle the, God wyl of here be born,

And sche clene mayd as she was beforn,

To save mankynd that is forlorn,

Go chere hyre therfore, I say.

Joseph. A! lord God, benedicite!

Of thi gret comforte I thank the,

That thou sent me this space.

I myght wel a wyst par-dé,

So good a creature as she

Wold nevyr a donne trespace.

For sche is ful of Grace;

I know wel I have myswrought,

I walk to my pore place,—

I aske fforgyfnes, I have mysthought.

Now is the tyme sen at eye,

That the childe is now to veryfye,

Whiche xal save mankende,

As it was spoke be prophesye;

I thank the, God, that syttys on hye,

With hert, wyl, and mende,

That evyr thou woldyst me bynde

To wedde Mary to my wyff,

Thi blysful sone so nere to fynde,

In his presens to lede my lyff.

Alas! ffor joy I qwedyr and qwake;

Alas! what hap now was this?

A mercy, mercy, my jentyl make,—

Mercy! I have seyd al amys;

Alle that I have seyd here I forsake:

ȝour swete fete now lete me kys.

Mary. Nay, lett be my fete, not tho ȝe take,

My mowthe ȝe may kys i-wys,

And welcome onto me.

Joseph. Gramercy, myn owyn swete wyff,

Gramercy, myn hert, my love, my lyff,

Xal I nevyr more make such stryf

Betwix me and the.

A! Mary, Mary, wel thou be,

And blyssyd be the frewte in the,

Goddys sone of myght!

Now good wyff, fful of pyté,

As be not evyl payd with me,

Thow that thou have good ryght.

As for my wronge in syght,

To wyte the with ony synne,

Had thou not be a vertuous wythe,

God wold not a be the withinne.

I knowlage I have don amys,

I was never wurthy i-wys

ffor to be thin husbonde;

I xal amende aftere thys,

Ryght as thin owyn wyl is,

To serve the at foot and honde.

And thi chylde bothe to undyrstonde,

To wurchep hym with good affeccion;

And therfore telle me, and nothinge whonde,

The holy matere of ȝour concepcion.

Maria. At ȝowre owyn wylle, as ȝe bydde me;

Ther came an aunge hyght Gabryelle,

And gret me ffayr and seyd Ave,

And ferther more to me gan telle

God xulde be borne of my bodé,

The ffendys powsté ffor to ffelle,

Thorwe the Holy Gost, as I wel se,

Thus God in me wyl byde and dwelle.

Joseph. Now I thank God with speche and spelle,

That evyr, Mary, I was weddyd to the.

Mary. It was the werk of God, as I ȝow telle,

Now blyssyd be that Lord so purveyd for me.